thenceforward, he found no difficulty in self-control. The poor little inkstand could not have subserved so importantly his highest education if it had preserved its integrity

for years.

How he improved his time will be seen in the fact, that in his eighteenth year he was one of the most popular speakers in the valley Lyceum, when the "pastor, deacons and trustees of the Presbyterian church were among the members."

He became a member of that church-an active and zealous member, and notwithstanding a great change of belief in after years, he was never excluded from it. He removed to Poughkeepsie with his brother, still toiling with better advantages for self-culture, educating his spirit for the endurance and sacrifice of its earthly work yet to be done, as well as storing knowledge in the mind.

The next winter, a Mr. Little, from Philadelphia, came to Poughkeepsie to teach writing. Edward could command only one hour in the latter part of the evening, but he became so proficient in penmanship, and they were so intimate in friendship, that they spent the remainder of the winter in journeying and teaching together, sharing the profits equally. At the close of their joint labors, Mr. Little proposed that Edward should go with him to Philadelphia, attend to his education, and live in the family of his friend, who would require enough of his services to ensure him the feeling of independence. To this Edward joyfully assented. The dreams of his youth seemed on the verge of realization. His darling hope was to be fulfilled. All was made ready, and on the eve of the day, before the morning they were to start, Mr. Little made some remark that awoke 66 new thoughts" in the mind of Edward. He asked the question, "Are you a Universalist ?" "As the answer, 'I am,' came, in clear, distinct tones, Edward started from his seat as if stung by a viper." He refused to go to Philadelphia with Mr. Little, though they parted, both in tears. We quote from the memoir.

"Edward's description of Mr. Little was beautiful in the extreme. I will give it in his own words: He was between forty-five and fifty years of age, and not very robust. He had a heavy forehead, shaded by thick masses of hair, as black and glistening as the raven's 31*

wing; a large, soft, soul-full, black eye, and an angel's smile hovered around his lips. His whole air and manner bespoke the good man and the polished gentleman. He was one of the few whom God gives us upon the earth to do good and to make others happy. And, had I not been purblind by bigotry and ignorance, I could not but have seen the sweet, heavenly spirit that shone through all his conduct. But so it is. Those nearest us know little of our most sacred feelings or holiest resolves. Summer and winter may we dwell with a friend,-ay, for thirty years may we go out and come in over the same threshold, and yet, what do we know of each other? So has it always been; and so, perchance, it always will be. For

"The page that to a child

Were written legibly, is by the wise
Mistaken; and they will read it like an

Over-blotted leaf, and break the heart that

Wrote it.'" pp. 66, 67.

He then went to the home of another brother in central New York. Most of this journey, from the home of his father, was performed on foot. He was alone with nature, and she talked with his intellectual being. The tree, the flowers, the pebble, had voices for him, and he listened reverently. They spoke to him of God and His purposes, of life and its duties, of man and his destinyon earth, and in those solemn spheres that lie unexplored in the majestic realm of death.

He worked at his trade with his brother until his circumstances allowed him to attend a school in some place where his labor would pay his board. He failed to make such an arrangement with his brother at Poughkeepsie, and so went to his father's house. Here, by a strange coincidence, his teacher again became his friend, and proved also to be of the same objectionable religious faith.

"It was a clear, moonlit winter's night; and, as they walked slowly up the well-beaten hill-path, the moonbeams lay in a golden network over the glistening snow-crust. The old gentleman, after a few moments of silence, suddenly exclaimed, 'It is almost a sin to tread upon these moonbeams at our feet. See how lovingly they creep around our way! Not around our footsteps alone, but, like the love of God, they are scattered broadcast as far as eye can see!'

Yes, but, like the mercy of God, they will pass away,' sadly replied Edward; and I could never forget,' he continued, 'how steadily he looked at me as he answered,

God's mercy pass away! How? In what manner? Let me ask, Can he be love, and not be merciful?'

'If he is merciful will he be just?' I inquired. He still kept his arms folded upon his breast, and, looking earnestly, even sadly, at me, said,

Can he be love, and not be just? Then he put his hand on my shoulder, and, giving me a hearty shake, laughed, as he said, 'Ah, Edward! the great trouble with you is, you are so much better and wiser than your God is!" pp. 80, 81.

Now he dared not ask that question, although he sus pected it, for it had already cost him a valued friend, and this one also was dear to him. The last day came to the school-of its close to him. He will give the story.

"He went home with me that night, and the circle, small, though it was, that sat by my father's fireside, enjoyed an evening of happiness that was to be remembered sacredly. Mother charged me always to think of his teachings. How her good thoughts of him would have vanished, had she known his religion, though! The next morning I walked down to the foot of the hill with him, and there we parted. When he held my hand he said, 'This were, indeed, a sad parting, were it not for the hope of meeting there,' pointing to the sky. I have no thought of meeting you again on earth; for when my white hairs are beneath the valley dust you will be treading bravely in the march of life. But you will come to me at last (after a long and weary struggle, perchance,) in that heaven where God will gather a ransomed world.'

