after the suffering of a twelvemonth, terminated in death, before he had attained his thirty-second year. Yet the prospect of an early grave was welcome to him. He seemed to himself old, from the variety of scenes he had passed through. His constitution shattered, his feelings worn, his spirits gone, he was indeed circumstantially old. In reviewing his whole course we see the effects of bad management, and of a mere self-relying energy. He committed no actual crime-nothing certainly that called for condign punishment; yet, from the continual presence of pride-from the neglect of business performances-from his short-comings of duty to God and to himself—from all these mistakes, he no doubt suffered as much as if he had deserved and incurred what is termed capital punishment. looking on, had not so much praised him for the propriety and liberality of his course; for he was enabled to help his family, by loans to his brothers, and by presents to his sisters. And he did it freely. His brothers wished that they, like him, could af ford to give, and be admired; and would sometimes observe that they, too, might occasionally have earned the meed of praise with only the same means of deserving it. Yet was there not ever any bitterness of feeling toward the more fortunate brother, but only at times a youthful longing and looking at this one-sided aspect of the world, its mistaken judgments, and its interested sympathies. William, like his brothers, had, at an early age, decided on an active business, as his ultimate choice. His collegiate education had been postponed from year to year; and, finally, it was decided by his mother that he could do without any employment or profession. In a pecuniary sense it was correct that he might do without it; but, as an engrossment of time and character, it was indeed a sad mistake to judge so. The second child of the family, the same as referred to in the above history, had become in infancy a great favorite with an aged and decrepid grandfather. The child was often taken to the invalid's room by his nurse; and rendering the little service of carrying his pipe to him, after the servant had lighted it, and childish prettinesses of the kind, he became a great favorite, and the old gentleman dying when the child was three years old, bequeathed to him a fortune of thirty thous-oblige without looking for a return. In boyhood and dollars. This bequest was esteemed by the family a cause of great joy; yet in the end it proved not so. It was rather unexpected, as the But William grew apace in the affections of all. Liberal and benevolent, he was a prime favorite with his associates, whom he could assist and he could do this without materially embarrassing his property; but in manhood it was otherwiseextended purposes requiring greater sacrifices; and these, in many instances, were made by the oblicompanion to the advancement of others, and to his own injury. Finally, by the selfish purposes of others, was he induced to risk his safely-funded property in commercial speculations, which his previous ignorance of business rendered worse than doubtful. And soon, in the partnership of men of suspicious integrity, and by the fickleness of the winds and the waves, his whole property was dissipated, or enthralled, leaving him, at the age of twenty-eight, destitute and helpless as a child, with the embittered experience of a profligacy of which his own upright mind could hardly conceive the possibility. child was not a blood relation of the testator-the We say he possessed integrity, and was upright. Yet these were but the spontaneous graces of nature, and subject, like all merely natural graces, to the drawbacks of others, and conflicting elements of his own character-subject to that human reliance upon his own strength, which forms its own mistake, and which, unallied to spiritual principles, is "altogether weakness." William, as a merchant, had never been taught that, in his business, there was resource beyond himself, which, if asked, shall in season deter, or in season forward to prosperity and success. He lived before the brothers Rothschilds were known as merchants, or had yet given to the trading world, by their example of prayer preceding the execution of every enterprise, a noble BISHOP ROBERTS. commentary-Israelites as they arc-upon the excellency of a practical faith-asking, in all honesty, for success to honest plans, and receiving, probably, as much more than others, as that actprompting and crowning their deliberate prudence, their consummate knowledge, their industrious and methodized practice-would deserve and in sure. It has been said, by a calculating and sagacious inquirer, that only three out of every hundred merchants succeed. The exception seems enormous! What can account for such mistakes in a known science? Perhaps there are only three in a hundred-though praying for other things-who add to their own prudence in merchandising that "wisdom which is from above." With chagrin and depression of spirits, William's constitutional weaknesses took a deeper hold upon him. He visited the south in search of health; but contracted a fever and