Domestic Portraiture

by Legh Richmond, 1834

(With remarks by Edward Bickersteth)

The successful application of Christian principle in the education of a family, exemplified in the memoirs of three of the deceased children of the Legh Richmond.

Life and death of Wilberforce Richmond
 

Wilberforce (Willy) was the second son of the family, and was born in Turvey, August 20, 1807; and died of consumption at the age of nineteen.

Mr. Richmond intended to have added another tract to the annals of pious young people. He had prepared materials for this purpose, and had even chosen that title for his narrative, which I have adopted for the present tribute of affection to his memory. It is deeply to be regretted that he did not live to execute his design. His talent for religious biography was special, perhaps unequaled. He drew his sketches from real life, with a scrupulous attention to truth, and never failed to touch the heart. But such was the poignancy of his feelings in the recollection of past scenes, that he was often compelled to lay aside the attempt, and wait for a season of greater composure. Meanwhile his own increasing infirmities, and his final removal from earthly scenes and earthly sorrows, deprived the Christian world of a most instructive memoir, which, though complete in the outline, and comprising all he meant to say of his son, from the cradle to the grave, is so imperfect in its detail, that no further use can be made of his materials, than to guide me in my feeble delineation of the character of this interesting boy.

Soon after his birth, his father called him Wilberforce, connecting with that name the most important event in his own life, his conversion to God by the perusal of the 'Practical View of Christianity.'

While an infant he was taken by his parents on a visit to __. Certain associations impart an interest to circumstances apparently trivial, while they are fondly regarded as presages of future eminence, and often stimulate to the diligent employment of means for its attainment. Of this character is the following anecdote:

I cannot forget a circumstance which occurred in his infancy; his mother and myself were on a visit at a friend's house. A large family were assembled at morning prayers, and among them was our little boy in his nurse's arms. An aged and venerable minister was conducting the family-worship. In the midst of his prayer the child began to cry. The good man paused, and beckoned the servant to give him the infant. He took him in his arms, and held him for several minutes, during which he offered up most affecting petitions on his behalf, praying earnestly, and in a manner that touched all our hearts, that it might please God to bless him for time and eternity; that if his life were spared, he might be a blessing to his parents and the church of God, and finally have an inheritance with the saints in light. He then returned the child, now pacified, to the nurse's arms, and resumed the general subject of his prayer, which had been thus interrupted. There was an affecting singularity in the transaction, which much interested us at the time, and now that I am engaged in the retrospective view of what passed, from the cradle to the grave of my beloved son, it recurs to my recollection with peculiar emotions of heart. The venerable man of God is long since gone to his rest—but his prayer was recorded in heaven, and the Lord in mercy has given it a gracious answer.

When little more than two years old, he fell from a window onto the pavement; and, though he recovered from the accident, he was lame ever afterwards, and the natural delicacy of his constitution was probably increased by the injury he received at that time. This circumstance would scarcely have deserved a serious mention, if it did not seem to be a link in the chain of events which contributed towards the formation of his character, by rendering him unfit for boyish sports, and compelling him to seek amusements in higher occupations.

His resource was the Museum, and the experiments made by his father's scientific apparatus. In these he took a principal share, and resorted to them when his other studies did not require his attention. Electricity, pneumatics, mineralogy, chemistry, and music, in which he was proficient, occupied his leisure hours. He delighted in science of every kind—but especially in mathematics. The indubitable verity of a demonstration suited 'his turn of mind, and had God spared his life, he would probably have distinguished himself at the university. Such was the opinion of his tutor, who in a letter of condolence to his father after his death, speaks of him as a boy of no common intelligence and attainment.

I marked the superior endowments of his mind in the first hours of our fellowship, and was confirmed in my opinion by each succeeding year. He caught an idea quickly—seemed never to forget it; for his memory, was remarkably strong and retentive, and he made more rapid and solid attainments than any other boy placed under my care. At a very early period he read Euclid, and surprised me by his acute and sensible observations on the character of pure mathematics. He appeared delighted to master a difficult problem, and before he was twelve years of age, had exceeded the advance of many men of two years standing at the university.

I observed an equal neatness and success in his classical exercises and translations. But I was still more astonished at his discrimination and knowledge of character. This must have arisen from his seeking the conversation of his superiors. He had a thinking mind, and a habit of going to the bottom of a subject. He was not without his prejudices, and sometimes expressed a contempt for authority, and assumed an air of confidence in his own opinion, which needed checking; though I never found him obstinate, or averse to reconsider his decisions, and but seldom in any material error.

He had a playful temper, and with great good humor would join his brothers in a frolic; but when alone, he was more like a little man than a child—he was, in short, an amusing and rational companion.

The writer of the above extract left Turvey when his pupil was about twelve years of age. Wilberforce expressed great regret at his removal, and addressed his tutor in a letter equally creditable to both parties. I lay it before the reader to show the affectionate and grateful temper of the one, and to bear an honorable testimony to the conscientious and valuable services of the other

My dear Sir,
I hope you will not suppose that I am insensible to the value of your kind and affectionate care of me.

I know that nothing wounds more deeply than neglect and ingratitude, and I hope I have never, amidst many other errors, fallen into this offence. If I have appeared ungrateful, I sincerely ask pardon. I fear I have often behaved disrespectfully, and "done many things which I ought not to have done." But I assure you, I never gave offence without pain to myself, and the reproof of my own conscience, and a resolution to amend. I am certain all these things will be forgotten—but I thought I might not have a better opportunity of telling you how deeply I regret them. I shall ever entertain the liveliest emotions of gratitude for the care and pains you have taken in superintending and directing my studies; and though distance may separate us, I trust love will unite us. I am persuaded you will never forget me, and I beg you will receive this book as a tribute of affection, and a memorial of lasting friendship. My obligations to you are many, and I wish you to possess something as a token of my sense of them. Perhaps, when you take up the volume, you will recur to former scenes and associations, and think of Turvey. I hope my letter will not displease you—if I have not "the pen of a ready writer," I can safely say, I am sincere in all I have said. Be assured of this, that however far distant you may be, or whatever climate you may dwell in—long indeed must the time be before I can forget so good a master as you have been to me. I cannot bid you farewell, until I have wished you health and happiness wherever you may be. I shall highly value and prize your correspondence.
Ever yours, gratefully and affectionately
Wilberforce
 

I perceive by Mr. Richmond's memoranda, that he took his little boy on a visit to London, with a view to amuse and instruct him by the curiosities of that magnificent metropolis.

I have no doubt the conversation with his child on this occasion was intended for insertion, and would probably have afforded an illustration of his own constant aim at improvement, no less than of the character and progress of his companion.

Mr. Richmond seldom wrote on any occasion, to his children, without reminding them of some pious truth, or connecting whatever was curious in art, or beautiful and grand in nature, with some remark calculated to inspire in their minds sentiments of solid and scriptural piety. The following letters to Wilberforce are fair specimens of his usual manner. The first of these was written when he was yet a little boy.

"Dearest little boy,
As I was journeying near York last Saturday—where should I suddenly find myself but in a little village called Wilberforce, as my driver, and the signpost informed me. 'Dear me,' said I to my fellow traveler, 'how a certain little lad of my acquaintance would be surprised and pleased, had he been in the chaise this moment.' So I got out and walked up and down in Wilberforce, thinking and talking about that said little lad. It is a pretty little place.

"On last Thursday I saw a gentleman and a lady mount up in a balloon, a mile high into the air, and after sailing there near an hour, they came down again quite safe. On Saturday I went to see the finest church in all England. It is more beautiful than all the churches I ever saw put together. Today I have visited the wonderful dropping-well of Knaresborough, which petrifies, after a time, whatever it touches. Tomorrow I am going to see one of the finest ruins in the kingdom, Fountains Abbey. Look at your map, it is near Ripon in Yorkshire. This day I received a most beautiful letter from the Russian Princess, Sophia Metcshersky, of St. Petersburgh. I think I never had so pretty a letter. What makes it so pretty? It is because it is about Jesus Christ. Nothing is good, or right, or pretty without him. He alone, is altogether lovely.

"Last night, at ten o'clock, I saw the Aurora Borealis, like a white rainbow stretching all over the sky. On Monday I went to see the iron-founders make a cannon. They melted the iron in a huge hot furnace; it ran out along the ground like a little river of liquid fire—very terrific!

"I have picked up many curious stones for the museum. God bless you, my little boy, and God bless Henry. Tell him I love him, and I hope he loves me. Kiss all your brothers and sisters for me, and tell them all to be very good. Behave well to dear mamma and Mr. G, and so good bye,
From your loving papa,

The following letter is of later date—

London.
"Your dear mamma has evidently improved in health by her visit to town, which I therefore feel it right to lengthen, that by freedom for a time from domestic labors and hourly anxieties, she may, if God pleases, be the better enabled to continue her numerous attentions to you and her other children at home. You know her great value to us all, and the day to which you allude will stand as a lasting memorial to us of the loving-kindness of God.

"On last Tuesday I went to Carlton Palace, with four hundred graduates of the University of Cambridge, to present an address of congratulation to the Prince Begent on the marriage of his daughter. It was a fine sight; and the splendor of the rooms surprised me. We walked through St. James's street and Pall Mall, two by two, in very long procession, all dressed in the various university robes. The Duke of Gloucester, one archbishop, and nine bishops, went first, all the rest in scarlet, blue and gold, blue and silver, black and gold, black gowns. An immense collection of carriages, and people on foot, filled the streets to see the procession, which occupied three quarters of the length of Pall Mall.

"We passed through seven grand and princely chambers, until at length we reached the last, in which the Regent, seated on his throne, received us. The Duke of Gloucester delivered the address, to which the Prince made a handsome reply. We all successively made our obeisances, and after remaining a short time to inspect the beauty and grandeur of the different state apartments, we returned. The Prince was surrounded by all the great officers of state, and the whole effect was imposing and superb. But as fine and entertaining as was this scene of earthly grandeur, what is a palace compared to a cottage, if the grace of God is in one—and not in the other? Earthly greatness is but dust, and will return to dust. Grace alone will outlive it; and then what a place will heaven be to those who are made kings and priests forever.

"I have been to see the great panorama of Waterloo. It is finely painted—but a very dreadful exhibition. I think nothing on earth so dreadful as the murder, fury, confusion, pain, and suffering of a battle! Even the picture fills me with sadness and horror.

"I have also seen a panorama of Jerusalem, very inferior as a painting—but very interesting to my mind, as portraying the place where Jesus Christ taught and sometimes lived in the days of his flesh. I stood upon the mount of Olives, and looked around me on Mount Zion, Gethsemane, Calvary, Bethany, the valley of Jehoshaphat, the brook Kedron, the pool of Bethesda, the wilderness, etc. The ideas which arose in my mind affected me deeply. I was moved to tenderness and tears, as I looked back in thought upon years that are past, and events with which is associated all that is most dear to the Christian. And would they not, my dear boy, have touched your heart?

"I am requested to preach an electrical sermon—that is, a sermon in behalf of a charitable institution, called the Electrical Dispensary, for administering medical electricity to the poor. Some of the patients appear to be in a very wretched condition. Out of 7800 people, 3000 have been cured, 4000 greatly benefited, and 800 discharged without receiving any advantage from this kind of treatment. I have been thinking that this will be a very suitable text, "GOD is light." Our greatest gratification has been derived from attending the public meetings of the religious and benevolent institutions. One, and sometimes two, are held in a day. It is an unspeakable delight to see with our eyes, and hear with our ears, what God is so manifestly and so mercifully bringing to pass, by the exertions of so many valuable societies.

"Tell G to take care that all the usual and necessary preparations be made for the club anniversary on Whit-Friday. We hope to be in our places that day.
Your affectionate father,

Wilberforce inherited his father's taste for the beauties of nature. In Mr. Richmond's memoranda, I find a list of more than thirty places of natural magnificence, which he visited with his son, and reference made to conversations and mutual delight, in a survey of the works of God.

The following letter to a companion is the only one of this character I shall offer the reader, It will appear how completely Mr. Richmond's had succeeded in transfusing his own spirit and principle into the mind of his beloved Wilberforce.

"Dear Wilberforce,
"I know nothing which I remember with more pleasure than the hours we have spent together in domestic music. I shall never regret the time I have given to music, when I consider its tendency to attach us to our delightful home.

"We have indeed passed many happy hours together, none happier than those under your own roof. I have been delighted with the scenery of Scotland. I have never seen anything which has given me such an idea of the wisdom and power of the Creator. I do indeed admire the rugged grandeur of the mountains, and the wild beauty of the heath—but I still admire our own fertile plains. After all, no country can be so pleasant to us as that to which we have been endeared from our earliest infancy. Most anxiously, then, do I wish once more to enjoy with you the sight of our native village, with the river wandering peacefully through the green meadows, and to revisit the scenes of our boyish recollections.

"I was greatly pleased with my visit to London. The greatest treat was the British Museum. The minerals are so exquisite, so beyond conception beautiful and interesting. There is a very fine Museum in Glasgow, and some beautiful specimens of minerals in it. It has just received the addition of a live rattle-snake, which uses its tail in tremendous style, and when disturbed is ready to revenge an affront."

I would not weary my readers by dwelling on the early character of Wilberforce, or detain him from details of higher interest—the particulars I have mentioned serve to show, that true piety is perfectly compatible with all that is innocent and rational, in our pursuits and recreations—that it cannot fairly be ascribed to mere dullness or morbid sensibility, and that it is not necessary to denounce a devout and heavenly spirit, in order to establish a claim to a superiority of sense or refinement.

I will now pursue the memoir into narrations more immediately connected with my purpose; the illustration of Mr. Richmond's peculiar method in the religious education of his children, and the success which attended his unremitted and conscientious discharge of the duties of a Christian parent.

When Wilberforce was a little child, his father, aware of the vast importance of early associations, accustomed him to habits of piety, even before he had a capacity to understand or value them. He consecrated to God his whole family in daily prayers—the infant in arms was present as a worshiper—it might at first disturb the order of the family devotion—but it soon learned silence, and seemed pleased with the group before it. So long as it could not speak, he spoke for it; he would hold it in his arms, saying, "God be gracious to you, my son."

The incidents of childhood are seldom interesting beyond the family circle, neither can much reliance be placed on early appearances of piety, untried by temptation. It may be well to nourish every holy emotion in our children; to water and cultivate the tender plant committed to our care; but until influence and impression is succeeded by principle and the choice of the mind, we may rejoice in the buddings of divine life—but we must not indulge in too hopeful expectations. The skeptical tendencies of Wilberforce's mind in childhood, are by no means of rare occurrence at that age; for infidelity, notwithstanding its arrogant pretensions to superiority, is the vulgar weed that grows in every soil, and withers before the sunshine of divine teaching; a little knowledge may help to an objection, when diligent and serious inquiry will reveal its futility.

There is one note in Mr. Richmond's papers, which refers to Wilberforce's conduct and feelings on receiving the report of his brother's death. It is probable that he shared his father's anguish in that mournful event—uncertain as they both were of Nugent's spiritual welfare, and fearing the worst from all that was then known of his past conduct. They had heard nothing of those satisfactory testimonies to his conversion, which afterwards cheered and relieved their minds. A concern for the everlasting welfare of another, is no small evidence of our own sincerity in the pursuit of eternal life; and I have no doubt that Wilberforce had, at that time, made a progress in true religion, greater than his extreme reserve warranted his friends to conclude. His respect for piety, the deep attention with which he listened to instruction, the satisfaction which he displayed in communicating to others what he seemed to understand himself, and his uniform good conduct and general conformity to the habits of a pious family, induced his father to hope "all was well with him;" though he was too deeply impressed with the infinite value and necessity of a deep and real conversion to God, to rest satisfied with anything short of a full and explicit declaration on the part of his child.

Wilberforce had always expressed a decided preference for the ministry, which rendered it, in Mr. Richmond's judgment, the more necessary that he should possess a piety the most decided and unequivocal. To become by profession an ambassador for God to a guilty world, without credentials, was justly regarded by him as a profane intrusion into an office of immense responsibility; and he has been heard to say, that 'he would rather follow his son to the grave, than see him in the church without being fitted for such a sacred office.'

The sentiments of both will be best expressed in the following correspondence. The first letter was written from Stockport, in Lancashire, when Wilberforce was eleven years old.

"Dear Willy,
Are you indeed a good boy during my absence? Shall I have no cause for heart-ache on my return, when I ask how my child has behaved? How he has obeyed his mamma? How he has attended to his lessons? How he has submitted to his sister's instructions? How he has conducted himself towards Mr. __? How he has adhered to truth in his Words? How he has set H__ a good example? Shall I be comforted with the glad tidings, that your heart, and your conscience, and your ways, all seem to partake of a holy influence? that you throw away all indolence of mind or body? that you actively pursue learning—and gain it? that your brother improves every day through the effect of your good behavior? that you seldom or ever quarrel, snap, or snarl at him? that you pray to God to forgive your sins and hourly offences? Shall I be told that you have prepared a happy return home for papa, by his hearing all this good of you, when he comes back? Do the four walls of your little chamber bear witness to your prayers and supplications for yourself and me? Do the sun's rays, as they early penetrate your window in the morning, find you active to rise, to read, to labor, and to grow in grace?

"I have seen some beautiful counties since I left you. Staffordshire is full of beauty. Lichfield cathedral too, which, though much smaller than York Minster, is a very fine building; I attended divine service there, the organ notes rolled sublimely along the vaulted arches, pillars, and roof. The exquisitely-painted windows assimilated to the sounds, and rendered the effect most enchanting. The spires are beautiful, and large sums have been laid out in repairing and restoring them.

"One evening I traveled with a friend in a gig for three hours, amidst the never-ceasing distant lightning. The whole western hemisphere was in a constant blaze. The flashes alternated from one point of the horizon to another, distant about forty-five degrees from each other; sometimes the flashes were silvery, sometimes yellow, then orange color; one while sheet-like, and again so vivid, that we seemed to have a peep into more distant regions of space—then more faint; now and then we heard slight rumblings; then all was silent again. At one point, the flashes gleamed on the ruins of a distant castle, which appeared all on fire; a dark forest lay behind, and it formed a fine contrast. Sometimes the forked flashes pursued one another in a kind of playful progress; at others they dashed at each other as if in terrible combat.

"But what are these lightnings, compared with those which made Moses quake and tremble on Mount Sinai; or what were even these, contrasted with the lightnings of God's wrath against sinners? These appearances of nature are striking emblems of divine justice. You have need to flee from the wrath to come. Repent! for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. The wicked and all the people that forget God, shall be turned into hell.

"Dear Willy, if you forget him, what will be your portion? If you say that you do not forget him—how do you prove it? Not with an enlightened unconverted mind; with eyes and tongue to approve what is right—but the feet walking in the paths of evil. A converted heart will alone enable you to follow his steps, who is, 'the way, the truth, and the life.'

