decay which terminated in his death. Of this approaching event he was perfectly sensible, and many of his letters at this time breathe the tenderest strains of resignation and piety. One of these is as follows:—
“Are you deep in the language of eonsolation? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of eomfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iseariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility.— Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreek of misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifieations of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of eourage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however the seeptie may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am eonvineed, original and component parts of the human soul; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities— an all powerful and equally beneficent God— and a world to eome, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on