ague, and returned more enervated than he went; and closed his life, the victim of mismanagement and mistakes, In the thirtieth year of his age. The reader deems him weak, and in conduct he, perhaps, was so; yet, in intellectuality, he was superior. Ever a great reader of history, he took the worthies of a golden age for the models of his own life, and practiced a disinterestedness which suited not the iron tone of the utilitarian age in which he lived. (TO BE CONCLUDED.) BARGAINING. MRS. ELLIS, in that excellent work, the "Wives of England," makes the following judicious re marks: "Above all things to be guarded against in making bargains, is that of taking advantage of the poor. It is a cruel system carried on by the world, and one against which woman, with her boasted kindness of heart, ought, especially, to set her face-that of first ascertaining the position or degree of necessity of the party we deal with, and then offering a price accordingly. Yet how often do we hear the expression, I get it done so well and so cheaply; for, poor things, they are in such distress, they are glad to do it for any price.' And a pitiful sight it is to see the plain work and fine work that is done on such terms. A pitiful thing it is to think of the number of hours which must have been spent, perhaps in the endurance of hunger and cold, before the scanty pittance was earned; and to compare this with the golden sums so willingly expended at some fashionable milliner's, where, because the lady of the house is not in want, the kind-hearted purchaser would be sorry to insult her feelings by offering less." VOL. IV.-16 Original. BISHOP ROBERTS. BY THE EDITOR. 121 THE history of Satan would be more entertaining to irreligious minds than that of Gabriel; and for the same reason that the biography of Napoleon interests them more than that of Wesley. They love comedy and tragedy, and without sin there can be neither. Holiness forbids the levity of the one, and the cruelty of the other. The life of an unsinning angel would present no variations abrupt enough for depraved tastes. Such variations abound in the rebellious career of fallen spirits. Hence, they are introduced by Milton, with great discrimination, as the bewitching theme of most inimitable song. And his choice, sound as his judgment was, (as well as the unrivaled popularity of his poem,) confirms the declaration with which we started. The hero of Milton's sublimest passages is the prince of infernals; and, to the profane, the crisis of those passages is composed of Satan's conflict and defeat. Why is it so? We cannot answer the question. It would lead us beyond the "ultimate fact." Morally, it infers diabolical depravity. It is, of itself, one of the most revolting expressions of that depravity. say It would be deemed a slander on mankind, if we should that the fall has superinduced in us a sanguinary temper-an appetite for blood. Yet we are tempted to affirm and argue it. The tiger loves blood, and laps it with his tongue; and is it not probable that man, who suffers the severest curse from his own rebellious act, has some corresponding evil in his own lapsed nature? Doubtless he has. He also loves blood-loves it in pictures-loves it in fictions-in a word, his imagination loves it. If we adhere to facts, we must proceed still farther. In a posture of conscious 'selfsecurity, he (we lament to add she) is fond of it, as a spectacle to gaze upon. If called on to sustain this unchivalrous reproach, we would point to the bull-baitings of continental Europe, gotten up to entertain a Catholic queen and her ladies; and to the recent public execution at Columbus. 1 One thing more must be named in this connection. Whoever is enterprising in sin, with whatever results, is watched and heard of, by persons of merely curious minds, with deeper interest than he who, with the same industry and issues, is enterprising in virtue. The cases may have similar features, in their progress and conclusion, except that there shall be moral opposition; yet let their history be written with a precisely equal amount of graphic, poetic, and rhetorical felicity, and that only which chronicles vicious deeds and enter prises will be greedily devoured by the irreligious world. For this we can suggest one reason only; and whether it be a reason, we refer to each one's judgment. Those narratives are most exciting which set forth our own experience. A Christian loves to hear of another's religious feelings and enjoyments, because they harmonize with what he himself has felt. This imparts a zest to class meetings and love feasts. But the unconverted have no experience of evangelical virtue of the workings of Christian benevolence; yet they are familiar with moral depravity in various forms, having felt its pride, envy, covetousness, selfishness, fierce revenge, and murderous malice, in their own vile hearts. And when these diabolical tempers and passions are set forth in their outward manifestations, by the pen of the historian or the poet, the unsanctified (feeling that the malignant impulses of their own bosoms constitute a counterpart) can but feel a lively