of Christian experience, and a voice of edification and warning sounding through all ages for all who are willing to believe.”  Of the original sources of history, particularly for the earlier centuries, his knowledge was profound, and his use of them masterly.  How thorough and how fair he is, can be fully appreciated only by those who explore for themselves the fountains from which he drew his materials.  His chief defect is in the matter of form.  He had but little dramatic power.  He gives us the inward life, but not the outward stir and shock of history.  Nor is he remarkable for analytical sharpness in his delineation of the growth of Christian doctrine.  It is in the sphere of experience and life that he succeeds the best.  His own doctrinal views were not, at all points, quite up to our English and American standards of orthodoxy.  But these points were of minor importance.  All that is cardinal was precious to him.  With peculiar fidelity did he cling to the Head, which is Christ, and was full of that faith which conquers the world and saves the soul.

His last days, as described by his friends and pupils, were in marked keeping with his whole career.  On Monday, the 8th of July, at 11 o’clock, he lectured at the University.  But he had been for some time back much feebler than usual, the weather was sultry and debilitating, and his system was out of tune.  His voice failed him two or three times in the course of the lecture, and it was only by a desperate struggle that he got to the end; his strength barely sufficing to bring him home.  The impression upon his class was such, that one of the students, turning to his neighbor, said:  “This is the last lecture of our Neander.”  Immediately after dinner, which he scarcely tasted, his reader came.  He dictated on his Church History three hours in succession, repressing by force of will the rising groans, his debility all the while increasing.  At 5 o’clock the symptoms of a dangerous illness appeared; but he would not abandon his work.  His sister, who came to expostulate with him and warn him against further effort, was sent impatiently away.  “Let me alone,” he said; “every laborer, I hope, may work if he wishes; wilt thou not grant me this?” At seven he was compelled to pause.  His reader gone, his first thought was to call back his much loved sister, and say to her:  “Be not anxious, dear Jenny, it is passing away; I know my constitution.”  But his physicians were agreed in the opinion that the very worst was to be feared.  They succeeded, however, in subduing the symptoms of the disease, which was a violent cholera, and began to hope.  The next morning, having hardly got breath from this first furious attack, he inquired with touching sadness, “shall I not be able to lecture to-day?” When answered in the negative, he distinctly demanded that the suspension should be only for that one day.  In the afternoon of Tuesday, he called out vehemently for his reader, desired him to go on with Ritter’s Palestine,