"I sincerely hope that you are beginning to be truly sensible of the evil and danger of sin, and the necessity of seeking God early. Occasional sicknesses should remind you, that you may never arrive at man's estate. If you are to die a boy, you must look for a boy's religion, a boy's knowledge, a boy's faith, a boy's Savior, a boy's salvation; or else a boy's ignorance, a boy's obstinacy, a boy's unbelief, a boy's idolatry, a boy's destruction. Remember all this, and beware of sin; above all, dread the sinfulness of an estranged heart. Pray for a new one; pray for grace and pardon, and a soul conformed to the image of Christ; pray for wisdom, for the destruction of pride, vain conceit, and self-sufficiency. Be not slothful in business—but fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. Friends here inquire after you, in the full hope that you are going on well, creditably, obediently, industriously, humbly and Christianly. Love to all, from
Your affectionate father,

What reply was made by Wilberforce to this letter does not appear—his repugnance to a free and unreserved communication on the subject of personal religion seems not to have been overcome until nearly four years after, though his anxious father longed to elicit something on this point more satisfactory than could be collected from a general acquiescence in the opinions and habits of the family. A letter written by Wilberforce to his father in 1821, discloses a mind under the influence of more distinct views, and stronger feelings, breaking through the fetters of natural reserve.

"My dear Father,
You will believe me, when I say, that I entirely and most thoroughly agree with you, 'that it is time we should communicate frequently, intimately, and confidentially.' I feel very thankful that you have so plainly declared your thoughts and determinations concerning me; I know my inability to answer you in the way you wish—but I rejoice in an opportunity of telling you what my thoughts have been and still are, in respect of the most important subject of your inquiry. I deeply regret that a false shame has hitherto deterred me from an open avowal of my sentiments and feelings. I will honestly confess to you, that I have never seriously considered the subject of the ministry until within the last few months. Brought up from my infancy, with the expectation of becoming a clergyman, and accustomed as I have been to think and speak of it as my future profession, I have been little aware of the difficulty, and have not sufficiently considered the responsibility of the office, which I hoped would one day be mine. You know how much this prospect has pleased me all through my childhood. I have had many fears and alarms about my sinful state—but they soon faded away. The impression has never been permanent until dear little Atherton died. At that time it pleased God to awaken in me a deeper sense of my dangerous condition, and I prayed very earnestly that God would pardon my sins for Christ Jesus' sake, and that the Holy Spirit would renew my heart.

Then I fell into another error; for I began to trust myself instead of the Savior. I thought I was now armored against temptation, and had the presumption to suppose myself fit for the ministry. But I was awfully deceived. There arose soon after in my mind many doubts of the authenticity of the Scriptures. Wherever I went, or whatever I was doing, these doubts haunted me. I found that I could not, I dared not pray. At first I repulsed these suggestions with horror—but they gradually laid so fast hold of me, that they destroyed all my peace. When engaged in my studies, that which was often ascribed to idleness, was really occasioned by the state of my mind, which was so perplexed that I could not attend to other things; even my pleasures were damped by uneasiness. I have no doubt that if I had been in some situations, I would have become a determined infidel. I tremble, dear papa, while I write thus; and when I look back and think of my situation at that time, I cannot feel sufficiently thankful that my life was spared, and that I was not cut off from God forever. I found that I had trusted in my own strength, that I had neglected prayer, and while I continued in that neglect, I could not reasonably expect the removal of these distressing searchings of heart. It was with some difficulty I could bring myself on my knees again. I was fearful that God would not hear me. But I read the Bible for encouragement, and I found it there. By continual prayer I was directed to the means of relief, and I have not been troubled with one more doubt since that time. Indeed, I cannot but believe that the death of our poor little Atherton was blessed to me. It affected me more than any conversation or other event, and more than anyone knew; I have never lost the impression.

"Yet I cannot feel comfortable in becoming a minister of Christ in my present state of mind. My conscience would be uneasy, if I presumed to fill an office, whose functions are so far above my ability or piety; but I earnestly pray that God may give me such a measure of his grace, as may in some degree fit me to become an unworthy—but true servant of the Lord Jesus Christ.

"Having now freely and confidentially told you what has been passing in my mind, I lie in your hands, and trust you will pardon any error of expression or sentiment which may appear in my letter, and that you will correct whatever you see wrong in me. Receive, my dear papa, my confidence, as the strongest mark of affection and gratitude which can be given by your affectionate—but unworthy son,
Wilberforce

I have no documents by which to trace the progress of this interesting boy during an interval of nearly two years. Able and pious tutors attended to his improvement in literature, and by their walk and example, aided his progress in religion; which, though still of a reserved character, was doubtless sincere and increasing.

In 1823, Mr. Richmond was in Glasgow, from whence he wrote to his son as follows—

"My very dear Wilberforce,
I am very glad that Hartwell Home proves so acceptable to you. I cannot express my concerns on your account, both as they respect your Christian principles, and your future prospects as connected with the ministry. We must indeed become still more communicative and confidential, or the burden of my heart will become heavier than I can bear. It has long been the first wish of my mind, that you should be a minister of the gospel; but only; and entirely, and unequivocally, without partiality and without hypocrisy—as your personal character, experience, and determination, might be formed on a serious, affectionate, conscientious, and prayerful foundation. I want to see my beloved boy first—a true Christian, and then—a true minister. Oh! may God hear my prayers on this subject. For this I cry day and night—and unworthy as I am of such a blessing—yet I will trust him for it, and I would wrestle like Jacob until I attain it. But you must wrestle too, yes, and with all your heart, all your mind, all your soul, and all your strength. You must study your own heart—you should not only study the Scriptures—but keep in reading some searching experimental book as a bosom companion. A love of such reading—proves a useful test of character. I am glad to hear that you give yourself more regularly and resolutely to study. I have often had fears of indolence and inactivity—those banes of all progress, proficiency, and hope. I shall indeed rejoice to find that the bonds are broken.

"Theology itself, important as are its themes, sinks into mere science of literary attainments, unless founded upon, and accompanied by a devotional and affectionate application of its principles to the soul.

"It is much easier to be a Bible scholar—than a sincere Christian. It is much easier to be a a theologian—than a true pastor. You may be little aware how much more truth and wisdom dwell in some cottages and hearts at Turvey, than in many a house, and in many a mind, in which superior advantages seem to prevail, and even where real religion is known and respected. I long for the day when you and I may not only comfortably and confidently converse on these subjects, on things which belong to our everlasting peace, our prospects in time and eternity; but when you may take such a share in my private pastoral fellowship with the parishioners, as may leave no doubt of your being one with us.

But then it must be previously manifest that you are consistent and in earnest, that you have not only put away childish follies and faults—but are living, and not ashamed to live, under the influence of higher principles. I want you to aid me effectually in the instruction of poor children, in visiting the sick, in conversing with the poor. If you are to be a minister, you should now commence your seven years apprenticeship to the holy office. But then, your conduct must be uniform, simple, consistent. The reproach of the cross must in some measure be encountered, and the love of Christ in the heart put to some satisfactory test. Think of these things, and write to me about them. Let me have the comfort of knowing more of your mind.

Our present interval of separation may be a time of much beneficial communication. I would say, in the language of Solomon, "My son, give me your heart;" but first give it to God. You have arrived at an age when many dangerous temptations will assail you, and you will be put to the proof—whether your heart is right with God; and if you are thrown upon the world and its seductions, more than, happily, has hitherto been needed or sought—you will find indeed that it lies in wickedness— multiplied, subtle, and appalling. May you, my dear son, be preserved in your youth, and when old, never wander from the way in which you have been trained!

"You must, in a very especial manner, consider the daily influence of your temper, conduct and conversation upon your brothers and sisters. An elder brother is usually the blessing or the curse of a household. You never knew, or will know, what I suffered on poor Nugent's account; but God has, I trust, in mercy over-ruled for eventual good—what seemed to threaten nothing but evil. May the course of your youth be very different, and may you contribute to heal the remains of former wounds inflicted on my parental feelings.

"Write soon; for letters are long in coming to me. Give a very affectionate message to my much-loved parishioners, and assure them how closely I bear them on my heart's remembrance. Love to all. God bless you, my dear children; yes, God bless you all! There is a certain store of love in this house, from which is drawn a respectable portion to be conveyed to Turvey. Take it, and use it well. Assemble the brotherhood and sisterhood, and kiss them in their succession, telling them it is a proxy from one who loves them well, and that one is their affectionate father,

The following extract, which connects this correspondence, was written by Wilberforce to his father in the same year, and during the same journey to Scotland.

"I have thought and considered a great deal on the contents of your last letter. I read it, I assure you, with many tears—but they were tears of love to you, and of sorrow that I fall so far short of your wishes and reasonable expectations. You say you wish me first to be a true Christian, and then a true minister; believe me, when I say, that though it is the first, the nearest, and the dearest wish of my heart, I would not have a desire, not the slightest desire, of entering the ministry in an unfit state of mind. I would rather engage in the lowest occupation of life—than be a disgrace to the religion of Christ, by entering into the holy profession, while I am unfit for it. When I look at the apostles of old, and mark how full they were of love to Christ and their fellow-creatures; or when I look to godly men of our own day, who tread in their steps—I shrink from assuming a profession for which I cannot but know myself most unworthy. I am conscious of being a great sinner, and I seem to myself utterly incompetent to be more than a humble disciple in the church of God. But I know that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin, and that his Spirit can enable me, sinful as I am, to love and serve him. I have much to be thankful for. I ought to be thankful that I am permitted to think about these things. At times I have felt very happy in prayer and reading the Scriptures. My joy has been such, that I seemed ready not only to love God—but even to give up all the world for his sake; then again the cares and pleasures of life have laid hold of me, and sunk me into sorrow.

"Pray for me, my dear father, that my wavering mind may be fixed in the paths of truth, and may choose that better part, which, when once obtained, shall never be taken away from me; and may God direct me to that profession of life, in which I may most promote his glory, and my own good, and that of my fellow-creatures."

The following year Wilberforce was attacked with a dangerous illness which terminated in his death.

Mr. Richmond did not, on this occasion, imitate the worldly prudence of some people who labor to conceal from the patient the danger of their state, and with a mistaken kindness prohibit the introduction of pious subjects, from fear of aggravating the disorder. With a heart alive to the eternal interests of his child, he addressed to him the following letters. May the perusal of them afford an instructive lesson to all who are placed under similar circumstances, and teach them

never to forget that "one thing is needful" for others, as well as for themselves; and that the wisdom which would endeavor to save the perishing body at the risk of the immortal soul; is an act of treachery the more criminal, in proportion as its consequences are irreparable and eternal!

"June 12th, 1824.
My dear son,
I have, as I mentioned to you the other day, for some time wished to press upon your attention the important subject of the Lord's Supper; and, as in the case of each of your sisters, I found that an epistolary correspondence afforded a liberty and facility of communication in the first instance. I trust you will not object to adopting a similar mode. A time of relaxation from your studies, and of indisposition, may afford you a good opportunity for such a purpose. It will be exceedingly gratifying to me to receive some simple, faithful account of your state of mind, views, feelings, and desires in connection with the privilege and duty of commemorating the dying love of Christ to sinners.

I wish to receive you at the table of our Lord, both as your affectionate father in the flesh, and your still happier father in the Spirit—with principles enlightened, and heart warmed with a Savior's mercies. Approach me thus, my beloved son, and write to me with a free, confidential heart. I feel the most lively interest in your spiritual welfare, far beyond what my ordinary manner may reveal. You are arrived at an age, when I wish you to become my bosom friend and companion in all things—but above all, in those things which belong to your everlasting peace. I have sometimes feared that other subjects have somewhat monopolized your thoughts; and yet I have the firmest hope that your mind is truly sensible of the value and importance of divine things. I trust you are constant in prayer, and that your affections are sincerely directed towards divine truth. I cannot express to you how much this belief comforts and strengthens my mind. It is allied to every feeling and wish which I have so long and so anxiously cherished, in regard to your future character as a minister of the gospel of Christ. None but God knows how intense my solicitude has been upon that point. It is high time that you should, by the open act of communion, devote yourself to the Redeemer's service, and look upon it as a pledge for your inward principles, and outward practice. You should attentively examine the sacramental service in the Liturgy, and always have a book of experimental and devotional character more or less in private reading. It must ever be kept in remembrance, that the mere literary and theoretical study of theology, however valuable and needful, is a distinct thing from the affectionate work of the heart, in the exercises of the conscience in the soul.

I am earnest that my dear child should enjoy all the privileges of the church of Christ, and adorn them. Search for the evidences of a renewed heart daily; come as a lost, undone sinner, and may you taste that the Lord is gracious. Beware of the world's temptations and levities. We should all feel that time is short, and eternity at hand, and be prepared accordingly. The regular partaking of the Lord's Supper, when rightly viewed, has a tendency to nourish the best affections of the soul, and to preserve both young and old from the dangerous delusions of the world, the flesh, and Satan. Let the communication of these thoughts excite you to self-examination, meditation and prayer.

My love and regard for you are great indeed; my own heart is enrapt up in the prosperity of yours. May all your studies be sanctified to the glory of God. May you now enjoy a portion of these pleasures, which are at God's right hand for evermore. 'The blood of Christ cleanses from all sin.' How delightful a thought for you and for
Your affectionate father,

"June 22nd, 1824.
My very dear son,
I present you with this book, for the express purpose of your keeping a journal and diary, not merely of passing events as they may occur—but of the thoughts of your heart upon divine things. I earnestly entreat you to do this—I recommend it from long experience as a most beneficial exercise. It is perfectly secret to yourself and God. No one can ever see it without your own knowledge and consent. But such records have been so useful, so consolatory, and so improving—that I may make it my paternal entreaty, that you will comply with this request.

Suspended in uncertainty with regard to your health and strength, my soul is most anxious for your spiritual good. Trifle not, delay not in this matter. Press forward to the mark and prize of your high calling. Review the past thoughts of your heart—examine the present—anticipate the future. You are in God's hands. I trust the everlasting arms are underneath you. Let me entreat you to open your mind also to me, in frequent correspondence. I cannot express my solicitude for your spiritual welfare. You know all the principles by which a sinner may be saved; you have known them from your infancy; may they be the ornament of your youth! May you rest short of nothing but a well-grounded conviction of your personal interest in Christ! There is a rich provision in him for every possible difficulty and deficiency which can present itself to your thoughts. Oh, how does my heart burn to see you, in every sense of the word, a true Christian. In a former note I invited you to the Lord's table. Happy, thrice happy shall I be to see you there, added to the number of the Lord's flock.

"Since writing the above, I have received your letter. I thank you from my heart. Go on, as your strength and opportunities will allow, by a little at a time; but give me as much of your thoughts and feelings as you can. Tell me of your past years, and early leadings and convictions; tell me more of those things which you have named in former letters. You cannot oblige me more than by giving me the history of your heart at various periods.

I have known too little of you, my dear child. Let that ignorance on my part cease. I have loved you from your birth, and watched over you until now, with the tenderest affection—but I feel my own deficiency in not communing more with you on the state of your mind in the sight of God. Comfort me now by frequent fellowship on these matters. It is the very return of all others which I desire, for all the past anxieties of a father and a minister. May this journey be blessed to you both in soul and body. I trust soon, with God's blessing, to see you again. In the meantime, I commend you to Him, who has all events in his hands, whose consolations are neither few nor small, who gave his Son to die for your sins, and whose compassions fail not. Be much in prayer and self-examination. The God of the waves shall protect and guard you—the God of the land shall comfort you. But seek him aright—trifle not with the great concern. How joyfully shall I welcome you at the Lord's table, if God so will. Adieu for the present, my child, my friend, and, in Christ, my brother.
 

The journey to Scotland, above alluded to, was recommended with a view of consulting Dr. Stewart, whose method of treating pulmonary diseases was supposed to have succeeded in many "instances.

The following letter was written immediately after Wilberforce's arrival in Scotland—

"June 30, 1824.
My ever dear son,
I thank you for your letter, and am glad to hear again from Mr. Marshall that you have borne your travels so far well. You are never out of my thoughts, and I follow you in imagination through every scene of your occupation. But there is an eye that beholds and watches over you, in a way that I cannot do. To him I confide and commend you, for sickness and health, for time and eternity. What a word, what a thought, is eternity! What prospects does it set before us! What inconceivable mysteries are involved in it! How does it make the things of time dwindle into insignificance! But what questions of unspeakable import are involved in it! Sin, a corrupt nature, a broken law, an offended God, eternal punishment; conscience, guilt, regeneration, salvation by Christ, faith, hope, love, free grace, undeserved mercy, justification, effectual calling, adoption into God's family, pardon of sin, consolation in Christ, heaven and glory. These, and a thousand accompaniments, are all connected with the idea and the reality of eternity. What a sad proof of the depravity of our heart is our indifference towards thinking, and our backwardness towards speaking upon things which belong to our everlasting peace; and which, nevertheless, if neglected, involve our eternal ruin. We need warnings, and the Lord sends them in many ways. Sickness, pain, bereavements, losses, disappointments, all bring their message with them. The great question between our souls and God is not whether we admit the truths of the Scripture into our understandings—but whether they are so applied to our hearts as to have wrought a change, and become vital principles of faith and practice. Nothing short of this can afford evidence of a saved and safe condition.

There is an action of the soul by which it rests upon Christ, and all that he has done, with full confidence; and this produces peace in the conscience. The more we see of ourselves—the more we see our sin; and the more we see our sin—the more we fly to the death and righteousness of Christ, for pardon, deliverance, and hope! We behold not only his sufficiency—but his willingness to save the chief of sinners. For this we love him; and if we love him, we desire and endeavor to keep his commandments; and this is the way of salvation.

"Now, does my dear boy view this in all its integrity? Do the experiences of the past, strengthened by all the variety and succession of instruction which you have from your infancy received, work together to this great end? Can you be satisfied with anything short of this? God forbid! Let nothing interrupt you in this continual work of self-examination; and let self-examination lead you to earnest and ardent prayer. Let no pursuits of literature, no delights of sense, no passing occurrences, no debility of body, no inferior subjects of recreation, prevent you from keeping your thoughts close to God and to eternity. Great have been your mercies.—may your gratitude be great likewise!

"Accustomed as I am to close and faithful dealings with my Christian friends and flock, it would ill-become me to be silent or indifferent where my dearly-beloved child is concerned. Sickness gives both you and I a wholesome admonition. I pray God, from the depths of my heart, that we may each of us improve it to our spiritual welfare. God may have great things to accomplish hereby; let us believe and hope so.