interest in the graphic representation. If these statements and reasonings be admitted, it follows, as a corollary, that whoever sketches the character of a great good man, may fear that to many his theme will be unattractive. But to the pious there is a charm in goodness. They contemplate virtue as sublime; and whether its career is fraught with bold adventure, or is in the form of unpretending beneficence, they will trace it with edifying interest. And one reason is, that they have learned to associate it with the grace of God-they trace it to its proper source-the cross. The character of Bishop Roberts is a theme for pious minds. It displays nothing bold, and is associated with nothing tragic or romantic. He never commanded conquering armies, nor directed the sacking and burning of towns or cities. He never met a challenged foe or friend in mortal combat. We know not that he ever fell among thieves, or escaped an ambush, or suffered imprisonment or shipwreck. His life is not a region of mountains and valleys--these so deep and covert that the sunbeams cannot penetrate them, and those so lofty as to be crowned with summer snows. Yet, like a rolling country, it has charms of some sort, even as the prairie, with its groves and wild flowers, is by no means devoid of nature's graces and enchantments. He who loves nothing but crags and cataracts, need not read this description; but whoever delights to trace a stream in its gentle meanderings through fields, which it moistens and fertilizes, may feel some interest in this brief notice. Probably a more satisfactory description of the character of this patriarch, will appear in the forthcoming biography by Dr. Elliott. Bishop Roberts was comely in his person. His stature was about five feet, ten inches. His frame was heavy and robust, and in middle and later life corpulent. But his old age was not helpless; and up to within a year of his death, (beyond which we did not see him,) his walk and all his motions indicated that he was formed for physical action and endurance. God, who called him, at a given period, to a work which demanded much physical force, endowed him, in this respect, for his vocation. He sat, stood, and moved, with great dignity, in private and in public, without any effort or stiffness. There was great uniformity in his appearance and manners. He was never caught in a slight overt swell, or momentary pompous. ness, as though the inner man were slightly highblown, or the sails of his soul were unreefed under the sudden pressure of a breeze of favor or applause. And as he was not easily puffed up-a mood which we challenge all willing or unwilling witnesses to charge on him-so neither was he wont to be cowered. He endured ill treatment, if necessary, with the calm dignity of unaffected meekness. We once saw him tested in this way; and in no circumstances did he ever win from us greater admiration. He had large-not gross-features. His countenance expressed as much of manly benignity as the human face can well set forth. His eye was blue; and its calmness was particularly noticeable. Under provocations to inward change, it did not report much that seemed worthy of notice, except that the provocation had taken little or no effect. In a word, it was not a kindling eye. It did not, under the colorings of inward emotion, sparkle with inflamed lustre. We cannot describe this feature of the Bishop better than to say he had a calm, blue eye. His personal presence-"tout ensemble" was truly venerable, and commanded great respect. His manners were wholly suited to his profession, and his sphere. He was exceedingly unaffected, which is more important than any other single item in reckoning up the severalties of what is called "good manners." His artlessness was manifest to all, for it was unequivocal as sunshine. Every glance, and smile, and cadence, was in the spirit and the style of true simplicity. This being uniform, imparted a peculiar charm to his cheerful domestic and social fellowships. He was, in heart, sincere. And when an actor is without disguise, his movements will, of course, seem unconstrained. His were so. In private and in public, naturalness was so prominent in the Bishop's character, that the most unpracticed observer would scarcely fail to remark it. We shall err, if we conclude that this simplicity had in it any thing improperly juvenile or childish. Incompetent judges, who knew not his station and character, might blunder, and infer that, as he was plain and unpretending, so, also, he was BISHOP ROBERTS. without merit and consideration; but there was little danger that he should be so mistaken by sagacious and experienced observers. Nor must it be inferred that he had not the talent, or inclination, to judge of the manners of those with whom he mingled. None noticed more promptly than he did, the improprieties of behavior which occurred under his observation. We have seen him blush like an embarrassed child, at the errors and self-exposure of others in the conference-room, when he had no manner of concern in the misfortune, except an interest of sympathy for the perpetrator of the folly. On one