his work was not far off. All this exerted a softening influence on his character, and brought out its finer traits. He had long known, there is reason to think, of his weakness, and that there was something mortal in it. He certainly had no faith that any change of scene or any appliance of medical skill would be of avail in his case; and so he quietly, steadily, and cheerfully faced the issue. There was a singular depth and immovableness in his cheerful patience. I do not think I ever heard him complain, and I have seen him in great languor and pain. He might give utterance to a half-playful, half-grim expression regarding his sufferings, but he never seemed to think there was anything strange in them, anything that he should not bear calmly as a man and as a Christian. Neither did he say much of unfinished work which he might have done, although such work had been formerly much in his heart. He expressed few regrets, he spoke of no fears. He looked heroically yet humbly into the future, and did such work as he could with interest and diligence to the end. On the very day before his final seizure, I believe, he was in his library, as was his wont, busy amongst his books.
"Many men can do good and able work in the world, but there are only a few anywhere, in any institution, who invest their work with that nameless personal influence which captivates while it instructs the young, which quickens their intellectual enthusiasm and expands and refines their feelings in the