His voice did not tremble, and his manner was not sorrowful, as he bade me good-bye; and to my young and ardent feelings it seemed as though he was rather indifferent. But I know now that he had lived down joy and grief, and his soul was upon a plane so far above mine, that he could almost see the heaven he was so soon to enter.

I have withheld the name of this revered friend and instructor, out of respect to the living. He did not go home to die, but was laid to rest in the valley churchyard, and one or more of his sons are now ministers of the gospel of universal salvation." pp. 82, 83.

This was the last of his attending school. His education thenceforward was not the visible one, from man and books, but the invisible work from the moral providence of God.

He attended to business, and in conjunction with a brother, made a home near for his aged parents. He married, and made himself a home.

A beautiful incident is recorded by his biographer,

while he lived at Nelson Flats. Nothing could more admirably illustrate delicacy and refined benevolence. We are certain that the readers of this book will thank his biographer for recording a trait of such exceeding beauty.

"This newly-purchased house, of which I have just spoken, was very pleasantly situated. It was in the western part of the little village, and within sound of the rich, mellow music of the wide-flowing stream that lay upon the western boundary of the town. And from the door of this little dwelling, for several winters, my father carried my little brother and myself (one on his shoulders and the other in his arms) through the snow, and the untrodden paths of several winters, to the low red school-house not far from our doorstep. The first memories of him, which linger fresh and beautiful in the hearts of his children, are those of his kindly nature. Among the poor, needy mendicants who frequently passed our door, was crazy Lucy. No matter how hungry and cold she might be, she would never enter our dwelling if father was there, for she possessed a wonderful fear of men; but she would draw her little bundles of patches closer to her side, pin her shawl again about her neck, pull her old rag-covered bonnet over her face, and turn her tired feet again to the filling snow-path, rather than sit at table or fireside with the pleasantest of hosts. Many a time has my father taken his hat and left the supper-table till this weary old creature could eat and go to her slumber; or, if she would journey on, send his little boy and girl with their aprons full of cookies and doughnuts (from my mother's wellfilled table) for the poor wanderer to carry on her way." pp. 94, 95.

During these years, his friendship with Mr. Little and the other teacher had kept hold on his memory. Old impressions had given way. He read, meditated, examined the Scriptures, heard sermons, and prayerfully sought light. Then he became a believer, and, by strange and peculiar circumstances, a preacher of the faith once so abhorred. His life thenceforward was devoted to its dissemination.

Among the incidents connected with his early ministerial labors, the following illustrates the domestic affection and religious elevation of his character.

"The second winter of my father's labor in Hamilton, his aged father was attacked with a short but fatal illness. My father had been out to see him, and was again on his way to Cazenovia, when a messenger was sent to Hamilton with word of the immediately expected departure of the sick parent. My father had preached on the

Sunday, at five o'clock, in Hamilton village, and, remaining there all night, started early the next morning for Cazenovia. In this way he missed the messenger, and arrived at his father-in-law's, in Nelson Flats, before he received any intimation that the cheerful voice that had always gladly welcomed him would not be in the earthly home to greet him when he came.

He was fastening his horse in the stable, when his little daughter ran out, and said to him, Father, grandfather's dead.' He looked up to his father-in-law, and asked, Is father dead?"

Yes, he died last night.'

'Has word been sent to Hamilton?'

'George went for you yesterday morning. We hoped to get you there in time to see him die.'

He gave no expression of sorrow, but covered Dolly' warmly, gave her a plenty of oats and bay, and when he entered the house he greeted them all cheerfully, and then went to his chamber. We heard him walk the floor of his room for several hours; but when he came down to the supper-table, his face, though very pale, was calm, and we never knew what a struggle it cost him to let his good old father go to the better land.

6

After tea, he rode out to Cazenovia. His aged, feeble mother met him at the door, and, as she gave him her wasted hand, the tears rolled thick and fast over her wrinkled cheeks, and she asked, Did thee know thy father was dead, Edward?' He put his strong arm around her tottering form, and led her back to a seat, and his voice was steady as he said, 'No mother, "he is not dead, but sleepeth." She looked up into his face, and a smile broke over her before saddened countenance, and she exclaimed, God bless thee, Edward!' After he had become warm, his mother opened the door of a little back-parlor, and called, Edward, will thee come here ?' He took his little daughter by the hand and entered the room; and there, in the same place in the room, and arrayed in the same manner as his own children afterwards saw him, lay his sleeping father. He was dressed in a brown vest, dark pants, and soft knit stockings, and the points of the brown silk neckcloth lay smoothly upon the white linen that glistened over his silent breast. The silver hair hung thinly about his hollow temples, and the placid, happy expression of his face was like that of a patriarch gone to his pleasant slumber. My father cut a lock from the white hair, and put it in his pocket-book (and, years after, this lock of hair was found, during a dangerous illness. of his own, safely folded in papers, in a wallet of his pocket ;) then he asked, 'Is this your grandfather, my child?' She answered by looking into his face, and asking, Is it he, father?'

'No. It is only his body you see here. His warm, kind heart is not here, any more than it is in your wax doll, but is with God, in a better world. Your grandfather will know you and all of us there.