occasion, when a rule of conference prescribed that no member should speak a second time on any resolution, till all others, who desired it, had enjoyed the opportunity, two brethren arose together. The Bishop awarded the floor to the elder, who had not yet spoken. But the younger, who had already made two efforts, commenced declaiming in the most impassioned tones. "That brother," said the Bishop, "is now up the third time, and here is a much older brother on his feet, who has not spoken at all. The rules give him the floor, and I wish he might be permitted to speak-I think the conference wish to hear him." Meanwhile, the younger speaker was under full way, and, in the heat of his endeavor, never paused to hear what the Bishop said. The members on all sides were staring at his effrontery with astonishment, and could scarcely restrain their indignation. The Bishop said no more; but his face was crimsoned with blushes for the misfortune of the young orator, who had placed himself in a position so repulsive before his brethren and the spectators. The religion of Bishop Roberts was deep, ardent, uniform, and active. His piety was deep. Early subdued by Divine grace, the spirit of religion had become as a second nature. Some of us were so late in our return to God, (blessed be his name that we were ever brought to love him!) that our religion, though it makes us joyful in Christ, seems scarcely to set easy or naturally upon us, as it does on those who were early and faithful in their profession. Like scholars without early advantages, who are always apt to betray the defects of juvenile training, by incorrect orthography, or some other little matter, and whose science, though extensive, does not appear to form a part of their mental constitution, (as it does in cases of precocious scholarship;) so sinful tempers and habits, long indulged and strongly fortified, do sometimes, after the heart is changed, mar the symmetry of Christian character. But Bishop Roberts was an example of the intimate blending of our holy religion with all the sanctified elements of the being. There was an unconstrained religiousness in all his types of man 123 ner, in every mood, which was exceedingly proper and attractive. He never seemed to strive to be religious, but appeared to be spontaneously so. Doubtless, he did strive; but the effort itself had become so much a habit, that it did not look like striving. His piety was ardent. It was not light without heat—a phosphorescence which could neither kindle nor consume. It is true, that he was well trained in Christian doctrines and ethics. He was sufficiently meditative; and his intellect was religious. But this is so common, especially with the ministers of Christ, that it need not be testified of those who occupied prominent ecclesiastical stations. But ardent devotion is another thing-less common, and not certainly to be inferred from any man's sphere, however responsible or prominent. But none could be intimate with the Bishop, and note his manners in private and in public, without gathering sufficient proofs that his heart, as well as his understanding, was deeply imbued with the Spirit of Christ, and was controlled by the impulses of charity and inward godliness. On this point, we testify what we have witnessed in various circumstances, and at different times. We never saw him at class meeting; but we observed him at prayer meetings and love feasts. There he seemed to forget that any other dignity ever attached to him than that of the humblest follower of the Lamb. In 1841 we saw him rise to speak in a large love feast. He commenced thus: "Brothers and sisters, I feel a desire to rise and tell you what Jesus has done for my soul." Struck with the simplicity, and the commonness of his language, we immediately treasured it up in our memory. Had a stranger to Bishop R. entered the door at that moment, he would probably (but for his position in the pulpit) have set the speaker down as a plain old farmer, of good sense and sincere piety, but far less episcopal in his manner than half the brethren present. And he would have inferred, from his manner, that his whole heart was absorbed in the one great and glorious interest of personal religion-of seeking and enjoying the in-dwelling God. Sanguine temperaments, though chastened and subdued, when kindled by fire from heaven, as was the heart of Bishop Roberts, are apt to glow, as his did, with intense ardor. We have said he had not a kindling eye; but he had a flaming heart. He was no stranger to deep emotion. We have seen him when grace was a flame in the soul, and he scarcely knew how to express his rapture. We remember that once, as he sat behind a preacher who spoke with great zeal, he burst out in a loud and passionate exclamation, and might have been pronounced, by certain Christians of the colder sort, "beside" himself. But it may be asked, how so much ardor could have been blended with the calmness, or evenness, which we have ascribed to him. We answer, that it depends in part upon the fact, that his religion was also uniform. It did not kindle up, to blaze a moment, and then expire. It