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"Edinburgh, Jan. 23rd, 1872.

"During this the man I had heard swearing at F———— came up to S————, who was standing a few yards off, and spoke to him. I went up just in time to hear him say, 'That fellow cannot even talk grammar.' I replied, 'We don't come here to teach grammar.' He was rather taken aback, but replied, 'Well, I could have said all your man said in half the time.' 'Then wait till he is done, and you shall have the next turn.' 'No, no, I don't want that; if I spoke I should oppose you.' 'I am ready for that; will you do it?' I said; 'We don't come here to argue.' 'No; you are wise to decline to argue with me.' I answered, 'Pooh! are you so conceited as to suppose that our arguing would make any difference to Christianity? Why, it has been argued hundreds of times over by men a deal wiser than you or me, and you see Christianity has not gone to the wall.' By that time I saw I was going to win, and got very cool and at my ease, while he got excited and put out; then he started on a new tack by saying, 'And what good do you expect to do to humanity by preaching here, and disturbing us?' I said, 'Well, perhaps, for one thing, we will get some drunken characters like those' (pointing to some) 'to give up the drink, and be decent, and keep their wives and children from starving.' 'Well, that may be, but speaking like yours will never do it.' I answered, 'No, you are quite right, but we are young, you see, and some of us have not much voice, and some have not much sense; but we are just trying to find out who of us can do the thing, and so, you see, we are just doing as well as we can.' He looked rather amazed at my frankness, and said, 'Well, I'm sure I have not any ill-will to you, but I don't believe in religion, and there are such a lot of hypocrites.' I said, 'Yes, there are a great lot, but that's just a reason why you should believe in the goodness of religion.' 'How do you make that out?' 'Why, you never heard of people making imitation of the stones and stuff like that' (pointing to the gutter), 'but it is sovereigns and things like that they make counterfeits of.' 'Ay, but I hate hypocrites, and say, Down with them.' 'So do I; and if you could down with all the religious hypocrites you would do more for Christianity than we can by preaching here.' 'Ah!' he said, 'if that's your opinion you should not take to street preaching; they are all hypocrites.' 'Oh, nonsense!' I replied. He exclaimed, very bitterly, 'Look at ————' (mentioning a recent scandal); 'what good has that man done?' I answered, 'More than ever you or I have.' 'I would like to hear how.' he sneered. 'Why, you know, for one thing, he did manage, whether his preaching was sense or nonsense, to persuade a lot of drunken working men to give up drink and go to the kirk, and not waste their money in the public-house; and now you go and ask their wives and bairns whether R———— has done any good in the world.' 'Ay, but what do you say to,' etc.? 'That it was a great sin and shame to him; but that is no reason for refusing to own that he has done a vast deal of good before he did that piece of ill; and besides, I doubt if you or I are so good as to throw stones at him, etc., etc. Now I've listened to your criticisms on us, and pretty hard some of them were, so you will come up with me now, and hear what we've got to say.' He said, 'Well, I must say I like your way of taking things; I never heard them put in the way you have done; but I have not time now to come up; I have to take tea in half an hour with a mate.' I said, 'Still, you'll promise to come back next Sunday and hear us, and I may tell you, in secret, we shall have better speakers next time, and if you like, after the meeting is over, I'll have a talk with you. I never did meet one of your side before, but I've read some of your books. We won't call it a discussion, for I've not had any experience at arguing, and I suppose you are an old hand.' He gave a queer laugh, and said, 'Any way I never came across anybody on your side with half your sharpness and common sense; and besides, I must say you are honest about it.' And then we shook hands, and he promised to come along next Sunday.... By the way, in my talk with the Deist my 'heretical' reading came in useful to me; for if I had not come through all that, I could not have heard his attacks on religion and kept my coolness, or taken them up the way I did; so it is some good; it will give me confidence in myself for the future—another good thing."

Pleasant interludes in his New College life were a session spent at Aberdeen University, as assistant to the Professor of Natural Philosophy, Mr. David Thomson, and two sessions spent at Berlin in the study of theology. At Aberdeen he had in his class Mr. Chrystal, now the celebrated Professor of Mathematics in the University of Edinburgh, whose abilities he repeatedly refers to in his letters. His work was enjoyable, and his relations with Professor Thomson of the most cordial kind. He was tempted in various ways to alter his life purpose, was offered a professorship of Natural Philosophy with a large salary in the Colonies, and was specially tempted to enter the medical profession. His closest friend at the University, Mr. James Shepherd, now a medical missionary of the United Presbyterian Church in India, was pursuing his professional studies, and with him he frequently visited hospital patients, finding a double interest in the work. Thus he writes:—

"Aberdeen, March 14th, 1870.

"As to Medicine, I have read up most of the text-books prescribed here, so that I am really very well up on the subject, and Jim Shepherd says I would make a capital doctor. I went along with him to the 'Dissecting-room,' 'Anatomical Museum,' 'Infirmary,' and 'Incurable Hospital,' and he did his best to sicken me (as you remember befell me three years ago), but I was all right, so he says I am now 'hardened'! It was very interesting seeing all the poor ill folk, and it was a real pleasure to speak to them, and joke with them, and leave them cheery."

