had placed him. Not a single struggle had the dear, apprehensive man, during those expiring moments, which, through his whole life, he had expected would be productive of such extreme torture. He slept in Jesus, in full confidence of a glorious Resurrection.
From this hour, until the interment, our house was thronged; but of all our numerous friends, who by their presence expressed their sympathy, no individuals appeared more deeply affected than my future patrons, Mr. and Mrs. Little. My father was very dear to Mr. Little; he mingled his tears with the widow, and her orphans. It was unnecessary to tell me I had sustained an irreparable loss, my heart, my pierced heart, was every moment making the avowal; I could now fully appreciate my father's worth; I felt I was bereaved, miserably bereaved; left to myself, and I knew myself well enough to justify the most spirit-wounding apprehensions. I retired to my chamber, to my closet, secretly indulging my overwhelming sorrow, and if I ever experienced the fervour of devotion, it was then, when, throwing abroad my supplicating hands, I petitioned the God of my father to be my God also, entreating that he would graciously vouchsafe to preserve me from myself, my sinful self: all the hard, undutiful reflections, which I had secretly tolerated against this good, this honoured man, while he was enduring exquisite sufferings for the purpose of preserving me from evil, rushed upon my recollection, and an innate monitor seemed to say: "You may now, ungrateful boy, go where you please; the prying eye of a father will no more inspect your conduct." It was now, in these moments of torture, that my father, as it should seem, first became known to me. It is true, he was severely good, his conscience was indeed sorely tender; but, as far as he knew, he performed the will of God, at least in as great a measure as he was able, and when he believed himself deficient, as he almost always did, it gave him great pain. The uniform sanctity of his life commanded the respect, the esteem, the affection, and even the veneration of all who knew him. He possessed an uncommon share of natural abilities, and his acquirements were very respectable. He had read much; History, Natural Philosophy, Poetry, these were all familiar to him; but the sacred Scriptures, and books of devotion, were his delight. Human productions constituted his amusement, but the word of his God was his food. He was so acute a reasoner, that it was difficult to gain any advantage over him in argument; yet he was easily provoked, but immediately sensible of error; every deviation from propriety was marked by tears. He