his decided conversion to the faith of Christ.

His purpose was now irrevocably fixed, and having nearly completed his medical and literary course, he quitted the University, resolving to devote himself at once to the work of the ministry amongst the Dissenters, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of some of his friends rather to enter the Established Church, and the flattering prospects held out to him in that direction. With this view he repaired to London, where his father was then residing, as the pastor of Zion chapel.

He had now completed his twentyfirst year; and, after a short interval, during which he preached at various places, he accepted an invitation to become the minister of the congregation assembling in the chapel of the Sundayschool, raised by the exertions of the late Mr. John Whitaker, at Macclesfield. To the youngest sister of this gentleman he was shortly after united in marriage. He continued to occupy this station for about eight years, when it was deemed desirable to erect a distinct and separate chapel, for the accommodation of the multitudes who were attracted by the charm of his ministry. The work was commenced and completed without delay, and he occupied this new position, with confirmed and enlarged success, for the remaining three years of his residence in Macclesfield, increasingly beloved and honoured by his people.

Throughout the whole period of his abode in Macclesfield, he was a hard student. He had time then much more at his command than during the subsequent period of his life, when introduced to a far more extensive field of labour, and a weightier pastoral charge. He rose early and sat up late, and denied himself recreation and rest, that he might accumulate fresh stores of knowledge, and raise upon a foundation already laid, broad and deep to a degree almost unexampled, a superstructure which, for extent, solidity, variety, and beauty, has rarely, if ever, been surpassed.

Thus, thoroughly furnished, he at length received and accepted an urgent call from the church and congregation at Mosley-street chapel, Manchester, to become their pastor, and entered on his stated duties in January, 1827,-having resided in Macclesfield nearly twelve years. His first sermon in this pulpit has been described as a masterpiece of

pulpit eloquence, characterised by those deep impressions of ministerial obligation that scriptural view of his own exalted position as an ambassador for Christ, which humbled while it elevated him-that glow of ardent piety-that benevolence and catholicity of spirit, with which his whole ministry was so pre-eminently imbued. It was from the last clause of the thirteenth verse of the twenty-fourth chapter of the book of Numbers, "What the Lord saith, that will I speak"-whilst the text of his last sermon in this pulpit, was the memorable prayer of the dying Redeemer-" Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

But I must conduct you to the closing scene. Can you bear to accompany me thither ? Can you, who have been accustomed to hang with an emotion approaching to ecstacy and rapture upon his lips, to mark the beamings of mingled genius, benevolence, and piety, as they fell on you, and imparted to his own expressive countenance an almost superhuman and angelic lustre can you, who have so often witnessed in this place the triumphs of his mighty mind over the frail fabric in which it was imprisoned, and from which it seemed as if ready and panting to take its flightcan you endure to repair with me to his chamber of sickness and bed of death? Oh, then, may a special influence from heaven accompany the visit, and render the lessons they shall teach far more impressive and efficient to the promotion of your truest welfare than the most eloquent portions of his living ministry have proved!

For more than two years our beloved, and honoured, and lamented friend had manifested painful symptoms of declining health. These assumed a still more threatening aspect in the early part of the present year, and a more decisive change for the worse took place about the time of his last public service in Mosley-street. On the evening of Easter Monday, April 16th, he was induced, in a very unfit state for such a duty, to fulfil an engagement to preach in behalf of the Wesleyan Missions, in Oldham-street chapel. That sermon will never be forgotten by any who had the privilege to hear it. As it was the last so it seems to have been the most glorious and the most effective of all his mental efforts. His text on this occasion was, "Mighty to save." For a full hour he

poured forth the strains of a most powerful and impassioned eloquence, when, at the suggestion of one of the ministers, who saw the state of physical exhaustion to which he was reduced, a hymn was sung, after which he resumed, and continued for nearly another hour to rivet the attention of his audience by a discourse of surpassing magnificence and splendour.