In Germany it is evident even from his meagre notebooks that he thoroughly enjoyed life, and entered into it with his usual zest and brightness. But everything was subordinated to study. He made himself master of the language, and did his best to profit from the lectures he attended.

His good parents were naturally alarmed at the effects which German practice and thought (more dreaded then, perhaps, than now) might have upon their son. He warns them against uncharitableness. "There is nothing so difficult," he says, "as to convey a true and fair picture of the religious state of a people. Just as one's opinion of a person's character is often wholly changed on coming in contact with him, so actual life in a country alters one's estimate of it, and differences of circumstances and training condition the development of thought." He comes to the conclusion that it is not a breach of charity to say that the Germans are in a lower state religiously than Scotland, but asserts that at the same time there are many good and spiritual men among them, and that Germany is not so much more irreligious than, for example, London. He quotes Dorner as saying of missionary work, "You send more money, but we send more men." At that time he was beginning to understand Dorner's lectures, and says they are very good and very useful, especially for Germany. "For instance, he has been defending the doctrine of the Trinity, the personality of the Holy Ghost, the Divinity of Christ, and eternal punishment. He is very practical and thorough."

His attachment to Dorner grew as is witnessed by the following letter:—

"Dorner is a thoroughly good and very able man, and I have found your remark true, for I have already got a great deal of good from his lectures on Romans. He is at present lecturing on the 4th chapter, and since I began to understand him I have enjoyed his lectures very much; formerly the first few chapters of Romans seemed to me almost unintelligible, but I now see not only the meaning of the separate verses, but the grand line of thought and argument running through the whole, and I have a far clearer conception of many of the grandest Gospel doctrines than I had before, and especially of the nature of Christ's sacrifice for sin, and the necessity lying on God to punish sin. I wish I could send you some extracts from the lectures to show you how very good they are, but I can only give you one illustration. On iii. 28—which Luther translates, 'We conclude, then, that a man is justified by faith alone, without the deeds of the law'—he remarked that the Romanists misrepresent the meaning of this, and accuse Luther of Antinomianism, but (he added) Luther's position is simply this: 'The fruit does not make the tree, but a good tree cannot be without fruit.' When he was lecturing on iii. 25, where the question comes up whether Christ was merely the Altar for the propitiatory sacrifice or Himself the Sacrifice, he quoted Dr. Chalmers and another Scotch theologian with extreme approval, viz., Morison—do you know who he is? (Dorner took strongly the view that Christ was Himself the Sacrifice.) It is a great pleasure to hear him reading the verses of the passage he is to examine, for he does it with such earnestness and impressiveness that they seem to have double the meaning that they have ordinarily; he has a great deal of eloquence in him, and I like him very much."

"I always read Meyer's Commentary on Romans before going to the class, so that I am studying Romans very thoroughly, and as the other Professor I attend is lecturing on Paul's Teaching, and has been lecturing on his Life, I shall know a good deal more of Paul before I come back."

"On Wednesday, the 9th, I bought two Commentaries—De Wette on Psalms, and Meyer on Romans; they were rolled up in a sheet of paper taken out of an old book, containing some sixteen pages. I happened to glance at it in unfolding it, and my attention was caught by these words, in German, of which the following is a translation: 'Look upon your children as just so many flowers, which have been lent to you out of God's garden; the flowers may wither or die, yet thank God that He has lent them to you for one summer.' I thought at once that I had surely known the style long ago, and on glancing down the pages I was not at all surprised to find where the letter broke off—'S. R.— Aberdeen, March 7th, 1637.' Was it not strange to come in that odd way on a German translation of Samuel Rutherford's Letters? (See if you can find the passage.) I also notice, in the bookseller's catalogue, that Bunyan's works are all translated, also Spurgeon's, 'Schonberg-Cotta Family,' Mrs. Henry Wood's novels, etc."

In the autumn of 1873 Mr. Elmslie came to London. Four years previously Dr. Dykes had assumed the pastorate of the church at Regent Square. His health made it necessary for him to receive, from the commencement, assistance in his work. He was always anxious to secure the services of young men who might be trained under him for high achievements in later years. He heard of Mr. Elmslie's brilliant promise and invited him to fill the position, then vacant, of assistant to himself. The invitation was accepted, and Mr. Elmslie settled in London.

At Regent Square he flung himself into the work of the congregation with eager sympathy. He rapidly became popular and was made welcome in every home. In Dr. Dykes he found a wise and kind helper, to whom he became warmly attached. He appreciated his methods of working and his power as a preacher; but most of all he was struck by that grace of devotional fervour which gave Dr. Dykes' prayers so constraining a power to draw the souls of his people into communion with God. Nothing could have been brighter and happier than the life of the young preacher in his new surroundings, and his contagious enthusiasm and energy reacted on all who knew him. Here in London, at the busy centre of so much of the world's activity, his eager, questioning spirit found material for its restless enquiries; whilst that knowledge of human nature and its needs, which lay at the back of his most powerful spiritual work in later years, was slowly moulded by the opportunities of this time.

He describes in a letter to his mother the opening of his pulpit work at Regent Square. His chief fear was for his voice: "It looked such a distance," he writes, "to the faces in the end gallery." He got a friend to sit at the far end of the church, just over the clock, with a handkerchief which he was to wave if the speaker were inaudible. The subject of his sermon was, "The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin."