"I had much pleasure in showing you London—and, if Providence permits, may yet have more, in viewing the fine scenery in your present vicinity along with you—but whether among the beauties of art or nature, never, never cease to look for and contemplate the God both of creation or redemption, in the midst of all. Keep a continual watch over your disposition, temper, and thoughts. There are not only sins of the temper—but of the understanding also; and pride in every form, intellectual as well as sensual, must be brought low. 'Learn of me,' said the Savior, 'for I am meek and humble of heart.'

I write, as I would talk with and pray for you. May this dispensation of the Almighty, which has for the present separated us, and given us cause for much concern on your account, be a season of much profit to us all! Lay these things to heart; make them the subject of unceasing petition at that throne whence no believing supplicants are ever sent empty away.

"Do not wonder, that I cannot rest contented with superficial religion—but that I look for a deeply experimental life of God in your soul. I place time and eternity before me in holy imagination. I strive, as it were, to penetrate the veil which separates them, and to look earnestly at those things which belong to your and my everlasting peace. Forgive me, my dear child, and may God forgive me, if I have not always and equally pressed these subjects upon your personal attention. They have ever lain near to my heart, and you have had multiplied opportunities of meditating upon them. I trust you have done so. But let me know more and more of your thoughts—past and present. My Christian and parental peace is dependent greatly upon it. I am glad that our friend Dr. Stewart has had so good an opportunity of studying your case. But you are in the Lord's hands. May he overrule everything for your good. May your confidence be placed only where it is due; and pray for your father, and your father shall pray for you.

Among the books in your traveling library, are many most valuable authors. Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest what they say, so far as you find time and strength to peruse them. Above all, search the Scriptures, for in them you have eternal life. Your mother sends her entire and most affectionate love to you—your sisters and brothers the same. And what shall I add for myself? All that is tender, affectionate, parental and Christian.
From your father,

In the month of July, Mr. Richmond joined his son in Scotland, using every means for the restoration of his health. During a short interval of separation, he addressed to him another letter, expressive of the same ardent desire for his spiritual welfare, and written in the same delightful strain of warm and affectionate feeling.

"August 5, 1824.
My dear Wilberforce,

We have so long been fellow-travelers and pilgrims together, and my eye and my heart have been so long accustomed to watch over you, that I cannot help wishing to indulge my affectionate feelings by giving a few lines during this short separation; which, short as it has been, never ceases to present my dear boy to imagination and recollection. I have reason to think, and perhaps the fault is my own, that you are but imperfectly aware of my strong and anxious feelings towards you, with respect both to your temporal and spiritual welfare. I sometimes fancy I see this in your manner, and it hurts me. I say little, or probably nothing; but my heart is alive to great sensibilities. Rest assured, my much-loved child, that at all past periods—but most especially since it has pleased God to put your health, and of course with it your life, to so marked a trial—that I have not ceased for a single hour (and I can hardly except the dreaming hours of the night,) to make your comfort and prosperity the subject of my prayers and solicitude. When you may least have expected it from my ordinary manner, even my silence has spoken to God in your behalf.

Many and deep have been my meditations, as we ascended the hills, and descended the vales of Scotland; or as we ploughed the waters with our rows and paddles. I have often experienced a kind of stupid impotency of utterance, when my heart has been animated and full. You likewise manifest a sort of reserve on the subject of personal religion, which checks and sometimes chills my rising inclination to more unreserved, free, congenial, and comforting conversation. I wish all this to vanish; and that whatever may be the will of God concerning you, the future days which his providence may permit us mutually to spend together, may be more distinctly marked by free and affectionate communications.

But far, far above all, it is my cherished and anxious hope, that you may evince an increasing love to spiritual things, to reading, conversing, and meditating upon the things which belong to your everlasting peace. You have had your warning as to the delicate and precarious tenure by which life, health, and youthful vigor are held. Every day and hour still reminds you of the uncertainty of all things future, so far as this world is concerned. And such warnings are unspeakable mercies, designed by God for the most wise and benevolent purposes.

"The seasons of amended health, and present suspension of painful and distressing symptoms, are precisely that in which your heart should exercise a peculiar jealousy over itself, lest the comparative trifles of this world, and the ensnaring affections of the flesh, should deaden your feelings about the grand questions as to your eternal destiny. Other studies than those which are directly pious, may doubtless have their due and subordinate place. Other books than the holy Scriptures, and their expositions, may also have their moderated share of our attention; but if any human study, or any human book, has more of our love and attention, than those which directly lead our hearts to God, something must be very wrong!

Idols force themselves upon us everywhere, and lawful things may become idols—by the abuse of them, and the allowing them to usurp the first place in the heart's affections. Never be contented with slight and general hopes of all being right within—but seek and strive after clear and particular evidences, that you 'know whom you have trusted,' for time and eternity. I earnestly entreat you to examine yourself daily on scriptural principles, that you may the more ardently throw yourself on the mercy of a covenant God, for the forgiveness of your sins, the renovation of your heart, and the guidance of your judgment. Never be satisfied with an avowedly imperfect Christianity. A half-Christian is no Christian, nor is he accepted of God. Christ is a whole, perfect, and finished Savior—and whoever is a partaker of Christ, is a partaker of all that he is, all that he has done, and all that he will do, for the complete salvation of all his chosen people. Decency, morality, formality, and cold ceremonial worship—are poor and inefficacious substitutes for heart-service, holy affections, trust in a Savior, and love to God.

Not infrequent are the times, and your dear mother often experiences them also, when the immensity of that question, 'Am I his—or am I not?' overwhelms me; and I would sink in despondency, if the free, undeserved, and inexpressible mercy of God, did not direct my soul to the Redeemer's blood, which, when believed in, and applied to the guilty and trembling conscience, cleanses from all sin; and opens the door to hope and consolation. May my beloved child flee to the same fountain with genuine humiliation, and find the like deliverance; and may his concerned parents be made so far partakers of his thoughts, as to feel strong in the Lord on this account.

My mind was much affected when I first received you at the table of the Lord, and my heart went out in lively prayer, that you might also be received by God—owned, honored, and accepted as a child of heaven. Live, speak, and act as a consistent communicant of the church; the vows of the Lord are upon you—but if all is right, you will find that his yoke is easy, and his burden light. I wish to look upon you not only as my child by nature—but as my spiritual child, and therefore, (without a paradox) my spiritual brother.

Sweet associations of relationship are formed in the family of God and the household of faith. Many tender and affectionate prayers have been daily offered up for you among the poor people of Turvey, as I have several testimonies to prove. We shall soon return to them again, God willing; and may those prayers, united to my own, be fully answered in the gracious state of your soul, as well as in the comfort of your bodily health! But we must, as to the latter, await the Lord's will. He does, and will do, all things well. Meditate on these things, and may you and I mutually reap the benefit of such exercises of your heart! As you read this letter, cherish a tender as well as a dutiful sentiment towards him who penned it, and accept it as one more token of that deep-seated love which I bear towards you, and which must increasingly subsist, while I remain a father, and you a son.

"I yesterday enjoyed the high mental luxury of walking in the broad aisle of York Minister, quite alone, during the morning-service. As often before, such sights and such sounds compelled me to weep—and as I was solitary, nothing interrupted the flow of my heart. I recollected being there once with you; and I have not forgotten how much, if I mistake not, your infant heart was also affected at that time. Whether we shall ever again meet together, in that magnificent and astonishing place, I know not; but, oh! may God grant that we finally meet in the "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

In the month of July, Mr. Richmond's engaged a small cottage at Rothsay, at a convenient distance near the physician's residence. From hence he made frequent excursions by sea and land, in the hope, by a change of scene and air, to check the progress of the disorder. It appears from the following letter to his curate, that he had not yet despaired of his son's recovery; but being at once the nurse, the father, and the spiritual guide of his dear boy, he was making every effort on his behalf, and diligently employing the means prescribed by the physician.

"My dear Friend and Brother,
If the date of this letter may seem to betoken inattention to my promise, or a wrong estimate of your valuable services during my absence from home, I rely on your friendship and candor to ascribe my silence to other causes. I have been almost daily, from morning to night, sailing about with my dear boy upon sea and river; and neither the motion of the steam-boats, nor the lassitude felt at night after such voyages, are favorable to epistolary duties. But I can truly say, that my heart's best prayers and recollections have been with you, and this poor scrawl is meant to tell you so. You well know, likewise, that anxiety within, added to external causes, will easily unhinge the energy of the mind, and produce a kind of constitutional incapacity and indisposition to duty itself.

But neither let my friend nor my flock for a moment conceive that they are forgotten. During many an hour, as I have been floating on the waves, pacing the mountains and glens, admiring the islands and the rocks, tracing the progress of sun or moon upon the ocean or landscape, and amidst all, fixing an anxious and affectionate look upon our dear invalid as he sat by my side; during many such an hour have I dwelt with solicitude and regard on the domestic and parochial scenery of Turvey—dear Turvey, where so many sweet pledges, both of natural and spiritual love, reside—where my poor boy was born and trained up, with brothers and sisters no less loved than himself. Our fellowship and conversations under existing circumstances, are deeply interesting to me. He is, upon the whole, in cheerful spirits, and the air of this delightful island particularly suits him. I am just returned from a hill-walk with him, of a mile and a half, and have been surprised at the degree of strength which he evinced. The general symptoms are just now, I think, more favorable. Still there are evident marks of deep-rooted disease, and I am often much perplexed by the fluctuations in his case. It is one in which I feel it wrong either to encourage over-optimistic expectations of permanent amendment, or to give way to any over-desponding sensations as to the result. Happily he is without pain, and in many respects he enjoys himself. He delights in the scenery around us, which is in the highest degree magnificent and beautiful. He enters with his accustomed taste into mineral and geological examinations, and wanders gently by the sea-side, hunting for pebbles, animals, shells, sea-weed, etc. and I wander with him. Sometimes a little exertion fatigues him, at other times he bears considerably more without complaining. He has been a thousand miles on the water since we left London, and sailing always agrees with him. I have every reason to be satisfied with the plan we are pursuing. It much contributes to his strength and comfort, and peace of mind; and, to say the least, has checked the weakening effects of the disorder, and mingled encouragement with apprehensions which might otherwise have gained daily ground. He is evidently thinking very seriously and rightly about his soul's state, and our Christian conversation forms no small part of my comfort, and I trust I may add, of his comfort also. Whatever may be God's will, I feel satisfied that the present dispensation is profitable to us both. May he confirm and increase our hope.

I am much gratified by the accounts which I receive of your very auspicious commencement of ministerial labors at Turvey, and beg you to feel assured of the value I put on them. Go on, my dear friend, in the strength of the Lord, and may you pursue the arduous career of holy exertion, in public and in private, to your own comfort, the glory of God, and the good of my dear flock. Make known how affectionately I feel towards them—how earnestly I desire their prayers, and how sincerely I remember them in mine. My not writing to them at an earlier period has arisen entirely from the constant occupation and concern which have monopolized my time and my feelings.

Wilberforce thanks you for your kind letter. I hope he will soon feel able to answer it. Dear boy!—he talks with hope of returning to Turvey with amended health, and telling you in person how much he enjoyed the scenery of the north. Pray for him, and me, that we may lay in our heavenly Father's bosom like children, and wait his pleasure like believers. You will not forget the other dear boys—they are in your hands for good, and may God bless you to them all. Give them my blessing, and lot them convey it to all at the Rectory.
Yours affectionately,
 

Much of what I should have detailed has been introduced into the Memoir of Mr. Richmond. Two only of Wilberforce's letters remain; the first of these was written to his brother H.

"My dear H,
I did not think when I parted from you, that I "should be as well as I am, for I feel very much better. Sickness and separation have attached me more to you, and to my home, and to all who are in it. Sickness, as is usual, has brought sorrow for its companion—but I trust I do not sorrow as one without hope. My illness has proved a warning to me, and it may also be a warning to you. You saw me brought down, in a very short time, from a state of health and strength—to one of weakness and debility; and all our bodies are alike, equally fragile, equally transient. Uncertain is every tie which binds us to life; and therefore it is my prayer, that you, no less than myself, may look forward to our latter end; and not neglect opportunities of attending more closely to the things which belong to our everlasting peace, and guarding against the increasing fascinations of a world that lies in wickedness."
 

The second letter was a reply to his father's instructions and preparations for the Lord's Supper.

"My dear Father,
I thank you for the kind letter you wrote to me on the subject of the Sacrament. I could not have received one which would have more truly convinced me of your affection and desire for my spiritual welfare. Oh! may God give an answer to your prayers and desires on my behalf, and may you see me walking humbly and sincerely in that narrow path which leads to life eternal. I have thought much on the contents of your letter, and have been deeply affected. At first I was discouraged by a sense of unworthiness, and shrunk from the thought of approaching the Lord's table. It then struck me, that even if I had not attained all I desired, I might still venture with a humble and prayerful spirit, and an entire dependence on Christ. I thought, also, that if I neglected attendance, I would be dishonoring the Savior by a refusal of an appointed means of grace; and I do hope, that by presenting myself to Christ in his own ordinance, I may be confirmed and strengthened in my faith, and helped on to fulfill the vows made at my baptism, and fight manfully under Christ's banner against the world, the flesh, and the devil. I would then, my dear father, put on the garb of humility, and go and kneel, as the very lowest of his disciples, at the foot of the cross of Jesus, and commemorate with gratitude his cross and passion, his glorious resurrection and ascension—on the merit of which alone are fixed all my hopes in this world and the next. How thankful do I feel that I may kneel at the foot of the cross. Oh! where besides could I wish to stretch out my aching limbs and die?

"I suppose my journey will make some delay in your intentions—but if I return with renewed health and strength, I would consider that in receiving the sacrament, I give a pledge to God and you, to devote myself soul and body, to the promotion of the divine glory. But if I should not return in health, and if it should seem fit to the Almighty to shorten my life—yet if he will renew my soul by his Holy Spirit, oh! how unspeakable a blessing to wing my flight from sin and sorrow!

"If I were certain of his favor, and my own change of heart, I would only wish to see my Savior face to face, and praise and love him forever. I have written hastily—but as long as I could without fatigue, a short but I assure you a sincere letter.
Your affectionate
Wilberforce."

The closing scene of Wilberforce will be detailed by one who loved him dearly, and was a witness of his latter moments. Mr. Richmond had desired his daughter to note down the events and conversations of the sick chamber, and he refers to them in the following letter:

"My dearly-loved F,
I have been very unwell with a swelled face, accompanied by high fever; and though better, am still an invalid; but this illness is sent for some good end to my soul. I desire to investigate that end in a right spirit. The fire at Turvey has done much harm, and is indeed a general calamity. I wish you to relieve the sufferers. You may distribute for me both money and clothing. I shall be able to decide better on my return, what sum to subscribe. May we know how to 'glorify God in the fires.'

"Poor __! although her evidences were faint, I thought them genuine. I have seen many such cases, and despair not. God often permits the signs of true faith to appear very feeble, when, nevertheless, the soul still cleaves to the Savior, in the midst of many causes of suspicion and perplexity. Some are saved, "yet so as by fire." Happy they who are saved at all.

"I hope you have a long manuscript of recollections concerning our beloved Wilberforce. I depend upon it. Employ speedily some hours in preparing for me all you know relative to that eventful period. I still shed many tears in the remembrance of that dearly-loved boy. I have feelings which never leave me for two hours together. They mingle with all my cheerful, and all my pensive moments. I have particular reasons for delaying to write the memoir—but fully intend to do it.

"I have been at Cambridge. The recognition of many old friends from all parts of England, has much interested me. Indeed, associations connected with former days, have quite overpowered me. The older I grow—the more acutely I feel everything.

"Take care of too frequent interaction with the world. I write with a heart full of love—but I must caution you. There is nothing more dangerous to young Christians, than indiscriminate interaction with the ungodly. It is far more likely that we would receive evil, than impart good, in such society. I have experienced this too much myself on many occasions, not to feel it keenly. Prudence and prayer are then especially needful; for we may more easily conform to the world, than bring the world to conform to us. Happy those who have the least to do with it, except in the way of absolute duty and necessity.

"I often reflect with gratitude, on the blessing which God has given to the retired habits and education of my two boys, W and H—one in heaven, and one still on earth. To their seclusion I ascribe their simplicity and happy ignorance of many worldly evils. Premature acquaintance with the wickedness of the world—(and there is no knowing the world without coming in contact with its wickedness)—has ruined thousands of hopeful young men, and has multiplied the miseries of the hopeless.

"I long for our early morning readings. Hebrew and Greek are a very small and inferior part of the Christian minister's learning. While heads are filling—hearts are withering! Give my affectionate love to dear __; next to my own boys, I do indeed love him. I long to see more of an unreserved and experimental communication between him and H. I have numberless feelings about their fellowship which I do not utter, and yet I know not why; but this I know, that I have you all in my heart—but that heart will soon turn to dust. There is a better heart in heaven. I would have all my dear children enclosed in it.

"Give the children of the Sunday-school a new subject, that they may search for texts to prove it.

"Farewell, dearest F. I lament many things—but most of all that I am not worthy to be called
Your affectionate father,

Mr. Richmond's heart was evidently ripening for heaven. The tenderness, the deep piety of his loving spirit, the weanedness of his heart from the world, and his earnest desire to transfuse his devout feelings into the minds of all who were connected with him, reveal an assimilation to a purer region, and might have prepared us to expect that his departure was not far distant. The documents to which he alludes, are contained in the following communication, which I commend to the serious and attentive perusal, both of young people and their parents.

"My very dear Mr. F,
In compliance with your request, I send you the chief incidents of our brother's closing scene; his conversations with my dear father, and other members of his family, and a few of the letters which were written during that mournful period. You may rely on the accuracy of the whole. My father had intended to have published a memoir of Wilberforce, and with that view, he desired me to make memoranda of what passed at the time. He told me more than once, that the blessing which seemed to attend the perusal of his little tracts, encouraged him to put on record the piety of his son; which he considered to be no less honorable to God, and consoling and strengthening to young Christians, than that of the Dairyman's Daughter, or the Young Cottager. He thought that Willy's training for eternity might be read with equal advantage and might assist both in imparting clear views of religion, and in relieving the mind from the fears and anxieties which often distress and harass young Christians in the prospect of death. 'To know that others have been perplexed with the same doubts, alarmed by the same fears, animated by the same hopes, comforted by the same promises, and directed by the same precepts,' he used to say, 'will demonstrate a holy identity in the influence of the gospel and the effects produced by it; and may comfort the trembling sinner, and confirm the most advanced believer.'

"There are a number of papers in my father's handwriting, relating to my brother's character and dying hours, which are indeed so unconnected and unfinished, that scarcely any use can now be made of them; but they show how interesting a detail the memoir would have been in his hands. He would sit for hours in his study, perusing and adding to these fragments; but the excess of feeling and mental agitation, which the contemplation and reminiscence of the past never failed to renew, greatly impaired his health, and forced him to lay aside his purpose.

