'Well, my friend, I am not presumptuous; for I am doing my duty. And, if I am to die by falling from a wagon, then that will be the best way for me to go. You forget that God can always do the best for us.' 999 pp. 154-157.

"He

These extraordinary efforts were of no avail. could discover no way to relieve himself of debt, unless he accepted invitations to preach in new societies, and labored upon his farm." He made arrangements accordingly. His aged mother was then a resident in his family, experiencing the kindest attention and warmest love. His biographer writes

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"My father's health failed constantly, and he found that he must either relinquish the farm labor, or give up his ministerial duties. He saw, also, that he could not balance the debts against him without disposing of his little property; and although it cost him a heartstruggle, which only those can know who have been, or may be, similarly situated, yet he nevertheless concluded that it must be done; for he was scrupulously honest, and never could endure the thought that another should wait longer than the appointed time for the settlement of a debt with him. And, though this money difficulty had not come upon him by any extravagance of himself or family, he nevertheless considered himself bound morally, as he was legally, to pay it. Consequently, in the fall of 1838, he sold his farm, and made arrangements to leave the home of the parents, which he had purchased with his own hard toil and much self-denial.” p. 200.

Among the hard trials of that arrangement, the hardest was that which separated his aged mother from her home of years, the spot where she had been most happy, and where she had thought to die. But that, too, was to be borne.

Although our extracts have been many, we cannot refrain from making one more, relating an incident that happened about that period, as it shows how cheaply and easily a benevolent and useful deed may be performed, and how practical philanthropy lies always in the path of him, whose eye and ear and soul are alive to perceive, and alert to perform, his "Master's work."

"He was once called to attend a funeral in the western part of Onondaga County, and, to be there in season, he was compelled to leave home about sundown, and ride all night. He was alone, on horseback, and as he rode along past the hotel in Oran, a horseman came out from under the shed and rode near him.

'He kept several

paces behind me,' said my father; and it was near midnight, I should judge, when he rode up by my side, and greeted me with 'Rather a dark night, sir.'

'Somewhat dark, friend; yet one can readily find one's way.'

After a short silence, he said,

You and I are strangers, sir, yet

our paths seem to lie in the same way.'

The same way at present,' I replied; but they will undoubtedly diverge again for a while before we have rode many miles.'

Ah, yes, that's it!-the way with us all; a short journey together, and then a separation. And, for me, it makes but little difference which way I journey or where I go. But, sir, I did not understand you. What did you mean when you said, "They will probably diverge again for a while? " '

Friend, allow me to notice your other remarks first. Did you tell the truth when you said to me that it made no difference to you which way you journeyed, or where you went?'

Yes, sir; I meant it all,-every word of it.'

Then, indeed, you are a miserable creature! A man in life without an aim, without a hope, without a love, is the most wretched of human beings; and you must be without all of these, or you could not truthfully make such an expression. With me it is far different. It does make a difference, and a great difference, in my feelings, where I go and who I am with.'

Perhaps you have never been weighed down with trouble, and broken in energy with failure and disappointment?'

No, I have not yet been broken in energy by disappointment; and, though I would not insinuate that your griefs are not the heaviest of all griefs, yet I have generally found that he who complains. the most suffers the least. The grief that comes up to the surface, and tells itself in words, and groans, and sighs, there is a relief for that. It will die away in time, and the sunlight of joy will glisten and the flowers of hope blossom in its place. It is only the grief that turns away and hides itself in the stricken heart, as the bleeding dove hides her wound,-it is only this sorrow that kills. And I should think, friend, that there might be some happiness in store for you.'

'Now,' added I, 'I will tell you what I meant by those few words, we journey together a few miles, and then we separate. Your path lies one way across the earth, mine another; but they both stop at last somewhere upon the boundary of that happy country which lies over beyond the valley of the shadow of death. Who can say that there they will not wind together again?'

'You must be a very happy man,' he replied, if you have this view of life.'

I am a happy man, my friend. If all the trials of this world were heaped upon me, they could not render me as unhappy as you

told me you were. For the love of my "Father in heaven" would be with me, his boundless mercy would be around me, his almighty arm would support me.'

'We cannot all feel alike. I sometimes think that there is no joy for me.'

The good man-the man who means to be good-is never very unhappy. He must have a source of joy within him. And I hope, and I think, that life must have some blessings for you yet. Don't give way to sorrow. Bear it like a man, and you will come out of the trial like the sun from the mist of the morning.'

We had now reached the Corners, in Manlius, and here we were to separate. It was yet too dark for us to see each other's faces distinctly, and he rode closer to my side, and gave me his hand, saying, as he did so,' Now, sir, we part. I have not asked your name; I do not care to know it. But there is a providence in this, that I should find just the friend I needed, and just at the time I wanted him. Good-bye, sir; and if there is a God he will reward you.'

I shook his hand, and said, 'Don't despair, my friend. Many a good day you'll see yet.'

And thus we parted.

Many years after, I was riding, one fine summer's day, through beautiful village in Monroe County. As I stopped before the door of the hotel, a noble-looking man stood upon the steps. I asked the landlord if he had room and feed for my horse. He had not time to reply before the stranger upon the steps came to me, and, with as joyous a look upon his face as if he had found an old friend, gave me his hand, exclaiming, Thank God, sir, you have come!' I was amazed, but he had recognized the first sound of my voice, while his voice was so changed I could not tell that I had ever heard it.