It is curious that the only despondent note that sounds through his correspondence at this time is the lamentation that he is unfitted for the pulpit. Repeatedly he expresses the fear that he will never make a preacher. He feels stiff and ill at ease. Official trappings of any kind he always disliked; and the pulpit robes, which he afterwards, as far as possible, discarded, he even then, as he told Dr. Dykes, detested. "I find it," he writes, "most hopeless to get anything I much care to say, and even then it is a perplexity generally to see what really is the reason. I am at the very point of giving over preaching altogether." Again, "I am more sure than ever that I am not a preacher," "Romps with Mr. Turnbull's children's singing-class are, on the whole, the most satisfactory occupation I know of."

These doubts and discouragements are not surprising. From the very first Dr. Elmslie conceived of the Christian Faith in a deep, comprehensive way, and its ideals of purity and holiness touched and warmed his nature at many points. Just because the outline was so large the filling-in took years to accomplish. It was only by continuous and patient self-analysis, by long observation and study of his fellow-men, that he was able to meet the needs of humanity, at all points, with a message which no one interpreted more largely. His sermons at Regent Square are sketches and outlines which experience alone could embody and complete. I have been much struck, in preparing a selection of his sermons for the press, with the growth of their composition. The sermon, for example, which stands first in this volume is, I think, the earliest he ever wrote. But the sermon, as it was last preached and is now printed, is not the sermon as he wrote it. The latter, though in outline identical, has been emptied of its original contents and re-filled out of the abundance of a heart which had grown in deeper knowledge of human needs and the approaches of Divine compassion.

His greatest satisfaction he found in his intercourse with the young men in the congregation.

"At the Young Men's Society," he writes, "I have been chairman for some time, and have to sum up: it costs me no preparation, and yet how they listen, and how I feel I can sway them as I please! I enjoy that kind of speaking."

It was at the close of these weekly discussions that Mr. Elmslie and I used often to meet. Our homeward paths were not identical, but we used to imagine that we were alternately escorting one another home as we spent a measurable portion of many a night upon the pavement, heedless of the thinning traffic, in keen debate over some of those deep insoluble problems which, I am glad to think, trouble his eager heart no longer. "I have long believed," he writes, "thinking to be more unhealthy than fever, cholera, bad drains, etc. I would give a good deal to be only an animal now and then."

Almost the first hopeful word about his preaching in Regent Square occurs in the following passage; it is interesting otherwise:—

"On Monday evening I was at Mr. Bell's. He pressed me to stay; thought I should not be a Professor; meant for a preacher; would have great power; something quite peculiar about my sermons; made Christ and everything so real, and near, and helpful; and my prayers always did him good, etc., etc.

"Curious, that in my sermons tells with everybody, for it comes from my line of reading and thinking at college, especially from the German books on Christ, such as Strauss; they made me trust Him as a Person rather than a doctrine; besides, I know I have come to regard Him all round differently in consequence. I have had to pay dearly for the reading, and have often wished I had not, so it is a little comfort to find that my coming through it makes me more helpful now."

The following is worth quoting as an instance of his ready resource:—

"48, Regent Square, Tuesday.

"My Dear Folks,—On Saturday morning a shabby man called, said he was a cousin of Dykes, needing money too, etc., just come from America—awkward Dykes on Continent. I saw he was an impostor, so resolved to get rid of him. I answered, 'It is awkward.' Then he said, 'What is to become of me? I look to you, sir.' 'Nothing will come of that, I fear.' 'But are you not Dr. Dykes's assistant?' 'Yes, I assist him, but not his relatives.' 'Well, but, sir, what would you advise me to do?' 'To say "Good morning," and not lose more of your time here.' As he got up he rubbed his stomach and said, 'I have had no breakfast to-day.' 'Very hard that mine is over, and my landlady does not like to have to make a second; do you often go without food?' 'Many and many a time, sir.' 'Ah, the doctor says it is good for the health! I wish I looked as well-fed as you do, going without breakfast. It must be economical. Good morning.' And we parted with mutual grins."

Among the congregation at Regent Square Mr. Elmslie formed many friendships. He conceived a warm regard for Professor Burdon-Sanderson (now of Oxford) and his wife; and other names might be mentioned of those who became lifelong friends. Among men who have since become well known, he saw something of Professor G. J. Romanes, who was then an occasional visitor at Regent Square. About this time he describes a meeting with Macdonell of the Times, whom he speaks of as "full of light." On the same occasion he met Dr. Marcus Dods for, I think, the first time. "Dods, I like very much," is his brief comment.

Two years after his first arrival in London Mr. Elmslie settled in Willesden as minister of the Presbyterian Congregation there. When he left Scotland in 1873 he had formed no resolve to sever his ecclesiastical connection with that country. Circumstances and inclination, however, kept him in the south. He was much impressed with the type of congregation which represented English Presbyterianism at Regent Square. For many members of the session he had a warm respect and friendly admiration. He was interested in the experimental position of a Church, such as the Presbyterian one in England, comparatively young and small. The appeal that came to him from Willesden was direct and urgent. It is not to be wondered at that he yielded, at first rather reluctantly, to its pleading. The next eight years of his life were spent in active ministry in this little metropolitan suburb.

