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week in proclaiming to perishing sinners the message of mercy. Nor did bis labours become fewer as he advanced in life he was evi. dently growing in love to Christ, and in pity for souls dying around bim; and though each succeeding year found him under greater bodily weakness, yet it found him with “ labours more abundant," and filled with a zeal and an earnestdess more ardent than before.
It is only a few months since, when speaking of some arduous du. ties which he proposed to undertake, his family remonstrated with him on account of his growing infirmity ; he then said-turning to a young minister who was present, with peculiar emotion—“I only wish to live, that I may spread the glad tidings of salvation; and if I have a wish to be young again, it is only that I might live as a Missionary."
He was through life peculiarly distinguished by kindness of manper, warmth of affection, expansive benevolence, a charity which thinketh no evil, and the tenderest sympathy for all who were in distress.
In the peace, and purity, and prosperity of our Zion, he took the liveliest interest in looking forward to his own decease, well do we remember with what intense anxiety he often inquired as to the character of our young ministers, and especially whether they were men of prayer, of zeal, and of a truly missionary spirit. The late efforts and success of our church in missionary labours, seemed always to give him peculiar delight. To the different evangelical societies for the spread of the Gospel, he was ever ready to give his assistance; but as he'ardently loved the peculiar principles of the church to which he was professedly attached, bis heart rejoiced exceedingly in seeing her arise, and, at her Master's call, put forth her energies for their extension, and for the enlightenment aud salvation of this country. He was supported in continuing his labours 10'the very verge of eternity; and much did he delight, even in extreme weakness of body, but with warmest energy of soul, and often streaming tears, to have another and yet another opportunity of commending Jesus to his beloved people, and of telling them of “ that covenant, well ordered in all things, and sure.”
When brought to pass the Jordan, he was enabled to look calmly on its dark waters. One of his people visiting him said—do you feel that Jesus whom you so often commended to others now precious to yourself ? He answered, yes, very. On another occasion, wben asked if all was safe for eternity? “Yes," he said, “be bad early made his covenant with his God.” When near death, he was asked if he remembered any of the promises. He immediately repeated that one given in Isaiah-—"Thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged.” But it was anxiously asked, can you appropriate this to yourself? His answer was, “without any doubt, without any hesitation.”
Thus did he calmly wait the coming of his Lord, until the call was given ; and without any apparent suffering, he fell asleep in Jesus, in the 77th year of his age, and 54th of his ministry.
His remains, followed by an immense assemblage of all denominations, were brought into the body of the church where he had so long ministered in holy things; and during a beautiful and most impressive address given by the Rev. P. White, of Balieborough, the esteem and love in which he had been held by his friends, and especially by his people, were evinced by the bursting sobs and the streaming tears which were heard and seen in every part of the overcrowded house. The feeling of sorrow seemed deep and general; and that solemn day will long be remembered by his bereaved flock.
Thus lived and thus died this truly venerable and much-beloved minister of our church. He was a burning and a shining light; an example of the power and blessedness of true religion ; of the zeal, affection, and fidelity which should mark the character of the ministers of the Gospel. Being dead, by that example, he yet speaketh.
THE CHRISTIAN'S CONSOLATION. CHRISTIANS, a man now fills the throne of heaven. And who is this man? Believer, mark it well. It is a man who is not ashamed to call you brother. It is a man who can be touched with the feeling of your infirmities, for he has been in all points tempted like as you are, yet without sin. Whatever your sorrows or trials may be, he knows by experience, how to sympathise with you. Has your heavenly Father forsaken you, so that you walk in darkness and see no light? He well remembers what he felt, when he cried, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Has Satan wounded you with his fiery darts ? He remembers how sorely his own heart was bruised when he wrestled with principalities and powers, and crushed the head of the prince of darkness. Are you assaulted with various and distressing temptations ? Christ was tempted to doubt whether he were the Son of God, to presume upon his Father's love, and to worship the father of lies. Are you pressed down with a complication of sorrows, so as to despair even of life? The soul of Christ was once exceeding sorrowful, even unto death. Are you mourning for the danger of unbelieving friends ? Christ's own brethren did not believe in him. Does the world persecute and despise you, or are your enemies those of your own household ? Christ was despised and rejected of men, and his own relations stigmatised him as a madman. Are you suffering under slanderous and unjust accusations ? Christ was called a man gluttonous, and a wine-bibber, a friend of publicans and sin
Are you struggling with the evils of poverty ? Jesus had not where to lay his head. Do christian friends forsake, or treat you unkindly? Christ was denied and forsaken by his own disciples. Are you distressed with fears of death Christ has entered the dark valley that he might destroy death. O then banish all your fears. Look at your merci ful High Priest who is passed into the heavens, and exclaim with the apostle, Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?
“ COME along,” said James Harwood to his wife, who, burdened with two children, followed in his steps. Her heart was full, and she made no reply.
“Well, be sullen if you choose, but make haste you shall, or I will leave you behind in the woods.”
Then, as if vexed because his ill-humour failed to irritate its object, he added in a higher tone
“ Put down that boy. Have I not told you, twenty times, that you could get along faster if you
had but one to carry ? He can walk as well as I can.'