"In one of the papers alluded to, we found the following remarks in his own hand. 'I have never given up the design of writing his memoir, and every day's meditation has prepared me for it. But whenever I begin—my spirits sink, my eyes are filled with tears, and I lay aside my papers to a more convenient season, when I may be able to write with more calmness. Alas! this is my weakness!'

"Wilberforce had always been my dear father's companion in his literary and scientific pursuits. From his childhood, his chief pleasures and recreations were in the study; and he used to retire to the museum to make experiments with the air-pump, or electrical machine, or to read some book of science, while the other boys were engaged in their sports. As he advanced in years, he employed his leisure hours more especially in the study of mineralogy and geology. This congeniality of mind and pursuit contributed to cement the strong attachment which existed between my father and Wilberforce, and indeed rendered the one almost an integral part of the other. My dear father had a peculiar talent for connecting science with religion and Wilberforce seemed more than his other children—to afford him materials for a successful cultivation.

"In my father's miscellaneous papers we find the following short notes, evidently written with reference to the projected memoir.

'Early intellectual conversation, great general reading, strong turn for reasoning and argument, deep and close investigation of philosophical questions, acquaintance with subjects of political economy, love of natural history, insects, mineralogy, geology, classics, mathematics. My wish and endeavor has been to cultivate intellectual pursuits, in connection with religion, with my children, as recreations, instead of allowing and encouraging the trifling and often corrupting amusements of the world. I have found my plan answer in his case.'

"Our dear father had succeeded in making his home dear to all his children. Home was never talked of without loving emotion by any of them. They left it with regret; they returned to it with the fondest affection, and connected with it every endearing association. No patriot Israelite ever sang of the place of his nativity with more enthusiasm, "Let my tongue cleave to the roof my mouth, if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy." Our beloved parent's integrity and uniform consistency engaged our esteem; and the multiplied resources of innocent gratification which surrounded us, won our regard.

"As Wilberforce grew up, he was considered by the whole family as the one marked out to fill his father's place in the church. He became an object of interest to all; and to none was he more endeared than to his loving parent, who clung to him with deeper affection each succeeding year.

"In the spring of 1824, when he had reached his seventeenth year, we were first alarmed for his health. He took cold from a wet ride, and a slight cough followed. One morning in the month of May, my father saw symptoms of his having ruptured a blood-vessel. His fears were greatly awakened, as appears from a note in his papers. 'As I looked on him that morning, I felt a shock which seemed to shatter me to the very soul, and I have never recovered it.' In a short time Wilberforce's appearance was considerably altered, and his spirits were depressed.

"When a journey to Scotland was proposed, my father was greatly agitated, the more so because it was impossible that at that time he should accompany him, and he dreaded even a short separation from his beloved child. His feelings will be best shown by the following letter to our mother.

"My ever dear love,
No one knows, or ever can know, the anxiety which I have felt on our dear child's account. Little as it may have been perceived, I have been inwardly agitated beyond expression, and this must apologize for any weakness or inconsistency of which I have been guilty. God only knows what I have suffered. I have been taken by surprise. The alarming symptoms in the disease of our beloved child, have awakened a thousand feelings and fears. I have reflected on his bodily state—but much more acutely on his spiritual state. I have been unwilling to separate from him under all the probable, or at least possible contingencies of the disorder. I have wept and trembled. I have mourned over my past deficiencies towards him. I have had my hopes, not being ignorant of the exercises of his mind for past years. Yet I have had my fears, lest he should have fallen from his first love, and lest his literary pursuits should have weaned his heart from God. For more than a year past, I have hourly meditated on the course of his education, and preparation for the sacred ministry. He has been the star of my hopes—and the source of my anxieties. I have anticipated with exquisite, though unuttered joy and hope, his entrance on the glorious work of preaching the unsearchable riches of Christ; and I have also been full of anxiety in a view of the falls and disappointments which yearly occur, amidst the contaminations and injurious companionship of a college career. Yet I have never ceased to hope that God will work with him and by him. My declining years have been cheered by associations connected with my interesting boy; but the Lord now sees good—and blessed be his name—to hang a dark curtain between me and all these thoughts and visions. Hence I am sometimes fearful, sad, and heavy.

"I see fully the necessity and the propriety of the proposed journey—but I doubt his strength and ability to encounter the fatigue and trial inseparable from it. Chiefly I dread being absent from him when heart and strength may fail, and I may only see him again when sinking into the grave, unaided, unstrengthened, unblessed by his affectionate father. Did I but know more of his mind, I might possibly be more at ease; but his reserve withholds from me this consolation. I have made a gentle, and I hope a considerate attempt, to draw him out by a little opening discussion on the sacrament. I start for Cambridge at half-past four tomorrow. The sight of that place will most acutely remind me of the past as it relates to myself, connected with the contingencies of the future as it may concern him. I have many fears, mingled with the hope of his recovery. I feel very anxious from day to day. May God overrule all these things for the good of each of us! Give my love to all, and an especial blessing to Willy.
Your affectionate husband,

"After it was decided that my brother should go to Scotland, we were advised to send him there by a sea voyage, in company with Mr __. His father was to follow him in a few days. He was much depressed at this time. It was his first separation from the paternal roof, and his mind became deeply affected when the parting hour arrived; and when he was to bid farewell to his beloved mother, to brothers and sisters, to domestics and neighbors, endeared to him by every sweet and tender tie of youthful affection—to the home of his infancy; to almost every person, place, and thing, with which he had been accustomed to associate happiness; the agitations of his feelings increased the weakness of his frame; the conflict of his mind was visible in his countenance, he looked pale and languid; a painful contrast to the usual smile which played on his countenance. On the morning of his departure he was very silent. He looked on us all as we stood around him, and with tears in his eyes he stepped into the carriage. During the interval of separation, my father corresponded with him, and was very earnest to draw from him a more unreserved communication, and to satisfy himself more thoroughly of the reality of Wilberforce's piety, of which he entertained some doubts, amidst many hopes—but my brother avoided the inquiries of his anxious and distressed parent. The voyage agreed well with him. In the course of a two weeks my father and I followed him into Scotland. Willy looked much better; his spirits were good, and the meeting between us inspired reciprocal feelings of hope and joy.

"For a while Willy's health seemed to be improved; but we soon discovered that there was no material amendment. For a few weeks he was buoyant in spirit, and apparently restored; then the hectic fever flushed his cheek, he grew weaker, and again sank into depression. Our dear parent, who at that time did not understand the hopeless nature of the illness, watched over his wasting child amidst intense anxieties, increased probably by the uncertainty of the outcome. It was not a temporary separation which alone affected him, though even this was a grief heavy to bear; but the least apprehension of losing forever one we love, fills the soul with the bitterest anguish. It is impossible to be sincere—yet calm, under such circumstances, while any hope remains, or any help can be administered. A holy violence of feeling and effort, best reveals the integrity of our principles.

There was much in Wilberforce to love and admire. His disposition was very amiable. The usual results of a pious education were visible in him; he showed every outward respect for religion; strictly observed its forms and duties, and admitted the theory of doctrinal truth; but this did not satisfy our dear father. He knew full well that it was very possible to do what was right in the sight of man, without a perfect heart—to cleanse the outside of the platter, or beautify the sepulcher, while all within might be impure; inasmuch as the speculative approval of truth—is distinct from its sanctifying influence.

Accustomed as our parent had been to contemplate the infinite worth of an immortal soul—a soul in this instance given to him by God to train for eternity—it was impossible that he should feel otherwise than intensely anxious while he entertained any doubt of its salvation. It was this uncertainty which so greatly disturbed his peace and injured his health. Wilberforce seemed shut up in impenetrable reserve; he shrank from personal conversation on religious subjects, though his thoughtful and often depressed countenance exhibited traces of inward conflict, and need of help and comfort. He afterwards deeply regretted his silence, and said, 'It was a device of Satan to retard my progress in vital experimental piety.'

Our dear parent carried this trouble to God, and 'rolled his sorrows on Him' who alone can help him. For many months, he was sorely tried on this point. But God, always faithful and true, heard and answered his prayers more abundantly than he could ask or think. A vehement suitor cannot but be heard of God, whatever he asks. If our prayers lack success—they lack heart; their blessing is according to their vigor.' The following letters were written to Mrs. Richmond about this period.

"My dear love,
Here we are in something like an earthly paradise, if beauty, sublimity, and diversity of scenery can constitute one. The air is most healthful, the rides delightful. I am glad to say the country agrees well with Wilberforce, who is stronger and in better spirits than I could have expected. He varies occasionally—but suffers little at any time. There is certainly an improvement. The northern experiment has so far answered, that it has cheered his spirits, and afforded him recreation and change of air. I have frequent hopes of his improvement.

We have therefore reason for gratitude, whatever may be the inscrutable designs of Providence. My mind reposes with thankfulness on the goodness of God, amidst a thousand anxieties respecting my dear boy. We are constant companions, and have much Christian fellowship together. Not only do prospects, scenery, geology, botany, ships, rocks, mountains, braes, and ordinary occurrences, engage our notice; I have much satisfaction in seeing how he enjoys these; but higher things are not forgotten. We pass daily the hour after breakfast in pious exercises. We are taking Mason's admirable Treatise on the Lord's Supper as a kind of text-book. It affords me an opportunity of saying what I wish to him, relative to his own personal interest in spiritual matters. I trust we are going on usefully and prosperously.

I think I am in my right place and employment—watching, instructing, nursing, and giving myself wholly to the comfort of my boy under his infirmities and vicissitudes. His cough is troublesome twice or thrice in the day. He pursues a bracing system and a generous diet. To what extent the disease may be preying on the vitals, I dare not conjecture. His present state and appearance are certainly satisfactory—but the illness is variable—and I must rejoice with trembling. Oh! for a quiet, reconciled, patient, waiting mind!

"Our present beautiful retreat is doing me good also, and I need it. My mind and nerves have suffered a severe shock. I am conscious of the benefit I derived. How long I may be permitted to enjoy it, God only knows. I would be thankful, and hope to receive grace and strength for the future.

"The weather has become very showery—but is pleasant at intervals. These are days which afford the finest mountain-effects, and in this part of the Western Highlands they are truly grand. We had a rolling tumbling voyage to Ardentenny. Dr. S __ seemed on the whole pleased with the appearance of his patient. Dear love to my children. Much love from all; from none more than your,
 

"My dear love,
For a few days after our arrival here, Willy was not so well. The last three days we spent much on the water, and he is stronger and better for it. Dr. S __ thinks it a case in which a vigorous pursuit of his bracing system may prove successful, though he speaks with caution. The worst symptoms are, the shortness of breath, and debility in ascending the stairs and short hills. But if the tone of the system can be raised, these symptoms will diminish. His spirits rise and fall as he feels better or worse. I asked Dr. S __ what proportion of cases had recovered under his treatment. He replied, 'Where it is regularly followed, half.' Willy rests much on the hope of cure, and generally replies to any inquiry after his health, 'I am better.' I never leave him from morning to night. Dr. S __ is about five hours sail from us. We spent a pleasant day last Thursday with.

"I am inwardly struggling and striving to be calm and reconciled to God's will. I am going through depths in the inward meditation of my soul. When you write to Wilberforce, keep in full view the uncertainty of human life, even without, much more with, the uncertainty of disease. Patients like dear Willy are full of stronger emotions, and disposed to deeper meditations, as disease threatens a nearer approach to eternity. General sentiments and feelings are more easily preserved than the special applications of them to a particular case. He is still very reserved to me—yet I perceive he reads, and I think meditates, on important subjects. I find it a delicate and a difficult matter to preserve the right balance between the state of his spirits, vacillating, rising and falling with the state of his disease—and a reasonable hope which is not influenced by an earthly association. Endeavor to draw out his sentiments and feelings, and desire him to keep a letter always on the stocks for you—to write a little day by day, until the sheet is full.

"So you saw Lord Byron's funeral pass through Bedford. I could wish for Christianity's sake, that its open and acknowledged adversary had remained in Greece. To this country his writings will be a lasting bane, and must continue to injure religion so long as infidelity, blasphemy, and vice, can obtain circulation and popularity, when clothed and armed with the splendor of great genius and talent. These constitute the real objects of worship with many who profess to be Christians. I entertain no doubt that the adoration of an intellectual and poetical idol may be as great a sin, as falling down to the golden image in the plains of Dura! Alas! we have seldom seen true piety and true poetry united; but genius and vice have been too often associated in the annals of mankind.

"We have need of due discrimination in our estimate of characters, to be aware of the dazzling influence of able corrupters and destroyers of virtue.

"You must only expect, in general, a few lines from me; but I hope enough to convince you how much I love and esteem you. Convey to the people an affectionate pastoral message. The same to Mr __; cheer and encourage him in my name. To my dear boys and girls give sweet messages of love—and for yourself accept a fragrant bouquet of pretty things from your own affectionate,

I do not think Willy was fully aware of his danger at this time, though from his reserve it was difficult to ascertain his opinion of himself; and his physician was afraid of discouraging him by a disclosure of his real situation, as he considered it of importance that he should expect recovery, and cultivate cheerfulness of temper.
 

Willy wrote a few letters during his residence at Rothsay, of which the following are specimens:

"Dear __,
I am not inattentive or indifferent to the kind solicitude you have expressed for me. I now experience what I have only heard before, that nothing is more consolatory in sickness than to be remembered by those we loved in health. I have been very unwell since I saw you, and I once thought I must have given up my former enjoyments, my future hopes and prospects, even the pleasure of seeing dear friends such as you, and all I held most dear, on earth. I shall never forget the pang which almost broke my heart on leaving home, when I saw the tops of the houses, and the church, and the fields, and the trees of my native village disappear from my sight. I thought, perhaps, I am looking for the last time on the scene of my earliest recollections—my fondest and dearest enjoyments; but it was a moment of weakness, and I fear it was mingled with a feeling of repining.

I had always been happy—too happy; my heart was satisfied with this world—but God was leading me by a path I knew not, in which I would find more certain and durable enjoyment. I needed something to convince me of the emptiness of the world, and to lead me to fix my affections higher.

I am now much better in health. I do not look like the same person, and I hope I am not presumptuous in anticipating another day with you. Perhaps you will think it a common-place remark, if I express a wish for your company at Rothsay. The situation is beautiful; but beautiful as is the sea stretched now before us, and the mountains and little romantic islands which surround us on all sides, need I say how much more I would enjoy their beauty, were you here to enjoy it with us? I am glad to have dear father with me. We share our joys together, and think so much alike about everything.

To have been translated so suddenly as I have been, from our flat country to this mountainous region, seems like being taken into fairy land. Neither description nor imagination can do justice to Scottish scenery; but do not suppose, that amidst all its charms I have forgotten England. Oh no! I more than ever love the little blue hills of my native country; the fertile plains, grassy meadows, waving valleys, and elegant rusticity of the cottages, in which we so much excel the hovels of Caledonia. We have here fine exhilarating air; but the nights are cold and bleak. I long to enjoy again an English summer evening—to recline, as I have often done, on a bank warmed by the setting sun, to feel the balmy breeze which wafts the fragrance of the flowers—to listen to the warbling strain of the nightingale, and give way to the wandering of my imagination, which gave perhaps a delusive yet fascinating sensation of pleasure to the fleeting moment.

"I have sailed above a thousand miles on the sea. I am beginning to like boisterous weather, though I seldom escape the consequences. Adieu.
Yours sincerely,
Willy
 

"About this time my father began to prepare Wilberforce to receive the holy sacrament for the first time, and they used to retire together every day after breakfast during our stay at Bothsay. Willy listened to his instruction in respectful silence, and seeming acquiescence in the sentiments laid before him—he appeared interested and anxious to be received into full communion with the church of God, and was often observed to be in deep thought and sometimes greatly moved. His unwillingness, however, to free communication rather increased, and as his health was not materially improved, his father's anxiety often amounted to agony, and he could not conceal the mental agitation which afflicted him. He continued to weep and pray in secret for his child's confidence. From Wilberforce's conversations at a later period, and from letters written about this time, unknown to his father until after his decease, we learned what had been the deep exercises of his mind—that he was then earnestly seeking the knowledge and enjoyment of God—that eternal things were the daily subjects of his contemplation and inquiry, and that he also suffered much from an insurmountable repugnance to make known his feelings, his wishes, his needs. He told us afterwards, that though he suffered more from suffering alone, he yet seemed like one bound with a chain, and could not venture to lean or place his confidence on any human help. At this time he wrote as follows—

"My dear Mamma,
I was beginning to write to you when your letter arrived. Very many thanks to you for it. It is impossible for me to say how much a letter from home rejoices and relieves me, under the peculiar circumstances by which I am separated from it. The simplest thing which happens in Turvey, becomes to me an object of interest.

"I am very sorry I should be the cause of anxiety to you or to anyone I love. I feel this thought more than any pain I suffer in my body. Indeed, I lament our separation as much as you can do. This period is one in which I could have wished we might all have been together—but things do not fall out as we would have them, and it is best for us that they do not. I wish to feel resignation in everything. As for my illness, I trust I receive it at the hand of God, and most firmly believe it to be the greatest mercy he ever vouchsafed me. My heart was engrossed by this world. My affections were not set on things above. I did not sufficiently feel my need of a Savior. Christ was not my beacon-star to direct the future wanderings of my life; but I looked to the false glare of human ambition, which would have led me to serve myself rather than God. Now I have discovered the worthlessness of all my hopes and aims. I find that all I have hitherto done is of no avail in sickness. I have seen what worldly dependance is—when the world and all that is in it seems about to be hidden from our view forever. I trust also I have known something of the joy arising out of dependance on Christ in the moment of extremity. I would ask God's forgiveness for making less improvement of his 'loving reproof' than I ought to have done.

I hope the school is going on prosperously. I wish my class to be told, that though far from them, I have not forgotten them. I hope they are regular in their attendance, and that if I return, I shall find them all much improved. Oh! if you knew how very often I think of home. I did not know until now—how much I was attached to Turvey. I shall never forget my feelings when I lost sight of our little village. I was obliged to summon up every weak and weary faculty to prevent my quite sinking under the removal from it.
Tour most affectionate and dutiful son,
Willy

"My dear Mamma,
Many thanks for your affectionate birthday letter. I shall always recollect my last birth-day; for it was the first in which I felt melancholy. In the full enjoyment of health and spirits, surrounded by all I most loved, and by the companions of my boyhood, those days were accustomed to pass away more quickly and happily than any other. But as I sailed pensively down the waters of Loch-lomond on the 20th of last month, a day dark and gloomy, and in unison with my feelings; I felt that I was no longer in the spot where I had spent my former anniversaries with those who shared and welcomed my happiness. Yet I solaced the desolation of feeling with the recollection, that though absent, there were those who were thinking of me, and of this your letter convinced me.