But this service, so kindly and generously rendered to testify his regard,regard which he had never failed for a long series of years to cherish,—for a most influential body of professing Christians, was his last. From that time every effort was made that medical skill could devise, or the tenderest solicitude employ, to recruit his exhausted frame, but to no purpose. His active and susceptible mind, worn down by numberless anxieties and cares, so preyed upon his physical constitution, never vigorous, that the downward progress could not be effectually arrested. Change of air was recommended, and resorted to in a residence at Southport. This change was necessary, not only to himself, but also to his daughter, whom a long and, as it proved, fatal sickness had already reduced to the most extreme point of debility.

All, however, was alike ineffectual in both cases, and at length he was constrained to return home with his dying child-himself a dying man. After lingering only a few days from the time of their reaching Manchester, his beloved Eliza peacefully and happily departed. But some hope was yet entertained with regard to her honoured father, and the medical attendants again urged the necessity of his immediate removal. His strength being obviously inadequate to a lengthened journey, he was conveyed to the residence of his friend, James Knight Heron, Esq., in Swinton Park. Here, in the midst of salubrious air and beautiful scenery, he enjoyed the constant attendance of medical gentlemen occupying the highest rank in their profession, and the unwearied assiduities of the tenderest friendship. Occasional gleams of hope were afforded. He was enabled to take a few rides in an open carriage, and once he was allowed to sit under a sunny bank in the garden, and he seemed to enjoy, with a peculiar zest, the exhilarating influence of the season, and the fragrance that breathed around him.

But death had marked him for his

prey, and the hour of his departure was at hand. Day by day the prospect grew darker, and more than once it was apprehended that his dissolution was nigh. These apprehensions, however,__were not immediately realised; but on Thursday, the 26th of July, a very decided change was observed, and each hour, as it advanced, warned his attendant relatives and friends that his end was rapidly approaching. His sufferings were considerable for some hours, till at length all became peaceful, and his happy spirit departed so completely without a struggle, that the precise moment of dissolution could not be clearly ascertained. It was, however, from a quarter to half-past two o'clock, on the morning of Friday, July 27th, 1838, in the fortysixth year of his age.

Of the closing scenes of the life of our dear departed friend, some most interesting passages have been furnished me by friends, to whom I am constrained to embrace this opportunity of expressing my sense of obligation; whilst there are others which I was privileged myself to witness, on which memory, so long as it retains a place in my bosom, will delight to dwell. The difficulty is, to select, where all is so deeply interesting and impressive; but I must make the attempt.

Our mutual friend, the Rev. Richard Fletcher, has favoured me with the record of an interview which he enjoyed with him at Southport. The occasion of his visit was, to present a letter of affectionate condolence, agreed upon by his ministerial brethren in Manchester, and also to convey to him an account of the proceedings and devotional exercises which took place at the last Missionary meeting, in reference to himself. He saw him on the evening of Friday, June 22d, and spent upwards of two hours with him. He looked very ill, and reclined restlessly upon the sofa. His dear daughter at the time was in imminent danger, and her state becoming daily more hopeless. Mr. F. announced to him his errand, handed him the letter of the ministers, and the resolution of the public meeting, both of which, at his request, he read to him, and then gave him an account of the proceedings of the anniversary, especially of the breakfast, and of the unanimity, cordiality, warm affection, and deep sympathy which characterised all that passed in reference to himself. "It is impossible for me," says Mr. F., "to describe the emotions he betrayed, on receiving this communication. He seemed overwhelmed with this expression of public sympathy and brotherly affection, and for a time was

unable to give vent to his feelings; when he could speak, he expressed himself as utterly undeserving of such marks of esteem and regard, as grateful to God for the place he had given him in the hearts of his ministers and people, as greatly soothed and comforted by public and fraternal sympathy, as anxious to have an opportunity to testify his sense of such kindness, and as greatly encouraged and cheered by the prayers which had ascended to the throne of grace on his behalf."

