However, I am in the hands of that wisdom which cannot err, and of a goodness and mercy which have followed me all the days of my life; to that arbitrament I cheerfully bow. "I infer from a letter which H. has received, that the health of our dear relative in London is much as usual. Neither infirmity nor pain seems, however, to damp the ardour of her affection towards those she loves, and her exertions to please and to profit her neighbour. God bless her! O that I could in any way soothe her pains, or in any way alleviate her sorrows! When thou writest tell her that I often think of her, pray for her, and indulge in strong hopes that these heavy afflictions may yet end in a joyous day of deliverance and peace. "Poor Mrs. H! how heavy her affliction! A clay tenement of I suppose eighty years' standing, now broken by accident, and prostrated by disease. How inscrutable are the ways of Providence! Yet though clouds and darkness are round about Him, still justice and judgment are the habitation of His throne. May the consolations of her sick bed be many, and underneath her may there be the everlasting arms. "When here a few days ago, I thought Mr. W. was looking as well, and that his spirits were as buoyant as I have observed them for some time past. May thou and he, my dear sister, prove increasing means of comfort and joy to each other as you toddle down the vale of life, and may we all at last meet on that blessed shore where the inhabitants shall no more say 'We are sick.' "Thy affectionate brother ever, And with these last wishes, he lays down his pen for ever! On the Sunday following, at his most earnest request, he attended our Salem Chapel, of which he had laid the foundation, and in whose interests he ever felt the most lively concern. Notwithstanding his apparent weakness, he joined heartily in the services of the day, sung with his usual enjoyment of the music, knelt during prayer, responded fervently and loudly, was assisted to rise, and listened with evident delight to the sermon. It was thought by many who came to congratulate him at the close of worship, that a favourable tide of health had set in, and that the coming spring would bring him its full advantage. But other things were in store for him: man proposes, God disposes. The next day he was singing and worshipping in heaven. In the evening he remained at home, particularly requesting that all the family would go to chapel, and spending that last Sabbath evening with his Baxter's bible before him, and with a smile, a heavenly smile upon his features, turning over the sacred pages. God was about to take his servant home: his work was now done: his mansion ready for his use: his harp, his crown, his palm, his robe, all waiting for him. Who can tell the visions of heavenly glory that were that evening vouchsafed to him, to him who was, ere the next day closed, about to see for himself the pearly gates, the jasper walls, and the golden city? If the advent of earthly day is betokened by signs unmistakable that the glorious light is about to appear, is it not reasonable to believe that the immortal morning of life will not burst upon the long-bound soul without some indications, some foreshadowings of the glory that then begins to be revealed? On Monday morning, whilst sipping his soup, a sudden paroxysm of pain came on, which induced a partial fainting, and which extended over the left side from the sternum downwards. Nature, however, aided by strong restoratives, was enabled to rally, and he soon came round, expressing himself, however, in strong language unusual to him, as to the violence of the pain, and his fears that he could not again bear such agony. His son went out with the medical man for a few minutes' conversation, and was informed by him of the imminent danger there was, and of the certainty that one of such attacks would prove fatal. There was little doubt but that the disease was that terrible angina pectoris, about which so little is known beyond what Dr. Heberden wrote more than half a century ago. There was that violent and paroxysmal pain in the chest, extending into the arms, especially the left, and either inducing or accompanied by difficulty of breathing and fainting. Opiates might indeed sometimes relieve the former, and strong restoratives for a time remove these latter symptoms, but they could not be expected to bring more than a very temporary relief, whilst they could not always be depended upon for even these slight services. On his son's re-entering the room, with that anxious and disturbed expression of countenance which the news naturally excited in his mind, the father, with a look of affection, and a smile of calm, said, "I see that the doctor has been alarming thee. I know very well the nature of the disease, and the danger that exists, but I am in God's hands; all is right-all is right-all is well; I feel no alarm, no dread of the consequences." What reply could be made to such assurances save a tear and a sob, which nature gave at the bare mention of such a loss. Throughout the day, and especially throughout the afternoon, his calmness was wonderful; it was a thing of heaven and of grace, not of earth and of medicine. Being intimately acquainted with medical subjects, and with the anatomy and physiology of the heart, he