We spent last Sunday at Greenock; a day, I trust, ever to be remembered by me; for on that day I was admitted to the highest Christian privilege, the sacrament of the body and blood of our Savior Jesus Christ, ordained by him as a perpetual remembrance of his precious death and passion. Oh! that it may be to me a sign and a pledge of my admission to the marriage-supper of the Lamb in glory. I was very much affected, and should have been quite overcome by emotions of my own mind, if I had not felt stronger and better than usual on that day. Now that I am an outward member of the visible church of Christ, may I daily prove myself to be one inwardly, in spirit and in truth; and whatever portion of life God is pleased to allow me, I would devote it to his service, and love him with my whole heart, who first loved me.

I wish that another summer was at hand, instead of another winter. I feel a dread of the winter. There is already an autumnal feeling here. The leaves are beginning to change their lively green to more varied hues.

Did the fading leaf ever remind you of a decay of a Christian in this world? Like the early tints displayed by the unfolding bud, are the opening dispositions of a young Christian. His active walk and conversation resemble the healthy vigor of the full-matured foliage and fruit. In the signs of withering decay, we see an emblem of his closing scene, when he has arrived at the end of his mortal existence, and sinks into a temporary suspension, to shoot forth in a never-fading spring of immortal joys."

"We spent the months of July, August, and September, in the isle of Bute; but as the season advanced, we were advised to return home. Apparently, there was little improvement in Wilberforce's health. Probably, from being constantly with him, we had not noticed the gradual—yet real increase of the disorder. He certainly considered himself much better, and entertained hopes of recovery, and expressed great pleasure in returning to Turvey. We passed a few days on our way home, with some dear friends in Yorkshire, with whom our father left us, while he went to preach at Bradford.

"My brother arrived at Turvey Rectory the beginning of November, and was restored to the quiet and peace of his own family. Six weeks elapsed with little or no alteration in his appearance. In a letter which my father wrote to me at this time, he says,

"Dear Willy is much the same. I wish he was more confidential and communicative as to the real state of his soul. Oh! what would I give for one voluntary conversation or letter, detailing the former and present history of what is passing in his mind. I think well of it; and I hope it is comfortable; but I want to know this from himself. Many a secret tear does his silence cost me.

"It was during the six months following his return from Scotland, that poor Willy's soul was most severely tried. He never spoke of death—but he must have been sensible of increasing inward decay. He could not hide from himself or his family, the depression and anxiety of his spirit. He was much alone, and when he returned from his closet to his family, the signs of sorrow and the traces of some deep mental conflict were frequently visible in his countenance. The Bible was scarcely ever out of his hand, and after his return from the north, he seldom took up any other book, religious or literary; which was the more remarkable, as his chief occupation and delight had ever been in reading authors on almost all subjects. He would now sit for hours, and nearly whole days, over the Bible, in deep abstraction—he was still silent to all about him, and it was sometimes more than my dear father could bear, to witness the increasing uneasiness of his mind, and the sufferings of his body. After so many ineffectual efforts to penetrate the real state of his heart, our afflicted parent had but one resource—to commit his child to God, in faith, and under the pressure of his agonized feelings to cry, "You have wounded and will heal—You have broken and will bind up again." The following letters were, I believe, the last my brother wrote.

Dear __,
I am afraid that you will conclude that our trip to the north has cooled our affections, and frozen them into indifference to former friendships. You must think so no longer.

"I am now in that dear home which has sometimes been rendered still dearer by your presence. I reflect on those hours with much pleasure—but the remembrance is mingled with a feeling of melancholy. It is possible they may return; I mean hours of the same delight—yet I must not forget my gradual decline for the last six months. I am now in a state in which a slight increase of disease might prove fatal—but I am hoping, always hoping. I am no longer what you once knew me. The glow of health and spirits does not now enliven my countenance, which looks, I believe, rather sad—yet I know not why it should do so, for I have lost only that which endures for a moment, and if I obtain that which endures forever—the love and mercy of Christ, surely I have reason to rejoice in the exchange. In Christ, and Christ alone, I find peace. He will not cast me away. I have thrown myself, as an unworthy sinner, at the foot of the cross—and there in peace will I lay my head, and I trust cheerfully resign my breath to him who gave it.

I used once to love the rose of all the flowers the best; but now it has left me, and I turn to the lily, for it seems to betoken my approach to a world of purity—nor have I any wish for life, if Christ will receive one so unworthy. From how much sin and temptation shall I make my escape—by an early death; and leaving these, enter into a heaven of joy, where there is no more curse. I know that in very faithfulness, God has afflicted me—my chief sins were pride and ambition, and these have been the very means—at least the chief causes, of my disease. Proud of my talents, and seeking the admiration of men, I neglected my health until it was too late to correct the error, and now my dreams of future happiness in this world, and all my ambitious hopes, are fled. But I would not exchange the humility of a Christian, for the phantom at which I formerly grasped. People tell me I shall recover. There may be hope—but my own impression is to the contrary. Pray for me, dear __, and let a tear fall for the sins of
Your affectionate,
Willy
 

Jan. 4, 1825.
"Many, many thanks, dear mamma, for your long and kind letter. I know you love me, and think of me, while you are absent; and it is some little consolation for your absence, and yet but little, for I long for your return very, very much. The house is dull without you, and I am dull; for I am deprived of the society of one I hold most dear. Do come as soon as circumstances will permit. I would not press it, mamma—but I am not nearly so well as when your left me. My spirits are weak, and my appetite almost gone.

I am glad that you wrote to me so openly and candidly on the subject of death. I feel my earthly tabernacle fast wearing away, and every day brings more occasion for solemn thought and serious reflection; and now, dear mamma, having said this, I know you will be very anxious to hear something about the state of my mind. Just now it is most unhappy. The thought has forced itself upon me, that I am not a child of God—but have been deceiving myself with false hopes. My breast heaving with anguish, and my eyes swollen with tears too big to find a passage, would bear witness to the agony of spirit I have endured this day. But I have cast myself at the feet of my heavenly Father, and have implored him by his mercy, by the love which led him to send a Savior into the world, by the death and intercession of that Savior, by the encouragements he has held out to sinners to come unto him, and by the help which he has promised to all those who do so come—I have implored him not to send me empty away. I have not yet found comfort—but I am looking and trusting. He has said, Whom I love—I chasten. I do hope this may be his dealing with me; and if so, I shall be thankful for it.

Amidst these conflicts, I see as it were, a light glimmering through the darkness, which leads me on in hope. Oh, mamma, if you love your son, join your prayers to his, that this life, this ray of hope may increase, and that he may have a sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection to eternal life.

"I thank you for Miss Jerram's Memoir. I never read any book with more interest. She had exactly the same feelings I have; but God removed them in his own good time! and I derive a hope from her deliverance, that I shall not be cast away. I will not think it. I should deny his Word—his promises. Sorrow not, mamma, that I must leave you—we shall not be long separated. Two little ones are gone before me, and will you not rejoice that God has been so gracious to them? They know not the sin and sorrow of the world. I have known both, and I wish to encounter no more. Not one prayer have I offered up for life; but I have said, Lord, give me a converted heart, and do with my life as seems best to you. I feel no desire for life. Do not think I lack affection. The thought of parting with you all, is more than I can well bear; but God will give me strength.

"You blame yourself for not having talked with me on religious subjects. I am sorry to say you would have found in me a backwardness which I was never able to overcome; but now if you were here, I could talk most confidentially with you. May the Spirit of God rest upon you! May he comfort you under present anxiety—may he speak to your heart in future sorrows—may you find joy in all your tribulations, and an earnest of that rest which is prepared for the people of God! I am,
Your affectionate,
Willy

"The last letter my brother attempted, was to Mr __, in Scotland. It was written under great debility, and was left very unfinished:

"My dear Brother,
Forgive me if I write this letter in a very disjointed style. I cannot write long together, and it is difficult to resume thoughts once broken in their connection. Many thanks for your kind letter. You need not have begun with excuses. You make me anxious to have you with me—I want to unburden my heart to you. I wish to hear a voice of comfort from you. I never could speak freely on these subjects—I am sorry you found me so backward to pious conversation—but I could not surmount my repugnance—I found it impossible—I was not near enough to death—I had not known trials and conflicts enough to overcome my reserve, and induce me to unbosom my thoughts and feelings. But now that I am struggling for life, now that I have experienced hours of mental agony, which might often have been alleviated, could I have opened my heart—how much do I long to have you near me. How confidently, how freely, would I converse with you!

"Hitherto Willy's decline had been so gradual, as scarcely to be observed by those who were constantly about him. He rode on horseback daily, sat much with my father in the study, and appeared to his family nearly as usual, except that an increased anxiety was visible in his countenance. But early in January, 1825, a considerable alteration was apparent. He wasted rapidly; death was evidently approaching. We were taken by surprise; for our fears had been lulled asleep. My dear father wrote as follows:

"My dearest F,
As I think more uncertainty hangs over the day of your arrival than I wish, I write to hasten your return. Dear Willy droops, he declines fast. He misses you much, and often says he wants you. Many symptoms increase my anxiety about him. He is much weaker within the last few days. Come to us immediately. We need another nurse. His breathing is with difficulty and pain. His sleep and appetite fail—his looks are pale and wan—his whole frame is sinking—his mind seems very calm and composed—but he still says nothing. I am persuaded that a great deal more has passed within than we know of, and that of an excellent kind. Peace and grace be with him and you, and with

Your affectionate father,

"P.S. Since I wrote the above I have had a very long, free, unreserved conversation with our dear boy, most affectionate and affecting, and close to the great point. It is an immense relief to my mind. He is to me an interesting mixture of anxiety and hope. His language sometimes resembles that of your own letter—at other times he can trust more. Oh! that I might see both my beloved children, yes, all of them, living by faith on the Son of God! "By grace are you saved, through faith, and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God."

"Willy's most distressing symptom is a kind of suffocating feeling. We know not what this may produce. You will not be surprised at my distress. Do not wait for an escort—but trust Providence for a safe journey home.

(Tuesday) You will be anxious to hear how the dear boy is today. He is extremely ill in body, and exceedingly well in mind—in a peculiarly holy frame. He slept a little in the arm-chair last night—but his decay is rapid. He wishes to talk with you on many subjects. I hope he may have strength at intervals to do so. His conversations with me have been most valuable and encouraging; praised be God! I am so comforted by my dear boy's unreserved communications, that I frequently forget the pain of parting. Who could be so selfish as to wish to stop his journey to heaven! Yet how trying to nature is the idea of parting with him!

"Well, under every bereavement and separation from others, forget

not, my dear F, the use you may always make of your father who loves you. You, also, have been too reserved towards him; for he is indeed and indeed,
Your affectionate parent,
 

"My mother was still at Bath, to which place she had been summoned to attend the dying bed of her own parent, and my father wrote to beg her return.

"My dear love,
Our dear Willy's weakness has increased with such unexpected rapidity within the last three days, that I wish you to return home immediately. He is exceedingly anxious that you should not delay an hour in coming to him. Amidst my great anxieties, I have the pleasure of telling you that the spell of silence is happily broken between us, and he has opened his whole heart to me. He is in a very anxious but hopeful frame of mind. By our mutual conversation of yesterday and today, I am relieved from a heavy burden. All the nameless pangs of my mind, during the last eight months, have been almost blotted out of my remembrance by my present consolations. My prayers are answered at last, the door of utterance is opened, and I am truly thankful.

Your mind, as well as mine, has long anticipated the probable result of this sickness. We must go to the stronghold for help, and we shall not fail to find it. I am staying from church to be with our dear boy—he has had a very bad night, chiefly in the arm-chair; the fever has been excessively high, and the pulse at the utmost. But take comfort from the state of his mind. It is truly interesting. All its natural superiority mingles with its spiritual characteristics. He who once comforted you in your own dangerous sickness, will comfort you in the distress of your soul. Let us trust God in overruling all for the best. When not oppressed by debility and pain, Willy's countenance beams with sweet smiles of composure and love. He often inquires when you may be expected.

"Of my other feelings I can say but little. No one but God knows all that has passed in my heart for more than eight months, I may say for years, concerning Wilberforce. But God is good and gracious.
Most affectionately yours,

"All reserve was now banished from my brother's mind. He opened his whole heart to his father, told him minutely of all his past conflicts, spoke of his present comforts, and begged that he might be closely examined. He wished to satisfy his parent and pastor that his faith was scriptural and sincere. He seemed to go beyond his strength in conversing—even to extreme exhaustion, and appeared very anxious to tell how God had enlightened, converted, strengthened, and comforted him. He would sit for hours with his dear father in the study, supported in an easy chair, telling him of all he had gone through—entreating his pardon for the uneasiness he had occasioned him by his past silence, and expressing his great joy at now being able to converse with freedom, and mingle their souls together in the delightful interchange of confidence.

It was now that our beloved father was indeed comforted, and that he received a full answer to patient prayer. Edified, refreshed, and calmed by the holy language of his child, his mind was supported under the expected and "long-dreaded pang of parting." These conversations, which were continued until increasing weakness rendered them impossible, induced my father to form the resolution of writing a memoir of Wilberforce, the imperfect outline of which is all that is left to us. I have often heard my father and brother give the same opinion of the reserve which occasioned so much pain on both sides, and to which frequent allusion has been made. They considered it as God's way of dealing with a peculiar state of mind—intended to humble the pride of the understanding, and silence a love of argument. It was the Holy Spirit, as a sovereign, converting without human agency.

Wilberforce said, that for more than three months he had never looked into any book but the Bible; that God's Word had been his only study, and that amidst all his anxiety, often amounting to agony of mind, he could find no relief, either from religious books or religious conversation; but was obliged to go to the Bible for everything he wanted to know—that whenever he opened the Bible, he turned verse after verse into prayer as he read, and that in so doing he felt a force, a sweetness and consolation passing all understanding—that though he knew he had a father who loved him tenderly, and was so able and willing to instruct him, and remove his perplexities, he felt himself as one who was spell-bound, and could not break silence—and so he retired to his solitary chamber to weep and struggle on in darkness—until the Holy Spirit became his teacher, showing him the piercing spirituality of a perfect law; amidst conviction and terror of conscience leading him to the cross to seek for mercy through him that was crucified upon it—and enabling him to receive the promise of free salvation in Christ by his blood and righteousness unto justification.

'I have built' he would say, 'all my hopes for eternity on God's Word, which is unerring truth. I have found peace there, and have been sealed by the Spirit who wrote that Word, having received a pledge of the heavenly inheritance. It was without human aid, that I might give God the glory.'

"I have mentioned to you some interesting conversations which passed at this time between Wilberforce and my dear father. The following paper in my father's handwriting is the only one sufficiently connected for insertion.

"Subjects of conversation with me on Friday:
Examination of evidences—acknowledgment of errors—God's reasons for taking him away from the ministry—prayer—Christ's love—God's way of humbling pride—infidel temptations—on mere notional religion—his secret conflict for four years past between a love of science—and a love of religion.

"On Saturday he expressed a wish to see our family doctor; "not," said he, "that I want medicine, which will do me no good—but I wish for his opinion of the progress of the disorder; it will be a great satisfaction to me to know precisely, how long he thinks I may live. My strength fails; yet the symptoms vary very much." The doctor arrived in the evening. Willy conversed freely with him, and begged him to be open and explicit. Mr __ saw clearly that he was now in the last stage of consumption, and he was surprised at the cheerful and sincere manner with which he discoursed on his present situation. I left them together for a few minutes. On my re-entering the room I was struck with his countenance, which presented a mixture of calm and lively satisfaction, as he was conversing with his medical attendant, who on his return to the family spoke with great feeling of his patient. He said, "the danger is imminent, though it is impossible to say how long he may remain," and added, "I have scarcely ever witnessed so much cheerfulness and composure in any one in the prospect of death; certainly never in so young a person."

"I returned to my son, who said that Mr. __ visit had afforded much relief to his feelings.

"I see what he thinks of my case, and it is right I should know it. There was a union of thoughtfulness and serenity in his manner which affected me exceedingly; but it filled me with gratitude and thankfulness to witness in this well-ordered and calm state of mind, an evidence of God's work, and of a divine change. He observed, "I have no expectation, of any help from medicine; but it may palliate distressing symptoms. The great Physician alone will regulate all for the best, both for body and soul. Oh! I want to trust him more and more!

"In the evening, as we were sitting alone in the study, I asked him whether he had read the book I had put into his hands, and whether he had found its contents satisfactory. Instead of giving any direct reply to this question, he looked at me with an earnest expression of countenance, and said, "Papa, do not be afraid—I wish you to examine me. I am anxious neither to deceive, nor be deceived in respect of my spiritual estate. You cannot be too plain with me."

I had been for a long time past, earnestly longing for a full disclosure of his thoughts—but his reserve had hitherto kept me from all knowledge of his real estate. In answer to questions of a personal nature, he would only reply, "I hardly know what to say—another time I may tell better." On religions subjects in general, he never refused to converse freely—but he shrank from every attempt at personal application. I was therefore delighted when he thus voluntarily afforded me an opportunity of knowing the secret state of his mind, for which I had long and most anxiously prayed. I told him how much I had wished to gain his confidence, and feared I had not urged him to freedom of fellowship with sufficient earnestness.

"Indeed, papa," he said " the fault was not yours. I have felt a backwardness, particularly of late, to disclose what was passing in my mind, and had you pressed me more than you have done, to speak of myself, I believe you would have failed to have obtained your object. But now I feel qujte at liberty to talk of myself, and I must first tell you that I think I see God's design in keeping me thus shut up from you. It was his gracious purpose to teach me, in the privacy and solitude of inward meditation, my state as a sinner, and the nature of salvation by a Savior; here I learned the deep things of God, and now I would come forth and tell you what Christ has done for my soul." His countenance brightened as he uttered these words; a tear dropped from his cheek, and his eye glistened with animation, as he said, "I have had great exercises of mind of late—but God has been very merciful to me in the midst of them."

And what," said I, "are your present feelings, my dear boy?" "I feel, papa," he replied, "more hope than joy. I have read of ecstasies in the view of dying, which others have experienced, and to which I am still a stranger; but I have a hope founded on the Word of God, which cheers and supports me. I know in whom I have trusted, and I believe he will neither leave nor forsake me. I am not afraid of death; but as I think my time will not be long, I wish to put myself first into the Lord's hand, and then into yours, that you may search and try me, whether I am in any error."