When Mr. Elmslie came to Willesden the place was much less populous than it has since become. The streets were only partially lighted. The road from the Junction Station to the little village of Harlesden, which is now a continuous row of shops and houses, passed then between ragged hedges, under a canopy of elms. The Presbyterian Church was not built, but services were held in a hall, which was the first building the Scotch residents put up. Mr. Elmslie took rooms near the site of the prospective church, but shortly after moved to the little house in Manor Villas which belonged to the chapel-keeper and his wife—Mr. and Mrs. Oxlade—a worthy couple, who returned the respect with which he regarded them by a loving admiration for the best man, as they phrased it, whom they ever knew.

On November 23rd, 1875, Mr. Elmslie was duly ordained. His dear mother was present at the service, and many friends. I had been with him during the earlier part of the day. Among other subjects of conversation we had been anticipating an episcopal discussion on the ethics of betting. He recognized the difficulty of the subject, and as he got more hopelessly perplexed in his effort to justify an absolute prohibition of the practice on grounds which could be intellectually defended, he turned, I remember, to his mother with a look of comical helplessness: "Here am I going to be ordained, and I don't even know why it's wrong to bet."

The congregation under his watchful care grew and prospered. A more united body of people never kept together in corporate life, and this happy result was due in chief measure to the unwearied tact and resource of the young minister.

In the spring of the following year the new church was completed and opened for public worship. Mr. Elmslie seemed to be able to draw into it men of all shades of religious opinion, and some even whose family traditions were at variance with evangelical orthodoxy. One of the distinguished sons of a famous Unitarian household was a fellow-worshipper with Ned Wright the evangelist. Throughout the whole of the little community which he ruled, for young and old alike, there was life, energy, and kindly charity. He felt that the path of Christian living was not to be trodden without ardent effort; and his example was at once a stimulus to the strong and an encouragement to the weak. "Your prayers," said a lady to him at this time, "always make me feel that it is a terribly difficult thing to be a Christian—but you can't think what a lot of good they do me."

The year after (1877) Mr. Elmslie commenced mission work. The London and North Western Railway Company had just built an Institute for their employés who are housed in large numbers in what is known as the Railway Village, at Willesden Junction. Above the recreation rooms in the new building was a large hall, which was placed at the disposal of Mr. Elmslie, by the directors, for Sunday services. He willingly took advantage of this kindness to gain a further hold on men whose hearts, in many cases, he had already reached. An engine-driver, who had been long ill, remarked to a friend about him: "He comes here, has a long chat, and tells me about many things; but never lets me feel he knows more than I do." The services then commenced are still continued under the oversight of Mr. Elmslie's successor.

Four years later another mission was started from Willesden which has since grown into an independent charge. The district of College Park came into being beneath Mr. Elmslie's eyes, and its spiritual needs attracted his attention. He applied to the London School Board for use of a schoolroom in which to hold Sunday services. The application having failed he bought, in the following year, along with his office-bearers, the site for a hall and church. The hall was at once built, and by the kindness of Mr. Andrew Wark, and other friends to whom Mr. Elmslie made a personal appeal, the money to meet the cost was subscribed. The church has been more recently completed.

One noticeable feature in his work at Willesden was his power to attract the young. I remember his saying on one occasion, half jestingly, that he liked to make children happy, as he knew how miserable they would be when they grew up. He meant that the strain of living was bound to tell, and that children should have all the happiness which can be enjoyed in the elasticity of youth. I do not know which were more attractive to the young people of Willesden—his children's sermons, or the sweets which he used to produce from mysterious stores when they came to visit him. Both were excellent and both did good.

The following contains an interesting account of his pastoral work, and is worth quoting at length:—

"Though it is late, and the text for Sunday (Communion) has not been fixed yet, I am going to tell you a very sad story, that has made me think of many things. Over a year ago Mrs. X————, on my recommendation, engaged as governess a Miss Y————, a great friend of Mrs. Z————, who asked that she might be very kindly treated, because she had had a deal to bear, and was all but disgusted with religion. She was a bright young girl, very pretty and graceful, clever in talk and repartee. Often I wished to find a way of showing her some kindness, but naturally that was hardly possible. However, I knew that both Mr. and Mrs. G———— were good to her. She was to have left last Saturday, but took suddenly unwell—had to go to bed. On the same day I called in at Mrs. G————'s on my way to say good-bye to Miss Y————; learning of her attack, I did not go on.... Mrs. G———— had given her some eau-de-Cologne, and she had liked it much, so I took with me my little spray bottle. Her mother was with her; she looked wretchedly ill in face, eyes, and hands, but spoke in a very firm voice, and that made me think there was certainly no immediate danger.

"I at once told her about the spray bottle, and making her shut her eyes, applied it on her temples. She said it was delicious, and took it in her hands.