was a lamp well fed, and always lighted. We often find ardor blended with variableness; and this begets a prejudice in our minds against it. But, then, this variableness is an accidental, not a necessary accompaniment of glowing Christian zeal. Angels are all ardor, yet never waning in their holy zeal and raptures. So of glorified saints, who "rest not day nor night." And as in heaven, so on earth there may be in us unremitted ardor. Paul, Fletcher, and (near the close of life) the godly Payson, are examples to the point. Bishop Roberts belonged to the same class in the great Teacher's school. His piety was active. No monkish tendencies restrained his inward zeal. In a hermit's cell, or the ascetic's cloister, he would have been as an eagle caged. A continent was narrow enough for him. Like the "angel flying through the midst of heaven," his charity sought audience of nations. Think of the expanded field of his ministry; and instead of gradually diminishing it, as advancing age might have suggested, in the very last Spring months of his life he breaks away from the assigned bounds of his episcopal toil, and, unappointed of all but God, plunges into western wilds, on extra missions toward the setting sun. We know not how the miasmatic agencies of the unsettled regions through which he then traveled affected his health, or were remotely connected with his death; but we think of him in these extreme wanderings as we think of the setting sun, when, in his pure and cloudless occident, he seems to pour his brightest beams over the landscape, as he pauses a moment to bid the hemisphere adieu. As a preacher, his manner was earnest rather than impassioned. He spoke with great fluency, and his words were well chosen. They did not seem to be "sought out," and yet they were "acceptable." He never labored for thoughts or language. They came spontaneously, like water flowing downward. He was a student, yet his sermons never "smelt of the lamp." To the writer he was one of the most impressive speakers, and yet we can scarcely tell why. He had the same unaffected manner in the pulpit, which rendered him so agreeable in private. His discourses were didactic, yet by no means wanting in hortatory effect or pathos. They were very systematic, without any apparent labor or pains to make them so. His eye, as we have already described it, did not speak to the audience by intense, wild flashings, but its calm and benev olent expression most pleasingly impressed the hearer. He was free from defect-was, as an orator, in this respect perfect. It is said of Curran, that in his common mood he was vapid and wholly uninteresting-that his person was diminutive and his attire slovenlythat his gestures were ungraceful, his countenance spiritless, and his eye perfectly destitute of the sparkle of genius, or even the light of intelligence. When he commenced a forensic address, the witnesses say he was inanimate and repulsive, and that a stranger would have been tempted, by his unpromising appearance, to withdraw from the court-room. But as he pursued his argument, and his heart waxed warm under its inspiration, the man was strangely transformed into the orator. It is affirmed that his very stature seemed to change, and he rose in the eye of the astonished spectator into a form of the most imposing and commanding dignity. His unmeaning features were remolded, and became all animate and seemingly immortal with the kindling fervors of his roused and glowing genius, until-to use the language of a celebrated writer-"he alone seemed to be majestic in creation." This was not Bishop Roberts. He was no such orator as Curran. Yet he was an orator. We hazard nothing in emphatically re-affirming that he was an orator. For eloquence is as various as beauty. It is now a torrent, and now a gently flowing stream-now a rushing tempest, and now a soft, refreshing breeze. But it is always something that charms the inward sense, which was precisely the effect of the Bishop's happy efforts. His delivery was uniform. It was a full current from the beginning, and flowed on evenly to the end. He commenced with a pitch of the voice which all could hear distinctly. He never committed the most glaring of all errors in a public speaker-that of restraining the voice at the beginning, so that not a fourth of the audience can gather his meaning for the first ten minutes, and, of course, must lose the force of what remains. Unlike Curran and many others, the first sentence of his lips began to find favor with the hearer. We will add-not so much for his memory's sake, as for the good of Christ's living ministersthat Bishop Roberts preached from experience; not that he spoke of himself, but from himself; that is, he testified what he had felt and therefore knew. When he proclaimed that "Christ Jesus came into the world to save," it was not a mere speculation, affirmed to him by Scriptural authority, sacred as it is; but it was also an experimental verity, assured to him by unequivocal consciousness-by the witnessing of the Divine Spirit with his own. He was not as we fear many are in the sight of the great Shepherd-a hireling, whose |