Mr. F. made many inquiries respecting his health, and the doctor described accurately and fully all his distressing symptoms and painful sufferings. He could not but be conscious of the greatness of his intellectual efforts, and the rapidity of his mental movements; he felt their exhausting influence; and as he was aware that the physical material of his frame was originally slender, his opinion was, that his constitu. tion was worn out. When Mr. F. expressed to him a hope that he would yet rally and be restored to them, he said, that it was very doubtful, he believed his case to be very critical, for he felt that the spring and elastic restorative power of his constitution was gone. His general impression seemed to be, that he should not recover; an impression confirmed by the circumstance that, while at Southport, in the full anticipation of a fatal issue, he gave the necessary directions for the making of his last will and testament, the disposal of his papers, and the final arrangement of all his worldly affairs. But though such appeared to be the impression on his own mind, yet the affection of his brethren, which Mr. F. was commissioned to bear to him, and the prayers of the people of God which he assured him were offered for his recovery, appeared for a time to shake this conviction, to light up a gleam of hope, and produce a temporary belief that God meant to renew his strength, and to give him back to us with renovated vigour and capacity for labour. Certainly he felt at the moment a stronger desire to recover than he had been conscious of for some time previous, that he might have an opportunity of reciprocating the affection that had been shown him, and live more than ever to the glory of God.

When Mr. F. adverted to his complicated afflictions, and spoke of them as being the mysterious appointment of the infinitely wise God, and the gracious chastisements of his tenderest friend and heavenly Father, he delightfully responded to the sentiment, and expressed his firm conviction that all was right, and his unrepining submission to the will of God.

Referring to the religious state of his mind, he admitted the sense of discomfort which he endured from his physical ail

ments, but assured his friend that his soul was not bereft of the presence and support of his Saviour. The principles and views of Divine truth which he had long maintained, and of which he was so able and distinguished an advocate, appeared to him, he said, in this season of suffering, in a stronger light of demonstration, if possible, than ever nor had he the shadow of a doubt of his personal interest in the great salvation. He was resting, he said, as a guilty sinner upon Christ crucified, and in full assurance that he was accepted in the beloved.

The dear invalid spoke with great feeling of the church and cause of God, of his brethren in the ministry, of his own flock, of the interests of religion in Manchester, in the county, and the world. He expressed his wonder and gratitude that God should have honoured him by permitting him to work in his vineyard; stated his readiness and desire to labour more abundantly, and with more singleness of eye to the glory of Christ, should it please God to restore him, and his equal readiness to retire from the field and enter into rest, should it appear to be the will of his Master that his work was done. Such was the substance of this deeply interesting conversation. "But O, could I give you," adds Mr. F., "his own expressions, adorned as they were by his usual splendour, felicity, and copiousness, and softened by additional tenderness and humility! But this is impossible."

To the communication relative to this delightful interview at Southport, my excellent friend has kindly added the substance of his last conversation with our beloved and sainted brother. It was under the more than hospitable abode of Mr. James Heron, where he died. "I need not," he says, ،، describe to you the deathstruck appearance of our dear friend on that memorable day"-No! he need not, for I saw it, and with what anguish none can tell-"or his difficulty of breathing and of utterance." As Mr. F. entered the room, he lifted up his eyes and stretched out his hands to him, saying, "Ah, Richard Fletcher, my faithful friend," and embraced him. My outward man, you perceive, is decaying day by day." “ Yes, Mr. F. replied, "but I hope the inward man is renewed." "I trust it is," he answered. As well as he could, he expressed a wish that he should bear some message to his brethren, the ministers. He said, "My brethren,"-"What,' "Mr. F. replied, wishing as much as possible to anticipate his meaning, and save him the pain of speaking, "What shall I say to them? All that is affectionate?" "Yes," said he, and "grateful." He asked him if the Gospel he had preached to others now occupied his thoughts, and was dear to his

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heart? "Yes," he said, with a smile, "its very core, I cannot now trouble myself with its envelopments." Mr. F. observed, that he trusted he felt his soul safe, securely resting on the true foundation. swered, "Aye, on oaths, and promises, and blood." When Mr. F. remarked that this was a mysterions dispensation of Providence, he said, "His will be done, in heaven and on earth." As far as his broken heart and flowing tears would allow, Mr. F. prayed with him, and when he closed the Doctor said, solemnly and slowly, " Amen-Amen -Amen;" and, after a short pause, again -"Amen."