"I cannot try to describe her talk, for it was broken by moments of wandering, when she said very odd things, and in the midst she grew sick, and I had to go outside; she was too ill then to say much. I deemed it kind not to remain, but had a short, simple prayer. She said, very earnestly, 'Thank you so much for that!' I told her I would come again, and she must not fear to say to me all she wished. She answered, 'Yes, come again.' Thursday was a very busy day, for I had many engagements in London. Though I tried hard, I could not get home early, but it would have made no difference. She had been delirious night and day, with occasional intervals, and died at a quarter to three in the afternoon. She was only twenty-three.

"... J———— G———— went up and held her hands. She struggled for a moment or two, and then let her head down, and while he spoke to her, quieting her, she said she was going to be good and sleep now. Her wild eyes shut at last, and she was in a sleep, such as she had not had since Saturday.

"The mother and Mrs. G———— stole out, leaving only a sister, thinking it was recovery; but it was death. In ten minutes, with a little sigh, she ceased to breathe. Mr. G———— was her great friend, and she died in his arms. You can hardly think how sad her death has made me. So many forlorn things are about it that I have no time to write. Those lonely nights of agony and death-like sickness, that she had said nothing about at the time, believing herself dying, a governess among strangers, etc.

"Two things I am glad of—that Mrs. G———— was with her one night, and that I thought of the spray bottle. She said to me, 'You had Mrs. G———— to nurse you; is not she an angel?' and I said, 'Yes, as much as if she had wings,' and I meant it.

"Then her sisters told me that all that last night and day, till close on the end, my little bottle was never out of her hand; the coolness of the air and the softness of the spray relieved her sickness so much. Once, when in a spasm she jerked the bottle on the floor, she cried, for fear it was broken. The mother has sent a message asking if she may keep it, since it was the last thing in her child's hand, and the last that gave her any pleasure. It seems, too, that she spoke more than once of my prayer for her. Before the mother left last night to go home, she said to Mrs. G————, 'I shall always love you and your husband for what you have done for my child. Your kindness to her and the preaching she heard in your church did her so much good. She came to you with her life embittered, and with her religious beliefs nearly gone. Only a month ago she told me they had all come back again, and she understood Christ better, and believed in Him more, because of the way Mr. Elmslie preached of him, and we all have seen that this last year at Willesden has been the happiest in all her life. If she had been taken a year ago our recollections would have been very, very sad; now it is different,' and then the poor lady burst out crying. To-day I tried hard to get some white roses to lay on her ere the body is taken home, but I could only get some smaller white flowers, and maiden-hair ferns. Mrs. G———— had also got a basket of flowers, and I think the sight of them will comfort the old folks at home a little, as also a letter I have sent the poor mammy, saying some kind things about her lassie.

"Many other touching things the poor girl said and did come to my mind, and I could tell you more, but there is not time. I called it a sad story, but in some ways it is not sad. Indeed, I almost think that it is death alone that makes life at all sacred.

"All these things have made me think that Christ's account of the judgment must be quite real. I mean the 'Inasmuch as ye did it to one of these,' etc., for that is just how we would feel, that is just how the poor mother of the dead girl felt. There is nothing to thank God for more than to have been able to do a kindness to a dying soul. To think that a poor troubled soul has gone out of the pain and tiredness of life straight into the arms of God from yours, with the touch of pitying hands fresh on it; to feel God sees that, and knows those hands were yours, seems to me to bring you and God very near to each other. If it be true that He loves 'the souls that He hath made,' surely He must love you for loving them. I do not think it would matter very much about other things, if you had loved a good deal. If a little child said, as you were being turned away, 'He made me so happy!' and another, 'He fed and clothed me;' and another, 'He held me so gently in the agony of death,' even if he were a very sinful man, what could God do to him who had been good to the 'little ones'? The Apostle John had thought of it, and said, 'He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God,' and Paul must have been in the same mind when he wrote 1 Cor. xiii."

They were very bright and happy, those Willesden days with their expanding usefulness; and before Mr. Elmslie left the district his life had been crowned by the commencement of that heart-union with another which seemed to more than double the separate influence of each for good. He worked unremittingly, and even his holidays were not given to idleness or rest. When he came to London he knew little of French, and one of his first holidays was spent in Paris, where he worked at the language with conscientious thoroughness, and obtained an adequate mastery over its difficulties. He returned to Paris on another occasion for further study, and one late summer he spent in Rome studying Italian.

His second visit to Paris was very helpful to him in more ways than one, especially in the influence exercised upon him by Bersier.

"I find that the £30 I spent on going to Paris is going to pay me far more than I thought of, not merely in French, though I rejoice in that daily, but in preaching. Perhaps you remember me saying that I had got several hints from the style of Bersier, who spoke, not read—mainly in letting out, adopting a free, direct style, variation, etc. Since coming back I have had constantly to preach very badly prepared; but I knew that (partly in consequence) I was much more free, bold, and roused. On Sunday I was very ill-prepared, nothing written, even order of thoughts not fixed; and I did not stick, even, to the line intended; but feeling this, I let out tremendously in vehemence and language. I saw how it took, and several spoke. Yesterday two old folks were on the sermon, and then they said, 'But ever since you came back from Paris you have been so much improved,' etc., etc. And indeed, I have heard more of my sermons during the last few weeks than ever before. So I owe a debt to M. Bersier. Another item, however, is, I fancy, that Paris made some things a little more real to me than they were before."