Such an important moment was not to be neglected. I received my child's confidence as an answer to many an anxious and earnest prayer which I had offered up to God, and I resolved to use it, as affording an opportuity of peculiar interest to us both. Satisfied as I had long been with the general view of his religious and moral character, strengthened by a discovery of many evidences of inward principle, still, when I considered the near approach of death and eternity—the value of an immortal soul—the danger of spiritual delusion, and my own immeasurable responsibility as a parent—I resolved to leave nothing unsaid or untried, which would bring our hearts into mutual repose on the great subject of salvation, and my dear child's personal interest therein.

"I found his mind perfectly clear as to the great principle of his acceptance with God, solely and unequivocally through the death and righteousness of Christ. In the most simple and satisfactory manner, he renounced all dependance upon every word and deed of his own. "It is," said he, "as a guilty sinner before God, that I throw myself on his mercy. I have no excuse to offer for myself, no plea to put in why God should not utterly destroy me—but that Jesus died to save, to pardon, and to bless me. It is his free gift—and not my deserving. Oh! papa, what would become of me—if salvation was by works? What have I ever done, and above all, what in my present state, could I now do, to merit anything at his hands? God forbid that I should rest on such a flimsy, fallacious system of divinity, as that which ascribes merit to man. I have no merit. I can have none. I thank God I have long known this. I fear many trust in themselves, and thus rob Christ of his glory. Is not this true, papa?"

"Yes, my dear Wilberforce, many do deceive themselves, and build for eternity on a wrong foundation. But I have endeavored to impress on your mind from your childhood, that salvation by grace, and not of works, is the peculiar feature of the gospel of Christ; and do you not now see that this is the doctrine of the Bible?"

"Yes, papa, and it is because, after long and repeated study of the Bible, I have found the doctrine there, that I believe, and am now comforted by it. You will pardon my saying that the opinions which I have formed, and the doctrines on which I rest, have not been imbibed from the sermons I have heard, or the books which I have read—but from a close study of the Scriptures themselves. I have been accustomed to bring sermons and books to the test of the Bible, and not the Bible to them. You cannot think what light and comfort I have found in reading God's own Word—I never found anything like it from any other book."

"I particularly inquired into the history of his mind for more than three years past, in reference to those skeptical temptations which he had formerly described to me; and whether he had been lately tried by the same doubts and difficulties in respect of the truth of the Scriptures.

"Never," he replied, "no, never. From the time to which you allude, I have felt the most perfect reliance on the Word of God; and by much reading of it, and praying over it, I have been so confirmed in my persuasion of its divine origin, as not to have had my confidence once shaken since that period. I have been tried deeply in other respects—but I have never again varied on that important question. The book of God, by God's blessing on its contents, has proved its own heavenly character to my understanding. How thankful I feel for this!"

"A flush of hectic fever occasioned at this moment a short period of debility, and he paused for a few minutes. He soon resumed his affecting conversation, and said, "I am not ignorant of my besetting sin. It was the pride of the understanding. I always loved to examine thoroughly into the grounds of an opinion before I received it, and generally, though not always, to be deliberate in coming to a conclusion. This habit has often made me appear over-confident in what I said—and I know you have felt and lamented it. I do entreat your forgiveness of any instance of this folly which has hurt and grieved you." Then he added, "The recollection of it has greatly humbled me; I trust I have seen my fault, and have not applied in vain to the blood which cleanses from all sin."

"I asked him what had been his views of the ministry, in case God had spared his life. He replied, "You know, papa, it has always been my wish and expectation to be a clergyman, and with this view I have sought to attain various kinds of literary knowledge. I have very often prayed to God to fit me for this office, and I have thought much of the doctrines I would have to preach to others. But I can see a reason why God has put an end to these intentions and prospects. He is removing me out of this life, and does not permit me to enter into the ministry, lest I should be tempted, from the peculiar turn of my mind, to seek the honor and praise of men in my ministrations, more than God's glory, and the salvation of sinners. I think I can see both wisdom and goodness in this dispensation."

"I remarked that the same God who had convinced him of his danger, could have humbled his heart in a variety of ways; and prepared him for the service of the sanctuary, without endangering his safety; and doubtless would have done it if he had seen good to have prolonged his life.

"Such discoveries of your own heart, my dear boy, are evidences not only of what God can do—but a pledge of what he would have done for you." "True, papa; but if he pleased to humble me in the valley of death, may it not be safer and happier for me? The Lord's way must be the best way."

"He then adverted to another subject. "I have been much occupied of late," said he "In thinking of man's natural depravity, and the deceitfulness of the human heart. I have discovered in it many things in which we are apt to overlook or make excuses for it. I am sure I have no ground of hope—except I stand with Paul, and cry out, "I am the chief of sinners!"

"I referred to a conversation which I once had with an individual, who objected to an application of that expression to himself, and said, it was intended only to describe the peculiar circumstances of Paul. "Then I am sure," replied Wilberforce, "that person could not have been rightly convicted of guilt in his own conscience. I do not know what the critic may say on such a passage—but I am quite satisfied that when the heart is opened to itself, the expression, chief of sinners, will not appear too strong to describe its character. I have often heard you say, papa, that the view of religion which most honors God, is that which most debases the sinner, and most exalts the Savior. I never felt this to be so true as at the present moment."

"His pallid but thoughtful countenance, as he said this seemed to express more than he could find words to utter. He paused a while, and continued, "What a comfort I find in this conversation with you! It is such a relief to my mind I and I am very thankful for it." My own heart was too responsive to that of my beloved child, not to re-echo his own sentiments. I knelt down and returned thanks to God, for the consolation afforded to us both, and prayed earnestly that he would continue to us the same holy interchange of kindred spirit and feeling.

"In another conversation, my dear boy expressed great satisfaction at the remembrance of the preparation for the Lord's Supper, while we resided in the Isle of Bute the preceding summer; a preparation carried on for several weeks before he first received that sacrament. He observed that in his daily opportunities of reading and conversing with me, he could seldom express his thoughts with freedom, though he deeply felt the importance of the subject before us, "but I shall always feel thankful to you, papa, for the diligent and affectionate manner in which you instructed me. I love that book of Mason's, I shall never forget that day at Greenock Chapel. I was greatly comforted. You preached from Isaiah 55:1. "Ho! everyone who thirsts—come to the waters; and he who has no money—come, buy, and eat; yes, come, buy wine and milk; without money and without price." I did indeed thirst for the waters of salvation.

"Poor Charlotte B__ was there also. Her unexpected death affected me much." "What were your thoughts," I said, "when you wrote those lines in her album the night before you parted from her." "I thought them," he replied, "very suitable to my own feelings; but I little thought she was going to die before I did." "She has joined her father in a better world," I said. "Yes, and may I soon be with them; but God knows best, and I wish to commit myself into his hands, for life or death." He then sunk for a while into his chair and dozed.

It matters little at what hour of day
The righteous falls asleep. Death cannot come
To him untimely who is fit to die;
The less of this cold world, the more of heaven;
The briefer life, the earlier immortality.
    —Millman

"When he awoke he began again to converse. "But papa, papa, do you indeed think I am on the right foundation? I cannot bear the thought of being deceived; but I do think Christ loves me too well to cast me away, and that I may say, Faithful is he who has promised, who also will do it. I love God. I love his Word. I love his ways. I love his people, though I feel so unworthy to be counted one of them. Surely such feelings as these do not fit me for hell." An indescribable look of animation pervaded his countenance as he uttered these words, and bespoke the love, faith, hope, and sincerity of his heart, too plainly to be mistaken.

"If," he continued, "God meant to destroy me, would he have shown me these things?" "I am persuaded not," I answered. "Manoah's wife has proved a comforter to many, and I rejoice that her argument for the merciful designs of God prevails with you."

"I am now fatigued, and must go to bed," said he, "Pray with me, and then good night!"

"Having the assistance of a much-valued friend to undertake the public services of my church, and feeling great anxiety to avail myself of this opportunity to devote myself to my son in his critical and alarming state of health—I remained at home with him the whole of the next day. Although much oppressed by the rapidly-increasing progress of disease and consequent debility—yet he was able to engage in some interesting and very important conversations at intervals during the day. He was carried into the study about eleven o'clock. At his breakfast he expressed a hope that there were many now engaged in prayer for him in the congregation assembled for divine service. "I would love to be in the midst of them—but it cannot be now. It never will be in this world. What a comforting consideration, papa, that wherever two or three are gathered together in his name, Christ has promised to be present with them! Do you think he is here?" I replied, "I cannot doubt it, my dear boy. It is one of the most consolatory views of the Word of God, not only that he is constantly present with every individual believer, in every place, and under every circumstance—but he is also especially present with all such, however, great or small their number, who unite together in acts of worship and religious fellowship. He is alike present at this time with our friends in the church, and with you and me in this room. May God give us grace to realize this and be thankful."

"Soon afterwards, while the servant was removing the breakfast-things, I was stirring the fire, as he said that he was cold; and a short silence ensued. He said presently, with a playful smile, "I was thinking while you stirred the fire, how much easier it is to rake the ashes from the grate, than to get rid of sin from the heart;" and then relapsing into a grave look, he added "how often the ashes of sin deaden the flame of religion in the heart!" This remark— originating in an apparently casual incident—led to a close conversation on the nature of sin, and the difficulties with which a Christian has to contend in his conflicts with indwelling and inbred corruption. I was much struck with his deep acquaintance with the exercises of his own heart, and with the gospel plan of salvation, which he evinced as he continued to dwell on this subject. I rejoiced to observe in him a personal and a practical application of the grand truths of revelation to his own heart; the result of much prayer and meditation, and reading of the sacred volume—his inmost thoughts were thrown into our discourses, which manifested a power and demonstration of the Spirit of God far beyond what I ever anticipated. The reserve which had caused me so much solicitude was entirely removed. With a sweet and endearing freedom of heart and tongue, he expressed himself so openly, and with such sincerity as filled me with gratitude, and rendered me for a moment insensible—comparatively insensible—to the pang of bereavement which was soon to be undergone. To possess such satisfactory evidences of my child being an heir of glory, and that my temporary loss would prove his eternal gain, and the hope that we should one day meet in the presence of God to part no more, cheered my spirit and tranquillized my mind, under an affliction otherwise insupportable.

"I was making a reference to some expressions in the seventh chapter of the epistle to the Romans, on the nature and character of Paul's own experimental acquaintance with the truths which he enforced on others—when I was summoned to join my other children at the dinner table. I told him my absence would allow him a respite from the fatigue of conversation; but that I would soon return to him and resume the subject, and begged him to seek repose for a little while in his own arm-chair. This appeared to me the more necessary, as I had observed an evident and painful struggle between the debility of his frame—and the animation of his thoughts. The hour of the afternoon service arriving, I returned to my son, whom I found with the Bible opened before him. He looked at me with a smile, and said, "Well, papa, I have not been asleep, I have been otherwise employed. I revived almost as soon as you left me, and as I wanted to converse with you on the epistle to the Romans, I have been reading through the first eight chapters, while you were below, in order that I might have this subject more clear in my recollection."

"I was surprised and pleased to find that he had strength sufficient for such an exertion, and I reflect on the circumstance with greater interest, as this was, I believe, the last time he was able to read at all.

"He observed that he had purposely stopped at the eighth chapter, because the apostle had there seemed to make a division in his subject and argument. "What a beautiful summary of doctrine these chapters contain, papa! I have thought on them again and again. Paul lays his foundation deep in the corruption of human nature, and shows so plainly that neither Jew nor Gentile has any hope from works—but only from faith in Christ Jesus. I have found great comfort from that view of the righteousness of Christ, which the apostle declares to be the only way of salvation. There is—there can be no other. We have no righteousness of our own—all are under sin—every mouth must be stopped, and all the world become guilty before God. I have been at times perplexed about the principle of acceptance with God—but now I see it quite clearly. With what earnestness does the apostle labor to prove the vanity of all human dependance! I have been thinking as I read these chapters, how entirely the walk of a believer depends on his faith in Christ, and how closely connected the holiness, and the comfort, and the reliance of the soul are with each other.

"He proceeded to comment on the fifth and sixth chapters, as a train of experimental and practical reasoning deduced from those which preceded them—adding, "but the seventh and eighth chapters have been my delight. I have found my own case so exactly and so clearly described in the seventh, and have been so much comforted by Paul's description of his own feelings about sin and Christ, as I can never express. And then the eighth crowns the whole. Oh, what a chapter is that! Every word has given me instruction, strength and comfort." I hear said, "And can you make an inward application of the latter part of that chapter to yourself?" "Indeed, papa, I hope I am not deceiving myself—but I do think I can. It lifts me up with such hope and confidence, the language is so sublime, and the doctrine so convincing. It sometimes seems too much for a sinner like me to say—but all things are possible with God, and he whom God saves, has a propriety in all things."

"He then went through the whole subject of the chapter, making a variety of sensible and solid remarks upon it, and intreating me to examine him as to his personal application of these glorious and gracious truths to his own heart. After he had made some animated observations on the concluding part of this chapter, he said, "But now I want to add one sentence from another part of the epistle, to wind up the whole, and that is, "Oh! the depths of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out! For who has known the mind of the Lord? or who has been his Counselor? or who has first given to him, and it shall be recompensed to him again. For of him, and through him, and to him are all things, to whom be glory forever, Amen."

"I shall ever retain a vivid recollection of the tone of his voice, and the sparkling look of his eye, which accompanied the utterance of these words. He became immediately much exhausted—the difficulty of breathing increased—the fever ran very high—he bent over the table and fell into a dose, which lasted half an hour. He gradually awoke, and I observed him to fix his eyes on a globe of water which stood near the window, and contained a goldfish. I enquired what he was looking at so earnestly? He replied, "I have often watched the mechanical motion of our gold and silver fish in that globe. There is now only one left, and that seems to be weak and sickly. I wonder which of us will live the longest—the fish or I?" He paused, and then added, "That fish, my dear papa, is supported by the water in the vessel—but I hope I am supported by the waters of salvation. The fish will soon die, and live no more; but if I am upheld by the water of salvation, I shall live forever."

"His remark led me to make some observations on the practical use which may be made of natural objects, and the advantages of cultivating a habit of seeing something of God and the soul everywhere, and of accustoming the mind to seek such comparisons and allusions as tend to improve and delight it. Wilberforce observed, "This is the very principle exemplified in our Lord's parables, and in all the figurative language of Scripture." At this moment a gleam of light from the setting sun shone upon the gold fish, and produced a brilliant reflection from its scales, as it swam in the glass vessel. "Look," said he, "at its beauty now." "So, my dear boy, may a bright and more glorious sun shine upon you, and gild the evening of your days!" "I hope," he replied, "although I sometimes feel a cloud and a doubt pass across my mind—that in the evening-time there shall be light; and then in his light, I shall see light."

"Thus the goldfish furnished us with a kind of parable. It so happened that the fish survived my son two or three weeks; but I never afterwards saw it without a lively recollection of the conversation to which it gave rise; and the ideas associated with it still mingle with the cherished moments of his latter end."

"From this time my brother kept his room, being too weak to be moved to the study. He sat up during a part of the day in his arm-chair, and conversed with his father in the same strain of elevated piety. His mind was at times strong and vigorous, full of faith, rejoicing in the prospect of death, his heart trusting in God—then trembling and leaning on his spiritual guide, who watched over him with the overflowings of tenderness, gratitude and love, while his dying son besought him to probe his inmost soul.

My father, when with us, usually preserved a dignified composure; speaking little, and with tears; pouring forth his soul in the family devotions; and seeming to say, 'He will soon leave me—but blessed be the name of the Lord!'

"I returned to Turvey on the 10th of January. My father met me in the hall. He wept much as he told me there was no hope of Willy's life; but he soon recovered himself, and said that the agony of bereavement was forgotten in the blessed thought, that he had trained up a child for glory. He then took me up stairs, where I found the dear invalid in a chair before the fire, looking very pale and emaciated—but with a countenance full of peace and love. His eye glistened as I entered. He leaned his head on my shoulder—but was too deeply moved to utter a word. He continued silent a long time, and scarcely spoke or answered the usual inquiries of affection. In the evening he revived, and seemed disposed to converse. I asked if he could view the approach of death without fear?

"Yes; dear F, I have no wish to stay one day longer on earth—but I must not be impatient. Lord Jesus come quickly! if it be your will. I would not linger here—but I pray for patience. Ah! F, how I long to be free from this poor body, and see my Savior's face. You can never know how I long for this, until you also have heaven in view. I know in whom I have trusted. He will save me; for he has promised, and he never changes." He then fell into a kind of stupor, murmuring distinctly, "Christ! the sinner's hope." When he awoke, the fever was very high, and his mind seemed to wander. My father entered. He looked up and said, "He fights hard, and I fight hard—but Christ fights harder." He began to pray aloud, struggling for strength and thought, and entreating God that he might not be given up to delirium, of which he had a great dread; and then he praised and blessed God for giving him strength to offer another prayer.

"I sat up with him the greater part of the night. He once startled me by the energy with which, after a long silence, he cried out, "I know in whom I am trusting. I know he never yet left one soul who trusted in him. I will not doubt." He passed a painful night, with alternate fits of fever and shivering. He continually expressed a fear that the fever would occasion delirium. He felt his time so precious, that he could not bear to lose a moment by insensibility; he exclaimed with the utmost vehemence, "O God! most merciful God! do not afflict me with the greatest of all evils—insanity. I long to glorify you in my death. Can I glorify you in delirium, when I know you not? Yet not my will—but your be done."

"About five o'clock on Wednesday morning he said, "Now call up papa, and ask him to come and talk with me. I feel as if I would have much to suffer today, and I want him here that I may call up some comfort and strength." He came immediately. I retired and did not hear their conversation. My father has more than once told me of the interesting subjects of their discourse—but I am afraid to trust to recollection at this distance of time. I again regret that my beloved father did not live to fulfill his own intentions. I extract from his very imperfect notes, what may possibly apply to their present interview.

"I read the account of Hooker's death to him—substantial calm on his mind, only interrupted for the moment by disease—he told me of his grapplings with infidel objections—of his weeping when a little child, at a sermon I preached from Jeremiah."

"After breakfast I returned to relieve my father, who, amidst his daily sufferings, was not unmindful of his family or his parish. "We must work while it is called today" seemed to be the prevailing sentiment of his mind, and his beloved child's approach to death gave additional weight to the admonition, "whatever you do—do it with all your might."

"Wilberforce sat silent for some time, then looked up and said, Come, and sit close to me. Let me lean on you. Then putting his arms round me, he exclaimed, "God bless you, my dear!" Presently, he said, "I must leave you—we shall walk no further through this world together—but I hope we shall meet in heaven. Let us now talk of heaven. Do not weep for me dear F, do not weep, for I am very happy—but think of me—and let the thought make you press forward. I never knew happiness until I knew Christ as a Savior."