“ He is sick,” said his mother; “feel how his head throbs. Pray take him in your arms."
«'I tell you, Jane Harwood, once for all, that you are spoiling the child by your foolishness. He is no more sick than I am. You are only trying to make him lazy.
Get down I tell you, and walk," addressing the languid boy.
He would have proceeded to enforce obedience, but the report of a gun arrested his attention. He entered a thicket, to discover whence it proceeded, and the weary and sadhearted mother sat down upon the grass.—Bitter were her reflections during that interval of rest among the wilds of Ohio. The pleasant New England village from which she had just emigrated, and the peaceful home of her birth, rose up to her view, where, but a few years before, she had given her hand to one, whose unkindness now strewed her path with thorns. By constant and endearing attentions, he had won her youthful love, and the two first years of their union promised happiness. Both were industrious and affectionate ; and the smiles of their infant in his evening sports or slumbers, more than repaid the labours of the day.
But a change became visible. The husband grew inattentive to his business, and indifferent to his fireside. He permitted debts to accumulate, in spite of the economy of his wife, and became morose and offended at her remonstrances. She strove to hide, even from her own heart, the vice that was gaining the ascendency over him, and redoubled her exertions to render his home agreeable. But too frequently her efforts were of no avail, or contemptuously rejected. The death of her beloved mother, and the birth of a second infant, convinced her that neither in sorrow nor in sickness could she expect sympathy from him to whom she had given her heart, in the simple faith of confiding affection. They became miserably poor, and the cause was evident to every observer. In this distress, a letter was received from a brother, who had been for several years a resident in Ohio, mentioning that he was induced to remove further westward, and offering them the use of a tenement which his family would leave vacant, and a small portion of cleared land, until they might be able to become purchasers.
Poor Jane listened to this proposal with gratitude. She thought she saw in it the salvation of her husband. She believed that if he were divided from his intemperate companions, he would return to his early habits of industry and virtue. The trial of leaving native and endeared scenes, from which she would once have shrunk, seemed as nothing in comparison with the prospect of his reformation and returning happiness.
The journey was slow and toilsome. The autumnal rains and the state of the roads were against them. The few utensils and comforts which they carried with them, were gradually abstracted and sold. The object of this traffic could not be doubted. The effects were but too visible in his conduct. She reasoned, she endeavoured to persuade him to a different
But anger was the only result. When he was not too far stupified to comprehend her remarks, his deportment was exceedingly overbearing and arbitrary. He felt that she had no friend to protect her from insolence, and was entirely in his own power: and she was compelled to realize that it was a power without generosity, and that there is no tyranny so perfect as that of a capricious and alienated husband.
As they approached the close of their distressing journey, the roads became worse, and their horse utterly failed. He had been but scantily provided for, as the intemperance of his owner had taxed and impoverished every thing for his own support. Jane wept as she looked upon the dying animal, and remembered his laborious and ill-repaid services.
“ What shall I do with the brute ?”' exclaimed his master ; “he has died in such an out-of-the-way place, that I cannot
any one to buy his skin.”
Under the shelter of their miserably-broken waggon, they passed another night, and early in the morning pursued their way on foot. Of their slender stores, a few morsels of bread were all that remained. But James had about his person a bottle, which he no longer made a secret of using. At every application of it to his lips, his temper seemed to acquire new violence. They were within a few miles of the termination of their journey, and their directions had been very clear and precise. But his mind became so bewildered, and his heart so perverse, that he persisted in choosing by-paths of underwood and tangled weeds, under the pretence of seeking a shorter route. This increased and prolonged their fatigue ; but no entreaty of his wearied wife was regarded. Indeed, so exasperated was he at her expostulations, that she sought safety in silence. The little boy of four years old, whose constitution had been feeble from his infancy, became so feverish and distressed, as to be unable to proceed. The mother, after in vain soliciting aid and compassion from her husband, took him in her arms, while the youngest, whom she had previously carried, and who was unable to walk, clung to her shoulders. Thus burdened, her progress was tedious and painful. Still she was enabled to go on; for the strength that nerves a mother's frame, toiling for her sick child, is from God. She even endeavoured to press on more rapidly than usual, fearing that if she fell behind, her husband would tear the sufferer from her arms, in some paroxyam of his savage intemperance.
Their road during the day, though approaching the small settlement where they were to reside, lay through a solitary part of the country. The children were faint and hungry; and as the exhausted mother sat upon the grass, trying to nurse her infant, she drew from her bosom the last piece of bread, and held it to the parched lips of the feeble child. But he turned away his
head, and with a scarcely audible moan, asked for water. Feelingly might she sympathise in the distress of the poor outcast from the tent of Abraham, who laid her famishing son among the shrubs, and sat down a good way off, saying,
“ Let me not see the death of the child." But this Christian mother was not in the desert, nor in despair. She looked upward to Him who is the refuge of the forsaken, and the comforter of those whose spirits are cast down.
A cluster of log cabins now met their view through an opening in the forest. They were pleasantly situated in the