I am also indebted to one of his medical attendants for some highly interesting memoranda. On the 2nd or 3rd of July, a few days before the decease of his beloved Eliza, he said to him, as he sat beside his bed, "Don't you think Eliza is better?" He replied, "No; I fear she is getting rapidly weaker." He seemed surprised and shocked, remarking that those about her had thought her better; "but," said he, "she is in the hands of her merciful Lord, and there I desire to leave her."

On the evening of the 5th, the dear child was evidently near her end but the doctor was apparently tranquil, though the expression of his countenance indicated inward anguish. He said he had had some conversation with her the preceding evening, in the course of which she said to him, "Papa, I could wish you to recover for usefulness; but I think I shall soon see you-I think we shall soon meet!" O how mournfully prophetic these words have proved! It seems as though her father felt them to be so, for they evidently produced a peculiar impression upon his mind, and they were repeated by him with a tone and manner of deep solemnity.

On the day following, his beloved Eliza departed in peace. When his medical friend called, he found the doctor laid upon his bed, calm and collected, with his sorrowing partner seated by his side. For her he expressed the tenderest concern, lest her strength should fail, now that the stimulus which had so much contributed to sustain her was withdrawn. For himself, he said he was tolerably well, and in reference to his departed daughter, he calmly added, "If a word of mine were sufficient to call her back, that word I would not utter, if I might."

The following morning, he was so weak as to be all but dead. The preceding night his faithful nurse represented as distressing beyond her power to describe. The countenance was then ghastly, and the pulse feeble and rapid; but his mind was calm and collected. After giving utterance to a variety of expressions of gratitude for the

assistance and attention he was receivingexpressions in which it was his daily delight to indulge-his medical friend, thinking the tone of his remarks desponding, said, “It will never do for us to have many such nights as the last, if any remedy can be thought of. You are, indeed, sadly exhausted and broken down this morning." "Yes," he exclaimed with emphasis, "I am a potsherd broken in pieces; but I am a potsherd that has ceased to strive with its Maker!" After a pause, he said, "I make no foolish resolutions-that would be very wrong; but I think, or rather I hope, that if it should please God to restore me once more to health, I should improve my time more than hitherto more to his glory." These sentiments were uttered with much calmness and serenity of manner, notwithstanding the excessive weakness which prevented his speaking audibly, except by a considerable effort.

To the grateful sense he entertained of the unremitting kindness and superior skill of his medical attendants, he on one occasion gave expression, in a manner so impressive, that I must be permitted to detail it.

On their coming into the room, the doctor was evidently suffering from the effects of a sleepless night, and wore a look of the greatest conceivable exhaustion.

After saluting each individual, (as was his custom,) he calmly observed, "Gentlemen, if I must express my own opinion, judging from my sensations, I feel that I am fast sinking into the arms of death!" And then, in the most touching and affecting manner, he spoke to them separately; -to one, as his kind and long-tried friend, whose assiduous attentions, by day and by night, he had for months been enjoying;to another, as having for many weeks been so anxiously endeavouring to alleviate his sufferings, and to whom he remarked, “You little thought, I dare say, when you visited me a few weeks ago, at Southport, that you would so soon see me in the state I now And then, turning to the physician recently called in, (who had been a fellowstudent with him at Edinburgh, but with whom he had had no intercourse since,) he observed, that he, after a lapse of so many years, came forward, like an ancient friend, to see what he could do; but he felt that it was all in vain! He assured them he was satisfied that all that human aid and medical skill could accomplish, had been tried-but tried, as he thought, in vain-the Providence of God having otherwise decreed.

am.

