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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 a 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.

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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.'

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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 open the door, he said to the woman, Here, wife, this is our 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

There are letters and poems interspersed in the memoir, and a few extracts from sermons. These literary remains, as the writer justly observes, can hardly be supposed to give a fair exposition of the talents of Mr. Woolley, yet they add much to the interest of the volume.

It is a subject of congratulation to the philanthropist, that literature is assuming a healthier tone, even in works of fiction, and fancy. The reading public demands something more than to be amused. It demands instruction, mental and moral. It demands something that shall lighten toil, throw beauty around the daily duties of life, lift the spirit from the sensualism of its mortal tenement, lessening, every way, the burdens of humanity, and that dread of the approaching grave, that day by day, draws near and more near to the sons and daughters of man. Works of biography are multiplying everywhere. There is a constantly increasing desire to know the circumstances that surrounded those who have left their mark upon society-the private hours-the daily thoughts and acts that helped to form their public lives. And that desire is being fulfilled. From the pious and lowly occupants of humble pulpits and humbler homes, to the lauded statesman and revered sage, memorials are springing up in our way. The earth is tracked with the footprints of the glorious dead. They who have meekly borne the cross of self-renunciation-they who have wrought their Master's work in patient suffering-they who have ascended from the battle fields of freedom, from prisons and scaffolds, made holy by their love of God and man-all these have left records that illuminate the world, and teach,

"How nobly Love can live, how grandly Faith can die!"

L. J. B. C.


Head, Heart, Hand.

For the purpose of this article, Christianity may be said to be constituted of three elements, intellectual, emotional, and practical. Of course, therefore, it must have a threefold relation to man-to his mind or head, to his affections or heart, to his conduct or hand. And among the toughest problems which the Christian world has ever attempted to solve, are the comparative importance and the reciprocal relations of these elements, both in theory and in life. Ought the Christian teacher to endeavor primarily to enlighten the understanding, and give clear conceptions of the divine character and government, and of human duty and destiny? Or should he seek to touch the sensibilities, and fill the heart with gratitude and compassion? Or, finally, should he essay to quicken the conscience, and so to secure an external conformity with the requirements of virtue? If the first of these the inculcation of correct dogmas-be his object, he will set forth with what precision, and commend with what ability he can, the leading historic facts and the fundamental principles of the gospel, and endeavor to make men keen debaters, intense and comprehensive thinkers, and theologues. If the second of these ends-the awakening of the sympathies and the right direction of the feelings-be aimed at, he will meddle little with mere dogmas, but illustrate and enforce with all the skill he is able, the infinite grace of the Father, the wondrous sacrifice of the Son, and all the precious hopes, encouragements, and consolations of Christianity. If the last of these objects-the conformity of the conduct to the precepts of Christ-seem most desirable, his labors will naturally assume an altogether practical direction; will be devoted to the discussion of the nature and worth of specific acts, and to appeals to the fear of punishment and the hope of reward which do most readily, if not most permanently, affect one's volition and action. If, however, the intellectual, the affectional, and the practical elements of our religion have assumed their

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