theme, "Very good, but I was waiting for the sermon "; and compared another to a Diorana, which moved very fast, but had nobody to explain it; while another student said of the master, "He is a bad lecturer, for he makes you feel he is always right, but it stands to reason that he can't be always."

A small college, I said, but a peerless teacher, who won the hearts of the students, and then held them close to his own. My dear friend, Brooke Herford, who won and held such an eminent place in Boston, says that in his first student's year in Manchester he would often walk half way to the town for a good look at the master's face, as he came to the college in the morning, and then turn into a side street and run ahead for another look,

there was such an uplifting in that pure and noble countenance, and that strong confidence in the religion of the spirit, which the face alike and the word expressed. While many years after this Jowett says: "I met Martineau, a noble face that might have been worn by some mediæval monk."

Mr. Herford has paid a lovely tribute to his beloved master in a sermon you may have seen, and Mr. Cuckson, who succeeded Mr. Herford as minister of the eminent church in Boston, says: "Do you wonder that we reverenced and loved him? He helped us to understand the reality of God. He enabled us to find the rich deposit of truth in human nature, and led

us to trust in our faculties as the appointed revealers of the truth and right. We welcomed with a deep gladness the teachings of one who clothed the essential truths of religion with a new power, established morality on no shifting basis, but on the immutable will of God, and harmonized Christianity with science and philosophy. His face never lost the upward look. He had the eye of a prophet, and the inspiration of a poet, and his profound reverence for Jesus Christ was striking as it was beautiful.”

But I must hasten to a close. The great books which hold the living soul of the man for us down here went out to the ends of the earth. The mas

ters in science, in philosophy, and in religious teaching, found in them a master, who must be heard and heeded. I can only mention this because I have no fitness to enter into the story of the grand debate reaching through the many years, but a word from his pen in his last great book touches, as I think, the marrow of the truth, when he says: "Who could ever have imagined that religion could be hurt by the discoveries of science, had not Christianity been bound up in the physics of Moses and Paul, and, looking with fresh eyes at the reality, who would not own that we live in a more glorious universe than they, that we live environed in a sublimer nature, are conscious of a more sacred humanity, and own a wider providence in human history than was opened to our forefathers. Who would demand of a Darwin, blot

out your geologic time and take us home again to the easy limits of 6000 years? And in the very hour of midnight prayer, who would wish to look into heavens less deep or be near a God whose presence was the living chain of fewer ages?

He said once in a public speech: "The man who is a Unitarian and dare not say so is a coward and a sneak," and the faith which was only budding forth in the chapel and the home, when he was born, came to its blossom and fruitage in his life, so far prolonged; and his fame had gone out so far and wide, that on his eighty-third birthday an address was presented to him, signed by six hundred representative men in England, Ireland, Scotland, Germany, France, Holland and America. And in the list you find Tennyson, Browning, Jowett, Renan, Phillips Brooks, Max Muller, Lecky, Lowell, Lubbock, with many more, together with bishops of the Episcopal church in England, eminent Scotch Presbyterians, and sound English Nonconformists, a noble address, of which these are in part the words:

"We desire to express to you on this birthday the reverence and affection entertained toward you, not only by your own communion, but by members of other Christian churches, who are acquainted with your character and works, and by many workers in other spheres than that to which your life has been devoted. You have taught your generation that there are truths above party, which cannot be overthrown, for their foundations

are in the heart of man; you have shown that there may be an inward unity transcending the divisions of the Christian world, and that the charity and sympathy of Christians are not to be limited to those who bear the name of Christ."

This was the man with whom I sat for the space of half an hour in the summer before last, when his long day's work as "James, a servant of God," was done, and he was waiting in his Beulah until the shining ones came to bid him home. While I am so glad of the memory, as he was of the youth time, when he would leave the city with the living word in his heart for those who were waiting in the cottages to hear him, and so clasp in his happy remembrance for me the ministry of all the years!

ROBERT BURNS

IT has been finely said that whatever may be our ancestry, we are all proud of Scotland; but because we are men, we love Robert Burns, and I think it may be said with equal truth that no man beside has done so much to make us proud of Scotland as this peasant-poet, born of its blood and nursed at its breast. Some now here will remember how the heart of our Anglo-Saxon race was stirred when a hundred years had come and gone since he was born, and what hosts came together then to think of him and sing of him and recall the story of his life. It was about a dozen years after this that they celebrated the hundred years since the birthday of Scott, the one Scottish man of genius we name in the same breath. I was in Scotland that summer, and noticed what endeavor was made to bring forth something of an equal significance, and the significance was there, but it took another meaning, even in Edinboro', where the traditions of Scott are at their best. The radiance resting on Abbotsford burnt low and pale in the light that rested on the "auld clay biggin" in Ayrshire, and the poet of feudalism could command no such homage as the poet of freedom. The man who, as our Emerson says, "has endeared the