During all these years Mr. Elmslie's reading was wide and various. At the same time it was not difficult to see that the subject that interested him most was the study of man, and the books that attracted him were those that threw light upon the actions and passions of men. When he returned from Paris for the first time, for example, the author of whom he was most full was Rousseau—not Rousseau the philosopher and speculative thinker—but the Rousseau of the "Confessions"—with their strange candour and unblushing avowals. He read little of the works of the great imaginative masters of English prose or verse. If he did read a volume of Tennyson or Ruskin, for example, his criticisms were always brilliant and penetrating; but he never nourished his spirit upon their loftier utterances, nor was his style moulded by the melody of theirs. One exception I should perhaps make. His study of George Eliot was frequent and appreciative. One of his students has told us how, shortly before his own death, he referred to the scene in which Mr. Tulliver's is described to point a characteristic lesson in theology and charity. The passage was a favourite one, from the day when a friend first gave him the "Mill on the Floss" to read. I remember another remark of his about George Eliot which is worth quoting, but to appreciate its point I must introduce a word of explanation. I had, just at that time, drawn up a memorial on a subject in which we were both interested. Avoiding the conventional "wharfoes" which "Uncle Remus" has satirized in such documents, I had worded the appeal with perhaps exaggerated directness. Each sentence contained a distinct proposition, and the whole was expressed with something of that oracular emphasis with which, in those days, Victor Hugo used, from time to time, to address the citizens of Paris. After talking of this composition, and the subject of which it formed part, the conversation turned on George Eliot. I referred to "Romola"—especially to the closing scenes in the life of Savonarola, which, as it has always seemed to me, touch the highest point that has been reached in analysis of the drama of spiritual conflict. As I recalled the passage in which the disciplined imagination of the writer shows us the great Florentine stripped, one after another, of all those dazzling evidences of divine favour with which he used to feed his soul in pride, till there is nothing left to tell him of the unforsaking love of God save the lowly witness of his own bowed and penitent heart, the eyes of my companion grew bright with a large approval. After a pause he said, "If we find George Eliot is not in heaven when we get there, I think you and I will have to draw up a memorial—in the style of Victor Hugo."

When one thinks of the versatility of Dr. Elmslie's mind, and of the keenness of his intelligence, one feels that he might have won laurels in any domain of intellectual effort. And yet theology was the one subject on which his heart was set. He conceived of it grandly and nobly. He believed in it in that deep, derivative sense in which it is referred to by Carlyle in the opening to his story of the Puritan revolt, as a knowledge of God, the Maker, and of His laws. And for him Christ was the Divine Lawgiver—sole Lord of his conscience as well as Saviour of his spirit. For me at least, the facts of Christianity seemed always to grow larger and more solemn as he pressed their spiritual significance; its doctrines seemed to grow more real as he pierced beneath the forms in which they are encased to explore their ethical contents. God and man, and the relations between them, were the absorbing subjects of his study. It was his constant brooding over human nature as seen in the light of Divine pity, which gave its largeness to his measurement alike of the deadly hatefulness of sin and of the atoning charity of Christ. Sin was for him a thing far more terrible than any punishment which could possibly await it; and his sense of its dread, though still expiable, terror gave to him his Christlike eagerness to watch for the faintest signs of contrition and amendment. The following passage in a letter written to his mother some years earlier contains, it seems to me, the heart and soul of all his preaching.

"Am very much touched to hear about the poor Doctor. No matter what he may have done, with his disordered brain and troubled home life, I had rather go into the next world like him than like most of those who have condemned, though there were even nothing more than that near the end he tried a little to do right, and had a pitiful wish in his heart to be at rest, and go back to his old mother, and live a Christian life. And if it is really true that there is a heavenly Father who pities sinful men, and a Christ who died to save them, then I think my mammy, in helping him only but a little to better thoughts and hopes, did a greater thing than most deeds men call great. Any way, she has the satisfaction of having done kindly by an unfortunate man, and of knowing that it is all well with him—unless, indeed, Christ was altogether mistaken. It is not the first time, either, that she has done that sort of thing."

In 1880 he was appointed tutor of Hebrew in the Presbyterian College, London, and carried on the work along with that of his congregation in Willesden. He made himself very popular with the students, and when a permanent appointment came to be made in 1883, he was unanimously elected Professor of Hebrew. He writes: "It seems that the speeches of Walton, Fraser, and Watson were just perfect, so earnest and generous, and loving and hopeful. That put the Synod into a melting and happy mood. All yesterday I felt very grave, and almost afraid. I see that a very great thing, of good or evil, has happened in my life. God grant that it may be for good."