Do you remember, sir,' he asked, 'a midnight ride, years ago, with a stranger who came out from under the shed of the tavern in Oran, Onondaga County, and kept you company to Manlius?' 'I do, sir.'

All this time he had stood with his arm over the neck of my horse, to prevent his being taken away; and now he jumped into my buggy, and said, 'You must come with me. I can't, I won't take no for an answer.'

He took the reins in his hand, and drove across the road, a few rods to the east of the village, and stopped before a beautiful country residence. A young boy came out, to whom he gave the horse; and he entered a long hall, and opened a side-door into a sitting-room. There, upon the softest of carpets, was a beautiful boy of three or four years, rolling marbles; and by an open window, wreathed with a rose-vine, sat a woman engaged in pencilling. As the stranger threw the door, he said to the woman, Here, wife, this is our open good angel! I can't tell you his name.'

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I gave them my name, and, while his wife attended to our dinner, he said, You remember how discouraged I was when I saw you. We had then just lost a sweet little girl; I had failed in business; my wife was very sick; and I was then returning home from the burial of my mother. My friends were all in affliction, and no one had a word of encouragement for me, till I met you. After we parted, I rode on thinking over what you had said, and by the time I reached home I was quite reconciled to life. I told my wife that I had seen our good angel, and so you have proved to be; for whenever I was ready to despond, your words, "There are good days for you yet," came to my mind; and "the good man is not always unhappy," worked like magic with me.'

They urged me to tarry all night; but my business led me on, and we parted." p. 195-199.

Thus his life passed, in ill-health, in toil, in struggle with circumstances, yet always in the sunlight of faith.

In 1843, a "change of climate" was ordered by the physician. Accordingly he went West, to visit the country. He decided to remove there, and in 1845, was pastor of a society in Michigan. In 1847, he removed his family to a farm near Birmingham, intending to remain for life.

This change of climate brought no improvement in health, but the diseases of the country were superadded. Notwithstanding, he labored, it appears, with the same untiring energy, and encountered similar trials, hoping, and meekly trusting in God. His biographer writes

"As soon as my father had gathered his family upon this small farm, about two miles from Birmingham, he returned to his ministerial duties. He was preaching every alternate Sabbath in Pontiac and Birmingham; and though many other heavy and trying labors were his to perform, he was always faithful to the discharge of his professional duties. He had no horse this summer, and generally walked to his appointments, and often journeyed ten or twenty miles on foot to attend a funeral, or be present to solemnize a marriagerite." p. 280.

He adorned this new home. He thought to make it a resting-place for old age, if it should come to him. He planted trees. He planted flowers. He had done so in other homes, for the love of the beautiful was one of the components of his being. But his steps were now in that valley so dark to the children of earth. Beyond the narrowing gloom, he saw the silent river, where mortal voices fail, and but faith hears celestial melodies wafted from beyond its sullen waters.

His biographer has shown how the young, sensitive spirit was mailed and armed for the warfare of life. She has laid before us its power and energy in that conflict. It only remains to reveal how that severely disciplined spirit passed onward from mortal vision.

"On the seventh day of January, 1853, he preached one sermon; but the disease that laid its vice-like grasp upon him years before, had nearly reduced the citadel of life, and now it fastened upon him with redoubled strength; and on the eighth of January he was taken to his bed, which he afterwards left but a few moments each day. Those who had not been intimately acquainted with him before this sickness might, as they looked upon him, have some hope of his recovering; but those of his own household, who had watched him through many serious illnesses, and, more than all, understood his peculiarly sensitive nervous temperament, his great and never-failing hope and cheerfulness, and his consideration for the feelings of all around him, knew that these symptoms of recovery were illusive as the rainbow-hues of a departing dream.

There was no hope of longer life below, and the dearly-loved but wasting sufferer knew it. His faith had become too much a portion of his nature to grow dim in the hour of death. If he had lost all

else, even had the dark wing, of insanity fluttered among the chords of his soul, the precious religion he had so long taught would have cast its rays of brightness underneath the darkness, and permeated his voice with cheerfulness, and hung hosannas upon his lips. Nothing could have changed it; it would have gone with him, as it did, like a creature of light, down through the valley of the shadow of death.'

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The days of suffering wore on, the nights of weariness went by ; and, on the 4th of May, 1853, as the curtain of twilight was falling over the newly-decorated earth, the angel-messenger came, the healing balm fell upon the wounded heart, and the great, freed spirit burst its prison-bars, and soared away to the elysian fields of eternal joy and rest." pp. 303, 304.

We have briefly reviewed the leading facts in this memoir, leaving to its gifted and affectionate author to delineate its subject, as she best knew him. We take leave of it now, resting assured, that with those who read it, there will remain a warm appreciation of the filial and sisterly love that impelled her to send it forth, to bear testimony to the worth of one so beloved and departed, and also to aid, with its pecuniary avails, the education of the beloved still under her care, and she will have their best wishes that its hallowed object will be accom ished.