"He then exhorted and encouraged me to study the Bible with perseverance. "Read the Bible—read the Bible. Let no religious book take its place. Through all my perplexities and distresses, I never read any other book, and I never felt the need of any other. It has been my hourly study, and all my knowledge of the doctrines, and all my acquaintance with the experience and realities of religion, has been derived from the Bible alone. I think Christian people do not read the Bible enough. Books about religion may be useful—but they will not do instead of the simple truth of the Bible." He then spoke of his regret at parting with us. "Nothing convinces me more of the reality of the change within me, than the feelings with which I can contemplate a separation from my family. I now feel so weaned from the earth, my affections so much in heaven, that I can leave you all without a regret. Yet I do not love you less—but God more."

"I asked him whether his mind had been distressed for the last few months at the thought of parting from us; for knowing the strength of his affections, I imagine that he must have suffered much in subduing and controlling them. "Oh! my dear F, the pain, the agony I have felt, when I said to myself, 'I must leave them all.' You will never know what bitter hours I have passed—none but God knows what it cost me to break those ties which bound me so strongly to earth. Never, never will you know what I suffered, as I looked at you all, and felt my strength declining, and remembered it must soon be a last look. I thought this must be the bitterness of death; and even after I had found acceptance and peace with God, I still suffered deeply in the prospect of separation, and never supposed I could willingly part from my family. I knew that God would support me, and carry me through, this trial; but a trial I felt it must be to the last—and yet, see me now in the immediate prospect of parting—I am quite happy, and can leave you all without a tear—I know God can unite us all again—and I can trust him here—as I can in everything else. Now this change must have been effected by God. It is so evident, I can not mistake it. I could not have acquired this composure myself. God has done it—but I have suffered much in the process." He always appeared comforted when he heard that anyone had prayed for him, and frequently entreated those about him to pray; but he used to add, "Do not pray for my life—but that I may have comfort in death."

I was writing to M, and asked him if he had any message to send. He said, "They have been very kind to me—but I am too ill to think of them." Afterwards, seeming to recollect himself, he said, "Come and hold my head while I try to remember them. I would send some message. Tell dear M that I am suffering very much—but I can and do rejoice in my sufferings; for every pain is bringing me nearer to heaven. I shall not see her again in this world." Here he seemed quite exhausted. After a while he revived a little. "I want to say something to dear Mr __; you told me he had been praying for me. I wish him to know how much I have been comforted by this. How grateful I feel to him! Tell him how much I value his prayers, and that they have been answered; for Christ is now precious to me. Through him the fear of death is taken away. I want to tell him more. If I can I will tomorrow—but say this . . ." He now became exceedingly ill; he breathed with great difficulty; he panted for breath, and his struggles were distressing.

"The sufferings of his body affected his mind, and he seemed to lose his comfort and confidence in Christ. He cried out many times, "Oh! pray for me, pray for me, pray for me. This is hard to bear; how different the pains of death are—compared to any other pains! It is such a struggle to get free." He appeared to suffer much in his mind. My father said, "My dear boy, Christ is still with you. When he once fixes his love, he never takes it away. You may not see him just now—but he is not the less near to you. Nothing can, nothing shall separate you from Christ." Willy cried out, "And did he not say—My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Then he twice repeated, "For a small moment I have forsaken you—but with great mercies will I gather you." "Oh! papa!—what shall I do? I am suffering so very much." "Not one pang too many, my child," said his weeping father, while the big tears rolled down his cheek. "I know it, papa," he answered, "I believe it, I feel it."

"He continued in a state of suffering nearly the whole day. Towards evening he sunk into a sort of lethargy. He seemed scarcely to know anything that was passing. About eleven o'clock at night, my father read the 23rd Psalm, and prayed with him. He was able to attend, and it seemed to cheer him. He was better in the morning, and had much comfortable conversation with his father throughout the day. Mr. G came to see him. Willy wished to converse with him. He was fearful at first, and expressed some doubt of his salvation—but Mr. G encouraged him by his remarks. He assured him that Christ would never give up a soul who had fled to him for refuge. Here Willy, interrupted him, "I believe it, yes, I believe it. Christ has brought me thus far—and he will not leave me. He has said—Whoever comes unto me, I will never cast out. I feel now quite certain that Christ will save me."

"He then adverted to his love for us, and the parting with us. "We have been a happy family—so closely united! Every two of us can say, how dearly we love each other—our love has been more than common—I think we shall be a family of love in heaven—two of us are in heaven already, and there will soon be a third—Oh! I feel persuaded we shall meet again." Mr. G proposed to read a chapter in the Bible. Willy said he could listen, and Mr. G chose parts of the two last chapters of the book of Revelation. He appeared greatly refreshed. His face beamed with joy while he listened to the sublime and glorious description of the new Jerusalem, and anticipated the moment of his own entrance into the holy city, to go out no more forever; when he would join the melody of the heavenly choir, and make one of the countless throng before the throne of God. "Glorious things are spoken of you, city of God." After a short pause, he said to

Mr. G, "Tell me about the song of Moses and the Lamb, my memory is failing. Repeat it to me." Mr. G repeated from Rev. 15, "Great and marvelous are your works, Lord God Almighty; just and true are your ways, King of saints. Who shall not fear you, O Lord, and glorify your name, for you only are holy; for all nations shall come and worship before you, for your judgments are made manifest."

"Mr. G took leave of him, and sometime after his departure, Willy said, "Mr. G seemed sent to bring the close of the Bible to be the consolation of my life. It is singular that he should have fixed on those chapters, for I have read them so often; again and again in my hours of sorrow; longing, praying—but not daring to believe I should ever be admitted to that glorious company; how have I wept over them!"

"Mr. F paid him a visit, and Wilberforce was very earnest in pressing him to examine the state of his mind, saying, "I would neither deceive, nor be deceived." Mr. F replied, "You are now too much exhausted for conversation; I have heard from your papa the state of your mind, and I am quite satisfied with his opinion of you—for our ideas of true conversion are the same." "Yes," said he, "but I would rather you should examine me for yourself —I want you also to search me."

"He asked Mr. F whether the feeling of assurance was necessary to salvation. "I do not," he said, "always feel alike; sometimes when illness overpowers me, my comfort is gone, and I am afraid that after all I shall perish; but I know that in my darkest season I still love my Savior above everything."

"My dear "Wilberforce," said Mr. F, "you cannot have a more able counselor in your perplexities, than your affectionate father, and your very weak state inclines me to be brief. Our religion may be explained in a few words, as least as far as it is necessary to your peace and safety. You must have a title to heaven, and a fitness for its enjoyment; you need not now trouble yourself on other points. The title is Christ's merits. Do you rest on them alone, for acceptance with God?" "Oh, yes; I have no other hope or trust. If I have confidence or comfort, I get it only there!" "Well, then, the next thing is a fitness for heaven. If any man belongs to Christ he has the mind of Christ; he is a new creature; religion is his life as well as his peace." "Indeed, indeed," he replied, "I do love Christ; I long to be where he is, to dwell with him forever." "Then all is safe. Wilberforce; I am quite satisfied that he who has worked the one in you—has procured the other for you." "But your eye, Mr. F, your eye looks as if it doubted of me." "No, my dear Wilberforce, I am not doubting, I am looking on you with deep interest."

"Mr. F went away with a promise to see him again in a few days; but my brother died before the time fixed for another visit.

"He slept for some time, and then suddenly sat up in his chair with apparent ease; he breathed freely, spoke distinctly, seemed free from pain, and his countenance looked satisfied and happy. I was quite surprised at the change, and said, "My dear Willy, you seem much better." "Yes," he answered, "I am much better. This is a precious moment, and now I hope I shall be able to talk to you a little. This is an answer to prayer, dear F. I have much longed to glorify God in my death, and ever since last Sunday I have been praying for one hour of ease and strength to speak to you all for the last time, and tell you what I now think of the importance of religion. Hitherto you have seen me so overpowered by disease, that you could not judge of my comfort and confidence in my principles. But God has granted my request, and I will glorify him." He then began an interesting conversation, and spoke with astonishing ease. He was very plain and sincere. He told me kindly of faults and errors which he had observed in me; and he endeavored to correct them, and encouraged me from his own experience to persevere in striving against them.

"My dear, my very dear F," he said, "I hope we shall meet in heaven. I could not talk to you in this calm manner, if I did not believe we would meet again. But you have much to learn—much to do before you can get there. There is but one road, and without an entire dedication of the heart to God, you cannot walk in it." He spoke of the dangers of a religious education; of having the form of religion, while the heart was still unchanged, and the will unsubdued. He spoke also of what he called sentimental religion, telling me how easy it was to write in beautiful poetical language, without any real feeling of heart; and he mentioned some instances where religion was but a bright fiction of the imagination; and others where it proved itself a transforming principle in the life and conduct.

"My dear sister, be a real disciple—be in earnest—you will need heart-religion when you come to die—the poetry of religion will not do then;" reminding me of some letters I had written to him. He again recommended to me most earnestly the constant study of the Bible. "Here," he said, "I speak in a peculiar manner from recent experience; for the last three months the Bible has been my sole instructor—it has gradually led me on to clear light and real experience, until every promise is my own. I have read the greater part of it through, several times during my illness; and often on a Sunday, when I have spent the day alone, I have read the whole of the New Testament, unable to leave off until I had grasped all the mind of the Spirit at once. Perhaps papa has thought I read too few religious books—he has looked anxious at my neglect of many he put in my way—I do not give myself in this respect for an example—but I have found little benefit from books, sermons, or conversations. The Bible, the Bible alone has taught me everything. If I read books on religion, however excellent, the thought always haunted me—this is human—it may be wrong. I could not rest until I went to the Bible. Here I felt sure that all was divine and infallible; and I found such comfort in the simple truth of God's Word, that I set aside every other book, dissatisfied. I may well be earnest, then, in pressing you to go to the Bible."

"He then said, "But you must pray over the Bible—without the teaching of the Spirit, it will do you no good—you must apply it as you go on to yourself, and feel it personally, or you will get no benefit, though you pour the whole day over it. I have been in the habit of reading the Bible on my knees, and I recommend you to do the same. It encourages prayer. I have found it very useful to turn Scripture into prayer, using the very words. There is not a Psalm I have not turned into a prayer. I have felt so safe in making prayers from the Bible, because then I knew I could not err; and let prayer always be preceded by self-examination; lay your heart bare before God—indulge not even a doubtful feeling; one secret sin would cloud all."

"I asked him if he had any fear of death now. He answered me with great firmness, "No, not any—I have unshaken confidence in Jesus as a Savior—he has taken away the sting of death, and for his sake the Father will receive me as his child." I replied, "You had, dear Willy, great doubts of your salvation, and many fears of death during some periods of your illness." "Oh, yes; indeed I had! I have been on the verge of despair, and have known its agonies. My pain of body was at times very great—but nothing in comparison with the agony of my spirit. I struggled on in darkness and in silence. It was known only to myself and God; but I was supported and carried through all, and now I would encourage you, my dearest sister, by telling you what followed in my case. I will tell you just what I did. After a season of much doubt and terror, during which I felt as if all was delusion, and I should be cast into hell, I determined to go at once boldly to God, in the name of Christ, and plead the promises which were then before me in the Bible. I fell down upon my knees—I groaned—I wept—I prayed most fervently—I said, 'Here I am, Lord, a poor perishing sinner—my sins are heavy and alarming—I cannot bear them myself—I feel my body decaying—I must soon die, and I dare not appear before You, the pure and holy God, as I now am—I read of a Savior you have provided for sinners, and I come to him to be saved from eternal death—I come to the cross of Christ—I cling to it as my only hope—if you, O Christ, will not save me, no one else can, and I must perish—Lord save me—Jesus! have mercy on me!'

"I persevered thus again and again—I kept on praying in this way—I took nothing with me but a broken heart, and a contrite spirit, and I said, 'Lord! I will not go except you bless me!' I know I prayed sincerely, and I was heard and answered. I found that promise true, "Whoever comes unto me, I will never cast out." God was good to me. My soul required severe discipline; but he comforted me in his own time—I found Christ able and willing to do all I required—I was enabled to receive him as my complete salvation, and I sometimes had such peace in believing on him—such hours of unspeakable happiness, that the remembrance of it makes up for all this suffering. I never again lost my hope in Christ, though for the moment my disease overpowered me and clouded the past. Now I tell you all this for your encouragement and direction. Seek as I did, and you shall find the same pardon for sin, the same peace in death."

"We next talked about prayer. I told him of the difficulties I felt. I remember well his eager look, as he said, "Not find comfort in prayer, dear F! It sounds like a strange contradiction to me—it is my only comfort. When I am able to pray, I am sure to be happy, and my prayer is, that I may have strength and sense to pray. But I must remember how differently we are circumstanced—I am just entering eternity—I see everything in a new light, as I never did before—as none but a dying person can see. All my thoughts and feelings are changed—I have not memory now to recollect how I used to feel, when I first began to pray—perhaps I had the same doubts—my memory is gone—Oh! how the Lord has humbled me—I used to be so proud of my understanding—I can now scarcely answer the simplest question."

"Presently he seemed to gather strength, and said, "We were talking about prayer; yes, all my comfort is in prayer. There must be comfort in prayer—the chief thing is to examine your heart—ask God to search it for you—take care you are cherishing no secret sin or hidden idol. God is a merciful God; but he is a jealous God, and he will have the whole heart. Only persevere in praying, and indeed you will find comfort in prayer."

"He then told me how seriously it had been impressed upon his mind, that his death was to be the life of others. "I think, my dearly beloved sister, it is for your good; and will not this thought make you more in earnest? Oh! I would die ten painful deaths—to save one soul! We shall meet again in heaven. Now come and kiss me—and let me lean upon you." He rested a short time, and said, "Now send for H, I want to speak to her while my strength lasts."

"His conversation with her was very searching—but very affectionate. He loved this sister very dearly. She was naturally volatile and buoyant in her spirits, and this disposition sometimes betrayed her into levity. The liveliness of her conversation had often pleased him—but he now thought he had encouraged her in some things inconsistent with real piety. He was earnest beyond his strength in conversing with her. He put very plain and close questions, saying, "I must be answered; I must speak plainly; I am afraid, my beloved sister—that you do not think enough about true religion. I do not see decided proofs of real conversion in you. I have not a sure hope, that if you die as you now are, I shall meet you in heaven. Oh! H, it is my last request—with my dying breath I am entreating you to seek the salvation of your soul. Suppose you were in my place—in this chair instead of me—waiting for death day by day—could you meet it as I do? Oh! do, my dear sister! Do think of death while you are in health. If I had not sought Christ before I was brought so low, I would have had no strength or sense to seek him now. I went to Jesus as a poor weak sinner—and found sweet rest, and I am happy now amidst all this suffering."

"He spoke in a very affectionate manner of the subject nearest her heart. "Your merry song will soon follow my death-knell. Take care that the good seed is not choked by the pleasures of life! Seek first the kingdom of God. Remember H, you have to die! Oh! I cannot leave you in peace, unless I have good hope that I shall meet you in heaven! If I thought there was one lost among our family—oh! I cannot bear that thought!" He continued, "H, there is nothing so opposed to true religion—to the mind of Christ, as levity and trifling. It will keep you back more than anything. Take my solemn warning—I speak from my own experience—you will never be a consistent Christian, and you will never grow in grace, if you indulge in habitual trifling conversation! It is not like the mind of Christ; your temper is very mirthful and volatile, and Satan may use it as a snare to injure your soul. Piety and levity cannot long dwell in the same heart! One will destroy the other.

"You see, dear H, I am very plain and sincere. I used to be so shy. But I do not feel afraid of speaking my mind now. How little does one care about the world and its opinions—when death is near! Death takes away all reserve. I care not if the whole world were assembled around me—I would tell them what I now think of piety—I would like to see many here, that I might tell them what the Lord has done for my soul!"

He then sent for H, his favorite brother and companion. Willy was much affected. He seemed to say farewell to H with deep emotion. He entreated him to supply his place in everything—particularly in being a comfort to his father, and filling his place in the ministry. On this latter subject he spoke much. He said, "From a child it has been my delight to think of being a pastor in the church of England; but it is God's will to pass me by, and take you, dear H, and honor you thus. I resign my place to you; fill it faithfully."

Then turning to his father, he said, "Give H a double portion of your love. He is to fill my place, as well as his own, to you. I make a transfer to him of all the affection you have borne to me." He paused for breath, and, then continued, "We have loved each other very dearly, we always loved as brothers amidst our little quarrels—did we not? I love you now more than ever, and I must talk to you about your soul!" He addressed him in very plain language asking him questions. H seemed confused and distressed; for there were others present. Willy said, "Poor H, you feel shy on this subject—I used to

feel the same once—I could not speak once—but that reserve is all gone; I am not ashamed to say what I feel now. You will feel as I do, some day." He then begged that all would retire and leave H alone with him. No one heard the conversation which passed between them.

He next sent for his younger brothers; they wept much as he addressed them. He spoke very touchingly to his younger sister, who was then a little child, "Would you like to meet poor Willy in heaven, dear C, then you must love God. Pray to God to make you love him, and to make you a good child, a holy child. Will you promise me one thing, my dear C, that you will never go out of your room in the

morning until you have read a few verses in the Bible, and prayed to God. If you do not pray to God, you will not meet poor Willy in heaven. I will give you a verse to think of when I am dead, "Let the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Say that verse to yourself every night when you lie down."

"He sent for several people in the village to come and bid him farewell. There was one old person for whom he had a special regard. She had been much with him in his childhood, and he used to tell her, "If he lived to be a man, and had a house of his own, she should come and keep it." He held out his hand to her affectionately, and, alluding to his promise, said "I shall have no house in this world, Nanny, for you to come and keep—but I shall still have a house—a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." His countenance as he spoke assumed a singularly sweet and happy expression—such a beaming look of love and joy, that everyone noticed it. The hectic flush glowed on his cheek—his eyes sparkled with a peculiar luster—and the marble forehead was smooth and placid. It was the parting loveliness of a body irradiated by a soul full of meekness, calmness, joy and confidence. Instead of being exhausted by such lengthened conversations, as we expected, he seemed full of vigor, and rather refreshed.

"He conversed a good deal with both his parents. "What a striking answer," he said, "I have had to prayer; God has allowed me time and strength to speak to you all, and has so filled me with sweet peace and joy, that I never could have conceived there was such happiness to be known here!" He then said, "I would like the whole family to assemble round me, that I may look at you altogether, while I am so happy. He then offered up a fervent and touching prayer to God, blessing him for his great goodness, and commending us to him for salvation. He paused a moment, and concluded, "Lord, now let your servant depart in peace; for my eyes have seen your salvation."

