angel vinculated between two Apostles.”  He spoke very forcibly, in a hearty, humorous vein, and I could hardly understand how such a jovial old gentleman could be the author of such a serious work as “The Anxious Inquirer.”  But I have since discovered that many of the most solemn and impressive preachers were men of most cheery temperament who could laugh heartily themselves when they were not making other people weep.  Mr. James looked like an old sea captain; but he was an admirable pilot of awakened souls, whom thousands will bless through all eternity.

Dr. Thomas Guthrie, of Edinburgh, was once pronounced by the London Times to be “The most eloquent man in Europe.”  Ruskin, Thackeray, Macaulay, and other men of renown joined in the crowd that thronged St. John’s Church when they were in Edinburgh; and a highland drover was once so excited that in the middle of a powerful sermon he called out:  “Naw, sirs, heard ye ever the like o’ that?” My good wife made a run to Edinburgh while I was stopping behind in England, and on her return to me almost her first word was, “I have heard Guthrie; I am spoiled for every one else as long as I live.”  Guthrie, “Lang Tam” (as the toughs on the “Cowgate” in Edinburgh used to call him), was built for a great orator.  He was more than six feet high, and would be picked out in any crowd as one of God’s royal family.  I once said to him:  “You remind us Americans of our famous statesman, Henry Clay,” There was a striking resemblance in the long-armed figure, the broad mouth and lofty brow, and still more in the rich melody of voice, and magnetic rush of electric eloquence, “There must certainly be a personal likeness,” replied the Doctor, “for not long ago I went into the house of Mr. Norris, who came here from America, and said to myself, ’There is my portrait on the wall,’ but when I came nearer I espied under it the name of ‘Henry Clay.’” He used to say that in preaching he aimed at the three P’s:  Prove, Paint and Persuade.  His painting with the tongue was as vivid as Rembrandt’s painting with the brush.  When I went to Edinburgh, in 1872, as a delegate to the two Presbyterian General Assemblies, Dr. Guthrie invited me to dine with him, and the gifted Dr. John Ker, of Glasgow, was in the company.  After dinner, Guthrie literally took the floor, and poured out a flow of charming talk, interspersed with racy Scotch anecdotes.  Among others told was one about the old Highland woman who said to him:  “Doctor, nane of your modern improvements for me.  I want naething but good old Dauvid’s Psalms, and I want’em all sung to Dauvid’s tunes, too.”  On the evening when I addressed the Free Church Assembly, I was obliged to pass, on my way to the platform, the front bench, on which sat the veteran missionary, Alexander Duff, Principal Rainy, William Arnot, Dr. Guthrie and two or three other celebrities.  I have not run such a gauntlet on a single bench in my life.  When I had finished my address, Guthrie, clad in his gray overcoat, leaped up, and kindly grasped my hand, and I went back to my seat feeling an indescribable relief.  Dr. Guthrie a short time after attempted to visit our country, but was arrested at Queenstown by a difficulty of the heart, and returned to Scotland, and lived but a short time afterwards.