their dispositions are unchanged. Many, indeed, are gone beyond my ken, and I have passed my boyish days; but yet I see in the richness of nature's scenes, in the coming forward of new actors, in the general improvement of the aspect of things, and the appearance of happiness, that, though change is going on, God is not ceasing to be good, and that I have abundant cause to trust in him and to rejoice in him."

He derived little or no benefit from the journey. "My health, I think, is no better. Had I not been heretofore mistaken in my prophecies, I should think that this disease would soon terminate my labors as a minister. This is the care of God, and with him I cheerfully leave it." His life had now become one long disease. At times he enjoyed comparative relief, maintained at all times his cheerful appearance and manner, and attended to the duties of his office. But he perceived himself to be a broken and decaying man. "I hope I do not complain of my trial," he writes in March, 1831, "though I am often painfully reminded, that I occupy a place which ought to be filled by an active, vigorous mind, not by one that is drowsy and paralytic; but I trust in God that I shall not be permitted to hang heavily upon my friends, or to injure a good cause; that I shall know my duties, and have grace to perform them."

In the succeeding October he wrote as follows:

"For myself, though I am never accustomed to think that all things are against me, the few months past have not been to me without a due portion of trials. My health has not been good, often wretched; yet I have been enabled to pass, though heavily, through my accustomed routine of duty. I have never been so sensible of the op

pressiveness of duty; and many a time I have sighed to be relieved of all public responsibilities, and to find in some retired spot a place where with books, rural occupations, and such friends as might feel interested in my welfare, I might pass quietly my destined period here. But such a spot is not within my reach, and I doubt not that it is best that it should be so. I am blest with a most affectionate people, who seem not yet wearied with me. They might be greatly improved, but to me they seem to constitute one of the best of parishes. They are fast falling away from me; but as they sink into the grave they increase my confidence in the religion which it is my privilege to preach, and connect my affections more strongly with God and the future. Among those, who yet stand around me, I am rejoiced to notice a grateful attention to the one thing needful. In no year of my ministry have so many been added to the church as during the present; yet there is no feverish state of feeling, all is calm and considerate. At present my health is better than usual, and I have the prospect of passing a comfortable winter. You will say I ought to be happy, and so I trust I am."

In the spring of 1832, his disorder took a new turn, extending itself to the lungs and threatening serious disease in that organ. He was obliged to relinquish preaching, and in August he visited the Isle of Shoals for the benefit of the air and retirement. Secluded and barren as was this retreat, he found it not destitute of hints for devout thought. "The islands are indeed desolate," he writes, "but even here God is not leaving himself without witnesses of his goodness. ** He who is spreading so widely his goodness, is appointing my trial; it must therefore be for good." The thought of the kindness of his friends mingled with

his sense of the goodness of God while he mused and prayed in that lonely retirement, and strongly affected him. "The recollection of the many and persevering kindnesses of my friends, though it is precious to me, often entirely overcomes me." And again, in another letter; "My friends have been abundant in their kindness, and among them you are entitled to more thanks than I can express; thanks, not merely for the wishes expressed for my personal welfare, during a season of trials, but for years of most exemplary assistance in promoting the spiritual interests of my people, which are far more dear to me than the poor remnants of a life which at furthest must soon close. I beg you to remember me most affectionately to all my friends, and to assure them that I am not insensible to their kindness. While I think of their goodness to me, I cannot but carry up my thoughts to the Inspirer of all goodness. He has been very merciful to me; and I cannot be too thankful that he has preserved my mind from gloomy distrust, and kept cheerful images before it. I cheerfully commit all to him; myself, my dear friends, all, I commit to him."

After returning from the Isle of Shoals, he visited Boston for the purpose of consulting the distinguished physicians of that city, and returned home somewhat encouraged respecting the prospect of continued life. It was at this time that he wrote to a friend in the following strain. "The prospect that my disease will soon come to a fatal issue, I do not consider so certain as I once did. It seems to me more probable, that I may be called to pass years of infirmity and uselessness; and I must confess that the anticipation is far more painful to me than that of a speedy death. But I will not distrust that merciful Being who has hitherto

sustained me, nor the consolations which are in Christ Jesus. In my sickness I have been wonderfully supported; my mind has been preserved in great serenity, and my religious trust has not been for a moment shaken. Though there is at times a degree of fearfulness, when I look forward to the future trials which may await me, yet I am not cast down in the anticipation of them, but stay myself on the promises of God and submit myself to his disposal. All will be well I doubt not."

At this time, many of his friends were urgent that he should try the effect of a warmer climate, and begged permission to bear the expenses of his winter's residence in Cuba. But he said, "I cannot be convinced that it is my duty to leave home; and at the risk of being thought unreasonable and obstinate, I shall remain among my friends." He accordingly passed the season in Portsmouth, but in such a state of weakness that in March he writes, "I have been into the street but twice since the middle of December, and then only to take a short ride." In May he speaks of his health as "surprisingly and unexpectedly improved ;" and for a few Sundays he was able to preach; but it was a transient revival. The summer passed away and he gained nothing; and in September he writes, "It seems to me that I have not long to remain here; and I have a perfect confidence that I shall not be deserted; that all things will be well." This was the last letter which he wrote.

It was now for many months that he had been unable to discharge any public duty, excepting a few days in the spring, and that others had taken his place in the pulpit. To live useless had always been his dread; a burden to his friends and parish he had always resolved not to be. During therefore this long trial of languor and helplessness, his

feelings had been exercised with no light struggle on the question whether he ought not to resign his ministry, and relieve his flock from the burden of his support. He felt that they could not bear the expense of two ministers, and he was unwilling to stand in the way of their obtaining a pastor with the health and efficiency which he had lost. The parish, on the other hand, clinging to him with devoted gratitude and respect, could not think of a separation so long as his life should remain. They were anxious to give him every indulgence in their power, and to make that provision which should set his mind at ease. With this view they determined to provide a colleague who might divide with him the labors of the ministry; and having been so happy as to secure the services of Mr Andrew P. Peabody, the twentyfourth day of October was appointed for his ordination. But the days of the sufferer were numbered, and in vain did gratitude, friendship and piety prepare this alleviation for his cares. He lived to see the day which gave him a colleague ; he saw the people that he loved, united under the charge of one whom they could trust; but as if the heart, which for twentyfive years had beat only in their service, could beat no longer when that service was thought to be no longer needed, he rapidly declined from this time; a new disease set in, and the hour of his departure drew nigh.

For many days there was nothing alarming in the affection from which he suffered, and it was supposed that his constitution would rally again as it had done before. But on the morning of Wednesday, November sixth, he intimated to his physician that he felt his end approaching, and every hour rendered it more evident. In the midst of great suffering, so great that he spoke of it as "intense