He warmly expressed his gratitude for all their kind attentions; and then, in the most solemn and impassioned manner declared, in the presence of them all—“ I am a great sinner-I have been a great sinner;

but my trust is in Jesus Christ, and in what he has done and suffered for sinners: upon this, and this only, as the foundation of my hope, I can confidently rely, now that I am sinking into eternity." He then, with great earnestness of manner, requested one of his medical friends to look into his eye, and tell him if he appeared like one who understood that about which he spoke, assuring him "I am no fanatic-no enthusiast. No; I have been too much of the speculatist in my time." And, turning to another of the medical gentlemen, he added, "You know, sir, that these are no new sentiments with me, and to you I must look to apologize to these gentlemen for the great liberty I fear I have taken, in talking to them in such a strain."

The medical gentlemen having retired, he expressed to his attending friend his fear lest they should, for a moment, suppose that he was under the influence of excitement when he addressed them, and appeared anxious that no such erroneous impression should be entertained.

I now pass to a scene, the remembrance of which will ever be dear to my heart, as that in which, for the last time, I was permitted to behold my invaluable friend, and a spot rendered hallowed ground to me by the circumstance that there his happy spirit received its peaceful dismission from its clay tabernacle, and there his precious dust remained, from the moment of dissolution, to that in which it was borne to the narrow house, and the closing sepulchre veiled it for ever from my sight. Nor can I ever think of that spot without calling to remembrance the kind, the tender, the unwearied, the unremitting attentions which, with even more than ordinary fraternal affection, were rendered to the beloved sufferer, especially by two members of the excellent family by whom it is inhabited, and one other of a kindred spirit with themselves, who undertook with them the anxious post of observation, and night and day made it their one undivided care to minister to his comfort, anticipate his wants, and sooth and allay, as far as such tender assiduities could accomplish this design, the languor and the restlessness of increasing debility and approaching death.

To one of those excellent individuals, before his removal to Swinton Park, many things were said worthy to be remembered, and which I should rejoice to tell you, had 1 but the time. Describing to him the closing scene of his dear Eliza's life, he said, "Dear girl, she had to pass indeed through a dark valley, but there were bright, bright prospects at the end of it. No hallucinations, but bright prospects." There was a remarkable coincidence of cir

cumstances, indicating the perfect composure with which both viewed the advance of death. Eliza, the night before her decease, requested that all lights might be removed, that all persons would leave the room, and that she might be left entirely alone. Such also was more than once the request of her beloved father, when the night appeared most likely to be his last. Often amidst that distressing restlessness which attended his complaint, he entreated that patience might be afforded to him; and often, when unable to obtain a moment's rest, he would pray, and request his friends to pray, that he might have power to recline, or to sleep, or to breathe, as his wants at the time might dictate, remarking that he thought it not sinful to pray even for so small a mercy as power to recline without restlessness. Once, about that time, he quoted the passage, "I will make all his bed in his sickness," and added, "What infinite condescension, to promise, I will make his bed. How beautiful! Who but one situated as I am can tell the sweetness and importance of a bed prepared with care, unable as I am to repose?"

To a young friend who visited him, he said, "Let me speak to you while I am able-I may not be so long-perhaps not again." He then exhorted him to prepare for death, by giving himself to God in his early youth. He alluded to a former conversation he had had with him, and said he remembered all that had passed; and then added, "What do you think I could now do, if I had to prepare for eternity, in my present state of pain and restlessness?"

He had a keen relish for the beauties of nature, and a touching instance of it was afforded during his abode at Swinton. Sitting in the garden on one occasion, already alluded to,-I believe the only one in which he was enabled to enjoy this luxury, he was presented with a piece of sweetbriar, when he said, "Did you ever see any sweetbriar hedges growing in the country lanes? I have often risen in the morning very early, and walked for hours in their neighbourhood to enjoy their fragrance, which, when the dew is upon the leaves, is particularly fine." He then quoted an exquisite passage from Milton's L'Allegro, and passing from this, in language too beautiful to be remembered, he expatiated at considerable length on the blessedness and glory of the heavenly state, the variety of its engagements, and the perfect harmony that pervades the whole. He was powerfully excited, and the little group which had gathered round him were melted into tears, for they were reminded of some of his happiest closing addresses from the pulpit, when there seemed to be something