was as well aware of the nature and danger of the disease as the medical man. He had now in two days had two distinct attacks, and yet between them was in full possession of every faculty, sat as usual in his chair in the dining-room, and had a mind fully conscious of all about him, equal to the highest intellectual subjects, and delighting in the exercise of its wondrous energy. His wife and children were all, save one, about him, and were the dearest and most cherished objects of his earthly love. His friends were many, and all loved and respected him; his means were ample, and sufficed for all his wants, present and prospective; his sources of enjoyment were numerous; they presented themselves in his books, in his walks, in his labours, in himself. And yet, in full consciousness that he was about to part with all these, he was calm and unmurmuring. Nay, more, he was about to leave all these enjoyments for a new untried state, to launch away from this world-the known, the sensible--into another region-the hidden, the imperceptible. And yet, surveying all this, he was peaceful and undaunted. Sceptic, account to me for this! Thou canst not. There are things undreamt of in thy philosophy, and this is one of them. And now, when all thy efforts fail to unravel the mystery, read the 23rd Psalm, that thou mayst see the process; and mark the result as pictured by St. Paul, "and the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your heartsand minds through Christ Jesus." The idea, the glorious one, of a Christian's untroubled peace of mind, whilst his outward frame is being subject to disease, so beautifully given by Goldsmith, is truly applicable here : "As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm; Throughout the whole afternoon he remained in the same peaceful, triumphant state, reading, thinking, composing. Some of his sayings (and they were his dying sayings) showed how securely his bark was anchored, how well it was able to outride that last storm that was now ready to burst forth. To Mrs. M. he said, "Words cannot express the peace and joy I feel-a settled peace, a calm joy." The still bosom of a beautiful Alpine lake, which no wind disturbs, girt in by mighty and overhanging mountains, over the top of which the setting sun flings a stream of golden and purple light, whose tranquil waters, with hardly a ripple, cover a pebbly, and easily-seen bottom, and reflect the projecting cliff and the empurpled sky, where the summer breeze fears to agitate the tree or the grass, lest it should disturb the tranquillity of the scene, and where nought is heard but the distant songster with modulated note, hushing all to repose, and rendering stillness more still, such was an emblem, a faint one, of that memorable afternoon. A Towards evening, his family and one intimate relative were gathered about him. Pointing to one of his engravings, entitled "The Eleventh Hour," in which the despair of a miser is represented when reft of his earthly possessions by the hand of Death, he said, "Poor work that; what is wanted is Christ in you, the hope of glory." In company only with his dear wife he took his last meal; and partook of that cup of tea with little indications of what was coming on. conversation then ensued with his son on a point in Paley's Natural Theology, on the semi-lunar valves of the heart, in which he explained with perfect calmness and clearness the difference between that exact writer and modern authorities; and then followed incidental conversation on some ordinary topics of the day. About 7 p.m., he was observed to turn suddenly pale, and to be in pain. "Father, you have over-exerted yourself; you shall lie down." He assented without a word, and was assisted to the sofa; lay down, suffered a sudden spasm, a gurgling rose in the throat, his face became livid and blue, the pulse stopped-and all was over. The ordinary restoratives proved unavailing; the medical men came, but too late; and his bewildered family surrounded his corpse, whilst the disembodied spirit, freed from the cumbrous clay, winged its flight home to God and to heaven. A correspondent writing immediately after, thus graphically describes his sudden removal: "Death entered not the habitation of his victim as a ruffian does, tearing him away from family and friends by the racking pains of physical and mental distraction; but departing much from his accustomed course, entered civilly into the parlour of our departed friend, and smilingly put the summons into his hands. 