Almost immediately after his appointment to the Professorship, he married Kate, daughter of Mr. Alexander Ross, formerly Rector of the Grammar School, Campbeltown. The home which he made first at Upper Roundwood, Willesden, then at 31, Blomfield Road, Maida Vale, will ever have the brightest associations for his friends. He had all the qualities that fit a man to bless and grace married life. When his son and only child was born it seemed as if he were drinking the richest happiness of life in its fulness. I shrink from quoting words so sacred and tender as these which I take from a letter to his wife, but I cannot otherwise convey the full truth:—

"It makes me so glad, dear, every time I think of it, to know that we chose each other for no base worldly motives, but out of pure love and esteem for what (with all faults and defects) was good, and tender, and true, in one another. It was not for the mean things that the world and fashion make much of and worship that we two came together, meaning to go hand in hand through life with mutual help and kindness. We knew quite well the world's ways, and we could feel the pressure of its lower estimates and aims. But this act at least was done not with shallow hearts and for mean ends, but in honest friendship out of true affection, and with a very earnest wish to do only what was good and right, and to help each other to live a happy and a noble life." Such a life it was, though its years were few; and when the news of his death came, amid all the absorbing and confounding regrets which filled many minds, the thought was ever uppermost of the wife and child left desolate in the home that had been so full of sunshine.

Dr. Elmslie gave himself unsparingly to the work of his chair. He declined preaching engagements, and made zealous preparation for his classes. Apart from his own high standard of duty, he greatly respected the opinion of students. He thought Professors could have no fairer judges. The diligent study of the Old Testament, with the aid of the best German commentaries, was of course the main part of his preparatory work. But he did more with dictionaries than with commentaries, and made up his mind for himself. He always kept pace with the progress of research, and followed with deep attention the absorbing discussions of recent years on the structure of the Old Testament. As he was himself so chary in expressing publicly the conclusions he had arrived at on these subjects, it would not be right for me to say much. Of this, at least, he was sure, that the worth and message of the Old Testament were unimpaired by criticism, and would be so whatever the ultimate conclusion might be. He was also exceedingly sceptical as to the finality of the critical verdicts generally accepted at present: he believed that the analysis would be carried much farther. But although he diligently studied these things, and was an accurate and exact grammarian, he had his own theory of the duties of a Professor, which cannot be better described than in his own words, in an anonymous article contributed to the British Weekly for September 16th, 1887. There he says—

"Theological colleges are not in the first instance shrines of culture or high places of abstract erudition, but factories of preachers and pastors. They are not so much fountains of pure scholarship, but are rather to be classed with schools of medicine and institutes of technical education. Their function is not to produce great theologians, but to train efficient ministers—though they will hardly do that without possessing all that is essential to do the other. The ideal Professor is not your dungeon of learning, in whose depths he and his pupils are buried away from all practical life and usefulness. Information is good, in large measure indispensable, but the rarer gift of the heaven-born teacher is infinitely more. The old institution of the "lecture"—pretentious, laborious, in every sense exhaustive—must vanish. What was spun out into an hour of dry-as-dust detail must be struck off in ten minutes of bright, sharp, suggestive sketching. It is the difference between the heavy leading article of our newspapers and the crisp incisiveness of the French press. There must be much more teaching from text-books, and direct instruction from the Bible and human life. Dogmatic must deal less with theories and mouldy controversies, and more with the actual forces of sin and salvation. Exegetic cannot be allowed to fool away a whole session in a wearisome analysis of a few chapters of an epistle or a prophecy, fumbling and mumbling over verbal trivialities, blind to the Divine grandeurs that are enshrined within, while the students are left without even a bird's-eye view of the contents of the Bible as a whole, and destitute of any adequate conception of its vital majesty and meaning. Above all, a new scope and purpose must be given to the teaching of Practical Theology. Instead of a few lectures on the doctrine of the Church, and the ideal construction of a sermon, and the theoretical discharge of pastoral duty, this ought to constitute the crowning and chief study in the curriculum. And it should be in the form, not of teaching, but of actual training. Montaigne complained of his physicians that they "knew much of Galen, and little about me." They manage better in medical education now. Fancy the souls of tempted and sick men, women, and children handed over to the unpractised mercies of our book-taught young ministers. Colleges cannot quite mend this difficulty; but they might do much. And still more would be done if each student could be secured a year of travel abroad, and after that be required to serve an apprenticeship as curate or evangelist in connection with our larger congregations."

Through the kindness of my friend Mr. W. D. Wright, B.A., a student in the English Presbyterian College, I have received some very interesting reminiscences from his students. Space does not permit me to give them fully, but they show that Elmslie acted up to his own conception of a Professor's duties. One gentleman says—

"In recalling my impressions of Professor Elmslie, nothing strikes me so forcibly as his unfailing gentleness towards his students. It was very seldom indeed that any student was inattentive or troublesome in class, but when anything of the kind did occur Elmslie never spoke a word to the offender, and but for the pained flush on his face, one would have thought he had not noticed the occurrence. Again, when a student had not prepared his Hebrew lesson, and was unable to read it, Elmslie always appeared more ashamed than the student himself, but never said a word in blame or warning. Only he was afterwards chary of asking the same student to read.

"Elmslie was always ready to answer questions or meet any difficulties raised by the students, and he was often more eloquent on these occasions than when engaged in the ordinary routine of the class. He had rather a dislike for the schoolmaster's work that he was compelled to do with junior students, and hurried the class on until they were able to read passages in Hebrew. He did not aim so much at turning out Hebrew scholars as at making preachers, with a deep interest in Hebrew literature, and imbued with its spirit. If he could only secure our interest in a Hebrew author, and enlist our sympathies, he was willing to excuse any ignorance of ours in regard to grammar or syntax."