"He remained in this happy frame of mind a short time, when all seemed to pass away as a dream; the fever returned—great suffering followed—and his whole frame was agitated. At intervals he referred to the past season of happiness, and the recollection of it comforted him. He repeated what he had before said, several times, "I would go through all again—for one such sweet hour."

"In the evening he prayed earnestly that he might retain his senses to the last, often exclaiming, "I cannot glorify You in delirium." He called this a happy day, because he thought he had done good by his faithful addresses.

"My father came to read and pray with him before he retired to rest. Willy said, "I am too tired to listen. I would like to dream of the past; papa, there will be no distraction in heaven."

"Friday was a mournful day. My brother's sufferings were greatly increased. He could find no position in which to rest. He breathed with difficulty, and at times seemed almost suffocated; and the soul, as if in sympathy with the body, became full of doubt and terror. He called out in great agitation, "Oh! pray for me—pray for me—say something to comfort me." I read to him some verses from the forty-third chapter of Isaiah. He continued to exclaim, "Oh! pray for me, pray for me! I am in great suffering." I opened the Annals of the Poor, and read to him the account of the Dairyman's Daughter's last hours. He listened attentively, and then repeated the words, "The Lord deals very gently with me, and gives me peace. It is not dark, my Lord is there, and he is my light and salvation." He appeared a little more composed, and I turned to the tract of Little Jane. I read to him some passages. "Ah!" said he, "they got safe through, and why not I? I am glad, dear F, that you thought of the Dairyman's Daughter and Little Jane. They are just the examples I need. They suffered much—but it is not dark to them. Oh, death! death! what is it? I have still to go through death—the dark valley.

He sat for some time in silence, with his head resting on the table. Though he did not speak; I could perceive that there was something passing in his mind which shook his whole frame. Suddenly, with a wild expression of countenance, and in a bitter tone, he exclaimed, "Oh! agony! agony! agony! agony! I shall perish after all!" I was much frightened, and went to call my father. I told him Willy must be delirious. When my father saw him he said, "Oh no! this is no delirium. I know exactly what he is passing through." He sat down beside Wilberforce, and began to talk soothingly to him—but he refused to be comforted. He still cried out with his whole remaining strength, "Oh, agony! agony! agony! Satan will have me after all. Papa, pray for me; he tells me I shall be lost—he tells me my sins will damn me. Oh, papa, this is agony! all is dark, dark—all gone—all lost—and has Christ brought me thus far to leave me at last?"

"My dear father was much overcome at this scene, and struggled hard for composure. He repeated text after text; and with apparent calmness, and in his own tender and peculiar manner, enlarged on the faithful love of the Savior. He assured Willy of his full persuasion that Christ's honor was pledged in presenting his soul safe to the Father—that this was the last attack of Satan; that he took advantage of his bodily weakness, to distress, when he could not harm him. But poor Willy seemed still more agitated. The cold sweat-drops stood on his forehead—his look revealed the deepest anguish, and he shook with terror. "Oh! papa! what will become of me!" he cried. "I am going into the dark valley alone. Jesus has left me. It is all dark, dark, dark. The rod and the staff do not support me. Satan fights hard for me, and he will carry me away at last."

"His bodily sufferings seemed quite forgotten, and were lost in the bitter anguish of his mind, and he still continued to repeat, "Agony! agony!" My dear father tried again by a variety of argument, and by a frequent appeal to Scripture, to support his despairing child—but in vain. He seemed given up for a time to such sharp and sore besetments as baffled all attempts to administer comfort. After a silence of some minutes, and when he seemed nearly fainting, my dear father solemnly repeated, "Simon, Simon, Satan has desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat; but I have prayed for you, that your faith fail not." These were the first words which made any impression on Wilberforce. He said, "Ah! papa, I used to love those words—but they are gone; I will try to understand them; say them again." My father repeated the affecting words of the Savior to his tempted disciple. Willy listened to them with intense interest.

"When he heard the words, "but I have prayed for you, that your faith fail not," he exclaimed, "Oh, my dear papa, do you think that Christ is praying for me? Does he pray for me in this hour of darkness, when I have no faith?" "Certainly, my dear boy, I cannot doubt it. I am quite sure he is praying for you at this instant. Take courage, then. Do you think that God will not hear Christ's prayer? "Him the Father hears always."

"His mind became a little calmer—but he still looked uneasy, and repeated slowly, "Can I have been brought to love him so—only to perish? Can such feelings as I have, such a hatred of sin, befitting me for hell? No, it cannot be—such feelings could not exist in hell—He will save me, as the chief of sinners!" Presently he exclaimed, "Jesus has not left me! I see him again—more precious than ever—my Savior—my hope! How could I distrust him—I am more than conqueror. Papa, I feel safe—I am Christ's. Why did I doubt? I am so strengthened. Dear papa, I can give you no idea of the anguish of my heart. It exceeded all I supposed endurable. I thought myself in Satan's hands. It must have been such anguish as this which made the Savior cry out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" I never knew what suffering was before; I thought I was lost."

"And what do you now think." "I have great peace, and firm confidence; I am so strengthened, papa, in my faith—so strengthened—hell shall not prevail! Christ has saved me—none shall pluck me out of his hand. I should not be afraid to grapple with this dreadful foe again; I should not be afraid, if Jesus were standing by"—and then shuddering at his own recollections, he added, "But, papa, I hope God will not see it necessary to try me in this way again; I hope not. It was indeed a dreadful struggle." "Why do you say so?" said his father, "It is possible God may see fit thus to try your faith again. You see how he has supported you—you have been the conqueror—why then shrink?"

"Oh no! I will not shrink, I could go through it again, if it were God's will; I could not see my Savior in that dark hour—but now I know he was near me." And then shuddering at his own words, he added, "but I hope it will not be necessary again to try me thus."

"This last sorrow attached him more than ever to his father. He could not bear that he should be out of his sight, and listened to every word which fell from him, with the most grateful love and confiding simplicity. He truly hung upon his lips. Never was there a more affecting sight, than to behold this loving father and no less loving son—now blending every feeling and thought of their hearts together, and so closely united in pious fellowship, that they seemed as it were a twin soul.

"My father was obliged to leave Wilberforce for a little while; on his return, the latter, looking up with, a smile, said, "Papa, I cannot pray now—I am so very ill; but I have been praising." "For what, my dear boy?" "I have been blessing God for giving me such a father; when I can say nothing else, I can praise God for such a dear father; to whom I can tell all, and who helps me on to heaven." This was almost too much for my father; he could neither speak nor weep, he seemed absorbed in unutterable feelings; the fountain of tears was dried up.

"Willy did not wait for a reply. "I am sorry, papa I did not open my mind to you before; how much happier I would have been, if I had done so. I have now no reserve—I can tell you everything. You are my friend and my guide; my dear, dear papa, I do love you; you have so helped me in my great trial."

"In the evening he conversed with his father on the bitter agony through which he had passed in the morning, with calmness and faith. Someone present asked him what he thought to be the best evidences of conversion, "A broken heart and a contrite spirit," he replied, "This is what I brought to God—and it was the only evidence I could rely on."

"The next day he expressed some impatience at lingering so long, earnestly desiring that this might be his last day; but he soon checked himself, and prayed against a restless spirit. He sometimes cried out, "How long, how long! when shall I be free! How my spirit struggles to get away from this poor weary body! Papa, do you think I shall linger here another day?" And without waiting for a reply, he said, "But my times are in your hands, O God—I must die daily—I will patiently wait your will." He called me to him, and gave me a copy of Miss Jerram's Memoir. He said it had been of great use to him, and that God's dealings with her had sometimes comforted him. "We both passed through great sorrows—but God comforted us both in his own

time. Read it, dear F; I give you my copy; I have no further need of it, and may God bless it to you.' He asked to have the 17th chapter of John's gospel read to him, and remarked, "How very plain is the doctrine of that chapter! I wonder that there should be so much controversy about it."

"What is tomorrow? " he asked. "It is the Sabbath." He seemed pleased, and earnestly begged that the congregation might be requested tor pray for him in the church. On Sunday morning he was much weaker, and his end was evidently fast approaching. To a kind friend who had nursed him, he said, "How do I look now?" She saw the approach of death in his languid eye and pallid countenance. "You look worse, Wilberforce, I do not think that you can live much longer." The effect produced by her opinion was truly astonishing. His dim eye lighted up, all his features assumed a new life, and turning to her he said, "Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. G, good news! you tell me good news. Shall I indeed be in heaven today?" My father came into the room. "Papa," said he, "how do I look—am I altered?" "No, my dear boy, I see little difference in you." He was evidently disappointed. "Do you see no difference?" said he, "Mrs. G does. She has made me happy—she thinks I may die today!"

"My father sat with him the whole of the day while we were at church, and Willy asked him to read the service for the visitation of the sick. He listened with devout attention, and when it was ended he said, "Oh! my dear papa, what beautiful prayers! what an affecting service! it expresses my whole heart."

"He then said to his mother, "I love to look at you, mamma. I love to smile at you—but I want to smile at Jesus." He asked her to draw near, and let him lean on her. "It is sweet to lean on you, dear mamma; but I long to lean on the bosom of Jesus." He conversed with his father in the afternoon for the last time. Reference is made to the conversation in Mr. Richmond's papers as follows,

"Agony—conflict—triumph—glorying in this second struggle with Satan—expecting another struggle—not fearing it. The enemy subdued, bruised under his feet. Longing to be in heaven—not able to form any idea of another world—yet full of confidence of being there—'I know in whom I am trusting'—dreading to linger—yet bowing to the will of God. His joy in the prayers of the church for him—Christ will save me."

"He had been accustomed to teach a class in the Sunday school, and begged that his dying message might be written down and sent to the children that evening. He had not been able to lie in bed for a week, owing to the pain in his side; but on Sunday evening he expressed a wish to be put into bed, being inclined to sleep. He was accordingly put to bed, and lay very tranquil and comfortable. My father stood watching beside him until he thought him asleep. He then went to his study, as he afterwards told us to pray, that if it were God's will, his child might have quiet and ease in his last moments; for he much dreaded the severity of a dying agony. As he was going away, he blessed him, and looking at him as he lay, serene and beautiful in his repose, he said, "So He gives His beloved sleep." Willy opened his eyes on hearing these words, and replied, "Yes, dear papa, and the rest which Christ gives is sweet." These were his last words. He immediately sunk into a long and peaceful slumber.

We were sitting near him. His faithful nurse, stood and watched beside him. We could hear distinctly every breath he drew, and the least change in the sound was perceptible. One or two breathings were slower and longer, which made us get up and look at him. He appeared as if slumbering very sweetly. There was no alteration in his countenance, and we were going to sit down again, when the nurse said, "Call your papa immediately!" We did so, and he came just in time to hear his last sigh. I think he awoke from sleep but felt no pain, nor was sensible of death. My father raised Willy's head upon his arm, and contemplated it for a minute. The countenance looked placid, as if it had beheld the Savior's face in righteousness and was satisfied. My father pressed the lifeless body to his bosom, and burst into a flood of tears; struggling with nature's anguish. At length, subduing his feelings, he said, "My child is a saint in glory!" He bid us all follow him to the study, that we might praise God for his mercy and loving-kindness.

"He opened the Bible and read the two last chapters of the Book of Revelation, and then knelt down and prayed with us. It was a moment not to be forgotten. Our dear father appeared so absorbed in the contemplation of his child's entrance into heaven, and his union with the spirits of the just made perfect, as to be scarcely conscious of the presence of his family around him.

"Between the death and the funeral of my brother, my dear father's mind was often severely exercised. Sometimes he would weep, and say, 'All your waves and storms are gone over me!' and then, 'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints!' 'He gives and he takes away, and blessed be his holy name!' He would rise early in the morning to gaze on the peaceful countenance of his departed child. We overheard him giving vent to the mingled emotions of his heart in the chamber of death. But he was comforted in tribulation, and he returned to his family, to soothe their sorrows with the comfort with which he was comforted of God. He said little—but his calm and subdued spirit bespoke Christian resignation.

"He used to teach us that disquiet was the result of distrust, and we saw in his silent submission an example of his own principle, that his heart trusted in God. 'Though his hand is lifted up to destroy—yet from that very hand do I expect salvation.'

"A vault was dug for Wilberforce in the churchyard. An incident occurred which much affected us, and which showed the pious and affectionate sympathy of the people in the sorrows of their pastor. The workmen had not completed the vault until past eleven o'clock at night, when they agreed to consecrate the place which was shortly to receive our brother's remains, by prayer. The sepulcher of the dead became holy ground. They joined in praises to him who is the resurrection and the life, and who has enlightened the gloomy grave by his own presence. They continued in prayer until midnight, commending their beloved minister to the grace of God—invoking blessings on his family, and entreating that this mournful event might be overruled to the increase of true religion in the parish; and may we not hope, that their prayer was heard?

"The subsequent state of the village may be described as life from the dead. In the morning of my brother's burial, my father prayed with his family. I trust that the Spirit of God poured out his special influence on the minds of those present. A friend afterwards observed, "This is the fervent prayer of a righteous man, which avails much. Can we doubt that it is recorded in heaven, and will long be remembered on earth!"

"From this time, our dear father gave himself up to the work of the ministry with redoubled diligence. The congregations were large and attentive. He went daily from, cottage to cottage among the poor, warning, exhorting, comforting, and confirming the souls of the disciples in the grace of God. He used to meet people nearly every evening in the week, for prayer and exposition of the Scriptures. Many a heart in Turvey still glows at the recollection of these seasons. There was a general revival of religion, both among old and young, and scarcely a day passed in which some one did not anxiously inquire, "What must I do to be saved?"

There might be in this excitement something that was of a doubtful character—but there were certainly many real conversions, and a general and increased attention towards religion, unknown at any former period. My father seldom left his parish. He became still more endeared to his family—for whose progress and improvement in religion, he manifested an anxiety even to depression, and an earnestness which impaired his own health. He had naturally very high spirits and was at times playful in his conversation; but now, though he sometimes smiled, he was ever thoughtful, pensive and silent. He appeared to be wounded by the least approximation to levity, and was continually pressing on us a more serious apprehension of eternity. On one occasion, when he thought we had indulged in a conversation too little in unison with the late event—he made no remark at the time—but the next morning I found on my table the following note.

"My dearest Child,
There is a degree of relief to a tender spirit, in the communication of its thoughts and feelings. The affecting scenes of this last year, have scarcely ever been absent from my recollection even for a moment. In the midst of our (perhaps too great) hilarities, I have pictured to my imagination Willy dying last week, and this week dead in the house. Have we all felt and done as much as we ought on this affecting occasion? Is the sacredness and solemnity of that interesting period preserved in our hearts? Has the erection of another tomb-stone in the church sufficiently moved our affections? Monday evening was a trying hour to my heart. My poor Willy died on that day, and as on next Sunday we buried him. Oh! let you and I my dear F, ponder these things in our souls for good. Amidst the living—let us not forget the dead.

"My dear father for many years had been accustomed to write pastoral letters to his parishioners, which were read in the school-room to those who chose to attend. The following address to them was written soon after my brother's death.

"My dear Friends, Neighbors, and Parishioners,
In the midst of my sorrows at the death of my dearly-loved child, I wish you to know that the Lord supports me wonderfully. I cannot yet come out among you—but I cannot be quite silent. I have therefore desired my dear friend and fellow-laborer to read this letter to you. I have preached the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ to you more than nineteen years, and through his mercy, I have seen some precious fruits of these labors among you—but never have I witnessed a more beautiful or triumphant evidence that I have not taught, preached, or lived in vain, than in the case of my dear son—now a sharer of the Redeemer's glory in heaven. Oh! what a call for praise, that he was not only my natural—but also my spiritual child. Such was his love to Christ, and Christ's love to him that I am lost in wonder, love, and praise. I am persuaded there are many of you who feel deeply for me. You can weep with me when I weep, and rejoice with me when I rejoice. You have prayed for my child. It was the delight of his heart to hear of your love and sympathy, and he dwelt on the interest you took in his welfare to the very day of his death. He was indeed a boy of no common mind, and the Lord sanctified his great natural endowments to his own glory. I feel more and more every hour, what a treasure I have lost; but at the same time I see more and more what a blessedness he has attained. I have been watching him at home and abroad, with a parent's eye and a Christian's heart, both for his body and soul, ever since disease fastened on his frame, last summer—and no one will ever know what my anxieties have been during that period. But I trust that God meant all for my good. The trial, severely as I have felt it, has shown me more of myself, and more of my God. My prayers for my dear child have been abundantly answered. Blessed be God! He was enabled to disclose his whole heart to me, and to others, before he was taken away. He conversed with many in a most useful and edifying manner, exhorting them to prayer, faith, and holiness. He could tell them all, that he knew in whom he trusted, and could look at death with perfect peace. Believe me, then, when I tell you that though I am greatly affected, and humbled in the dust, with a sense of sin and sorrow—yet that my mercies are so abounding in abounding chastisement, that I can, and do rejoice in tribulation. Oh! may it work patience, and patience experience, and experience hope, and may hope make me more faithful and diligent, that I be not ashamed of the gospel in principle or practice, for your sakes, as well as my own.

It is a great comfort to me now, as I am kept from ministering to you for a season, that you have one among you who preaches the same truth, and in the same spirit. May our common Lord and Savior bless him; and you, and me together. I beg your prayers, at this season in particular, for me and mine. They are no longer needful for my beloved son. Let them be transferred to the surviving members of my family. Pray especially for those who watch for your souls; that we may experience help and comfort in ourselves, and dispense the Word of life with more zeal and love. Pray that there may be no divisions or wanderings of heart among us—that we may be all of one mind and judgment, in those things which make for our ever lasting peace. Pray that the young children may be brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. My dear boy sent them a message on his dying bed, which was read to them a short time before his happy soul entered into rest. May the whole school remember it for his sake, and their soul's sake. God bless you all, my dear friends—I cannot doubt but that you will bear me on your hearts to a throne of grace.
Your affectionate pastor,
 

"When my father resumed his labors among the people, he seemed to be aware of his declining health, though he said nothing to the family. His usual and only reply, when we expressed our fears, was, "I must work while it is called today—the night comes when no man can work." He appeared molded into the spirit of the apostle; "affectionately desirous to spend and be spent in the service of his flock, and to impart to them not only the gospel of Christ—but if it were possible, his own soul also;" and the people caught the holy contagion of his fervent zeal and love. There was between them an almost unexampled reciprocity of regard and desire "to glorify God, and walk humbly, justly, and unblamably before him."

"You will receive with indulgence the overflowings of my heart towards a father whose memory is still cherished by his family and by his parishioners, with the deepest gratitude, and I hope we may add, with a sincere concern to walk in the steps of his bright example, and meet him again in everlasting glory. Believe me, my very dear Sir, Your affectionate and faithful F.