'Twas scarcely the summons of death, but the kind invitation to come on an eternal visit to the home of his elder Brother." The news of his death, sudden and unexpected, passed like an electric shock through the Connexion, and round his large circle of friends, producing very many letters of condolence and sympathy to his bereaved family. Resolutions expressive of the esteem in which he was held were passed by the subsequent conference of 1852, the district meeting, the leaders' meeting of the Manchester North, and of the South circuit, and the Sunday-school teachers of Salem. All that was mortal of this man of God was committed to the grave in St. Thomas's church-yard, Pendleton, near Manchester, on the following Friday, February 20th, 1852. Four of our esteemed ministers held the pall, and his old scholars spontaneously lined the church walk as his remains were slowly borne past. The Rev. Samuel Hulme improved the sad event by a powerful sermon to a congregation so large as has never before or since been crowded together in Salem chapel-a congregation including those to whom the deceased had preached the words of life, whom he had taught and visited, and a large number to whom he had been known as a man of public and unblemished Christian character, ready for every good word and work. Sermons of a similar character were preached in other parts of this and the adjoining circuits, and it is not too much to say that he went down to the grave amidst universal tears and regret. One had to mourn the loss of an affectionate relative, beloved most because known best; another that of a pillar of the church to which he belonged; a third that of a man of intelligence and piety whom Christian churches could ill spare; another that of a citizen whose words and instructive voice had often been heard, and always on the side of liberty, order, rational progress, and Christian education. To all these there was a sensible loss, a vacuum not easily to be filled up. "Help, Lord, for the godly man ceaseth; for the faithful fail from among the children of men," was the sorrowing exclamation of the Psalmist, under the pressure of bereavement in the church. But surely it is the cry of distrusting human nature. It seems to argue want of faith in the Great Disposer of all things, who will, who does carry on His work, sometimes by one agent, and then by another, so that the work is all the while going on, the spiritual building is rising nearer completion, and the time drawing closer when the topstone shall be brought on with shoutings, "Grace, grace, unto it." Among the Highland tribes the signal of war was sent from man to man on every emergency, and consisted of a charred piece of wood, dipped in blood, carried with speed in the hand. The messenger was bound to run with the symbol until spent with his exertions, and then to hand it over to the next man he could find, who was in his turn bound to receive the important deposit, and use all his exertions-his life if necessary-to fulfil the mission thus entrusted to him. Is not this an apt illustration of the way in which the blood-stained banner of the cross must be uplifted by successive ensigns, each of whom receives the flag which his predecessor can no longer uphold? Let there be an eagerness on the part of young men to fulfil this honourable duty, for such is the lesson which this memoir holds forth. As one servant of God after another passes away to his eternal reward, and leaves behind the precious and fragrant remembrance of his piety and labours, let members press forward to catch, not as the ancient Romans did, the departing breath, but to inspire the spirit, and imitate the example of the departed. So will the good not have lived in vain, but our fidelity to the impressions which their lives make will enter into the force of that welcome sentence, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." Manchester, April, 1857. E. W. M. ESSAYS, &c., ON THEOLOGY AND GENERAL LITERATURE. AN INVITATION TO CHURCH FELLOWSHIP. "Come thou with us and we will do thee good; for the Lord hath spoken good concerning Israel."-NUMBERS X. 29. THERE are many persons to whom, on account of their character, it would be exceedingly improper to give an invitation to become united as members with a Christian church; they neither have religion nor are they anxious to possess it. Any inducement to profess it would, therefore, only be an invitation to become hypocrites. But there are others, standing at a distance, who would be heartily welcomed to the fellowship of the saints, and to the enjoyment of all their privileges. It is to this latter class that this brief address is directed, with a view of introducing them to the people of God. Reader, I will explain, in as few words as possible, what kind of person I suppose you to be when thus invited. I suppose you to be one who has a sincere desire to be saved. Is it so? Have you any such desire? What is the reply which your conscience gives to this question, solemnly and in the sight of God? It is not sufficient that you can say that, on leaving the present world, you would wish to escape hell and be admitted into heaven. Who is there that has not this desire? There are, no doubt, many among the lost, enduring everlasting torments, who carried such a feeling with them to the last moments of their lives. But it availed them nothing. Something more is wanting. This desire, therefore, must be accompanied by a willingness to be saved according to the plan of redemption revealed in the Scriptures. When the jailer was convinced of sin, and made truly anxious for salvation, he cried out, "Sirs, what must I do to be saved; " thus evincing a willingness to be saved by any means that God might have provided for that purpose; and every person must be brought into this frame of mind before he can be made a partaker of the blessings of the Gospel, What do you say to this? Do you feel that you have sinned, and come short of the glory of God? Have you by experience proved your inability to obey God? Are you sensible of the evil and the |