Another says—

"Perhaps my most vivid remembrances of Dr. Elmslie collect round his criticisms upon his students' trial discourses. Always kind, invariably conciliatory, in his criticism, yet he pointed out very plainly the defects, and indicated what was lacking with unfailing clearness of judgment. Even in the midst of his rebukes he would frequently take the bitterness away by some half-playful remark or reference to his own experiences.... But better than any criticisms were his own concluding remarks on the text. Compressed, as they had to be, into a very few minutes, the whole intensity of his nature was seen in them. We often left the lecture-hall with our brains all astir and our hearts glowing with the inspiration of his words.

"I rather think some of his first-year students generally thought him occasionally heretical in his remarks at the close of his criticism. The one thing he could not bear was dulness, a uniformity of mediocre unreproachableness about a sermon. So he loved to give with startling effect a single side of a truth, and thus to send us away with our minds in a state of rather anxious activity. Once he half-humorously gave us the advice to begin our sermons with a truth stated in an unusual, half-heretical way, if one liked; for there is nothing makes people listen so attentively as a suspicion of heresy. But these early doubts of our Professor's soundness soon vanished, and we found him, as one has said, 'not so much broad, as big.'"

"He read to us a letter from a young man in much doubt as to whether he should enter the Wesleyan pulpit or no. His correspondent had read with relish Dr. Elmslie's article on Genesis. Could the Professor tell him of any books in which points of Christian faith were dealt with in an intelligent and convincing way? He, the correspondent, knew of no such books. Dr. Elmslie asked our opinion. I ventured to suggest that everybody had to hammer out these points of faith for himself. The Doctor was rather pleased with this remark, and at once said, 'Oh, yes! indeed he has, and to live them out too.'"

In his old students who had become ministers he took an earnest interest, and their letters show sufficiently how they prized him. "I feel," says one, "that you have inspired me with a something quite apart from the detailed work of the class—with spirit and enthusiasm for preaching."

He himself was soon drawn back to the pulpit, and as he preached in the various Nonconformist churches of the Metropolis it was almost immediately felt that a new force of the first rank had appeared. He preached frequently in Brixton Independent Church, then under the brilliant and devout ministry of James Baldwin Brown. Mr. Brown's health was very infirm when Dr. Elmslie began to preach there, and on his death the congregation looked to the Professor as his natural successor. Ultimately a cordial invitation was given. The inducements offered were great, and the position was among the most influential London Nonconformity can bestow. That a change of ecclesiastical relations would have been necessitated by his acceptance would have been no difficulty to Dr. Elmslie. But he feared to face the physical strain involved, and preferred to continue his work as Professor.

The disappointment felt at his declinature of the invitation to Brixton Independent Church was very deep, although the members construed his refusal in the right way, and understood that no difference of opinion on ecclesiastical polity and no doubt of their fidelity had anything to do with it. Some of the letters written to him were very touching. Among these I may quote the following:—

"Dear Sir,—We are, with the exception of my husband (who is somewhat of an invalid), closely occupied all the week, sometimes even the strain becoming excessive. On Sundays, when you come, your teaching and influence lift us above all our difficulties, and we start for the next week full of hope, and feeling nothing too hard to be accomplished. With regard to my sons, it is an especial boon, because, though they are thoughtful and good, it has been almost impossible to get them to attend church during the last two or three years. They did not meet, perhaps, with a single service for many weeks into which they could enter with the slightest interest, so they stayed away. We have all found our Sundays very wearisome, but on those you have visited us all is changed. All are deeply interested, one competing with the other in bringing forward the ideas that have interested them." The writer goes on reluctantly to acquiesce in a declinature which had evidently gone to the heart of the whole household.

His sphere as a preacher steadily widened, and he became, in addition, a most popular platform speaker at the May meetings in Exeter Hall and elsewhere. There is no room to recount his triumphs, and no need to do so. All who heard him bore the same testimony. If he was preaching in one of the suburbs the trains towards the time of service brought a company of admirers from all parts of London. The chapel would be crowded to the doors. When he stood up in the pulpit strangers felt surprise. Youthful in appearance, unpretending in manner to the last degree, and in the early part of the service generally nervous and restrained, it was not till the sermon began that he showed his full powers. He usually read the first prayer, and was always glad if he could get some one to help him with the lessons and the giving out of hymns. But in preaching all his powers were displayed at their highest. He did not read his sermons, but his language was as abundant and felicitous as his thought, and his audience was always riveted. Alike in manner and matter he was quite original. He imitated no preacher; he did not care to listen to sermons, and was rarely much impressed by them when he did. I doubt if he ever read a volume of sermons unless it was to review them. His knowledge of the Bible and his knowledge of life gave him inexhaustible stores; he had always matter in advance, and never felt that sterility of mind which so often afflicts the preacher. He would retell the stories of the Old Testament, and make them live in the light of to-day. The reality and firmness with which he grasped life—the life of toiling, struggling, suffering men and women—was his chief power. His sympathetic imagination helped him to divine the feelings of various classes of the young men in business, for example, with a small salary, and little prospect of rising, forbidden the hope of honourable love, and tempted to baseness from without and within. He had an intense concern for the happiness of home life, and much of his preaching was an amplification of the words—