ment. The three days after commencement passed heavily away; nothing to interest the mind but the gloomy prospect of a hard term's study. There are times, my dear parents, when every thing seems to conspire to make one melancholy; and never before have I known so many to rush upon me. My room no longer looks like former times; a carpet, bureau, stove, &c., have materially changed its appearance; the old bedstead alone looks familiar. I enter it as a stranger, and feel that it no longer loves me, no longer sympathizes in my sorrows. I am now the only Methodist in the university. Far from home and friends, I am in a great measure shut out from the blessings of life and the endearments of social affection. A wide, unfriendly world is before me; I am ill prepared to bear its neglect, ill prepared to meet its trials; yet I must soon enter upon its duties. College now affords me a shelter, but it will soon deny it. more unhappy still, the shortened days and howling winds proclaim the near approach of that season when my heart sinks within me. You may smile at what you may call the ideal miseries of life, or an imaginary tale of distress; but I appeal to my brother if he has not felt all this. "All this?—yea, more." The testimony of two witnesses, dear parents, is true.

And, as if to make me

But every picture has its bright side, and so has this. I feel grateful for the advantages of education, and humbly trust they will not be lost upon me. I turn my thoughts to you, dear parents, with emotions of joy. I prize your affection, which has borne with the follies and sins of my youth, and which so early pointed me to the grave, and to that region which lies beyond it. I bless that hand which, under God, has supplied all my wants. I cannot repay you for your love, nor can I discharge the debt of gratitude I owe you: to God alone must I commend you; to him alone can you look for your reward. I reflect with

fondness upon a brother's love, and rejoice in his prosperity. Other friends share in my affections, and sometimes occupy my thoughts; but they do not diminish the love which I bear to you. No; true affection, like the loaves which were distributed among the five thousand, increases with the number of its partakers; it may be divided, but, unlike many other things, dividing does not diminish it. I trust also that the education which you have given me the means of obtaining will enable me to meet the difficulties of life; should it not make me happy, it may make me useful. The gloomy autumn, too, bids me look forward to happier days. While it reminds me of the frailty of man, and of the transitory nature of earthly bliss, it points me to a land of glory encircled by an everlasting spring. There no falling leaves tell of man's mortality, but perpetual verdure speaks his immortal youth. There no chilling winds pierce the vitals, but gentle zephyrs waft the songs of angels. O! there may we dwell for

ever.

TO HIS BROTHER.

October 5, 1833.

I despise, as well as yourself, the character of a flatterer; it ill becomes the dignity of a man. And when I reflect how difficult it is to compliment a man modestly, I am surprised that so many think themselves fully adequate to the still more difficult task of flattery. The world seem to swallow adulation greedily; but he who would praise a sensitive man must touch the finest sensibilities of the soul with fingers light as the mellow zephyrs.

What a charm do college walls reflect upon the quiet of home! How lovely an appearance does disscenery tance lend to an absent fireside! We muse upon its happiness, and when the trance is over, it seems as a dream when one awaketh;" we wonder at the strange flight that fancy has taken, and wish its wings would never tire, its

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journey never end. Thus have my feelings often prompted me to say, and I presume, my dear brother, you will not hesitate to sympathize with me.

Thus the very feelings of the soul prove its immortality; always unsatisfied with present enjoyments, it looks forward to other scenes; it soars above the earth, and seeks some region where there are pleasures suited to its capacities. And here the awful question arises, Are we preparing to leave this world, and enter on an untried state of existence? Are our affections disengaging themselves from "the things which are seen," and fixing themselves upon "the things which are not seen?" Are our souls daily becoming more and more fit for the refined enjoyments of heaven? Assured I am that I cannot too often think of death, eternity, and judgment to come. And though I humbly trust I have been "born again,” though I feel attached to the cause of Christ, and am willing to lay down my life as an humble defender of the faith, yet often do I feel constrained to say, I am not prepared to die. I desire so to live that I may calmly, yea, joyfully, expect the approach of death. Let us, my dear brother, never cease to bear each other in the arms of faith and prayer to him who shall be our Judge.

And this reminds me of a subject on which we have before spoken; that is, the ministry. What say you, my brother; will you be a minister of the gospel? In one of your former letters you remarked that you were not sure you were called to preach. In answer to this, dear brother, I would ask, does not the assertion, “The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few," often ring in your ears? I would not urge the subject, for it is a matter between you and your God. Do, dear brother, settle the question, and inform me in your next of your determination. Surely there is no time for delay, for the church and the world are both awaiting your decision.

TO HIS PARENTS.

October 8, 1833.

A few evenings since I attended a meeting of deep interest. A missionary was present, who had just bid his parents the last farewell, and was the next day to embark for the field of his labours. With fervour worthy of the

glorious cause, and with eloquence becoming the excitement of his mind, he told us his feelings on leaving his parents, and his thoughts while sitting for the last time in a New-England temple, dedicated to the service of his God. He asked our prayers for himself, but said he would willingly forget himself for the sake of the people to whom he was going. He urged us by all that is noble in the human soul, by all that is vast in eternity and glorious in heaven, to pray for the heathen. He fondly expected to meet us again, not on earth, but in heaven. No tear dimmed his eye; the cause which he had espoused forbade him to weep; the hopes which he cherished suppressed every sigh. To me, dear parents, it was an affecting, I had almost said, an unearthly scene. I looked forward to the time when he would faint beneath his toils -when he would fall with "victory" on his shield, and God would say, Come home, thou servant of the Lord, come home! And I thought of Liberia. An unearthly charm is spread over that land; the bones of our Cox are there; there is the resting-place of that saint of God. O! my parents, the grave of Cox shall teach the dying negro a lesson which human wisdom could never teach; his grave shall speak the eloquence of heaven. Age shall repair to it, and, as he leans upon his staff, and muses on the white man, shall unconsciously think of the message which he came to bring, and of the heaven to which he said he was going; and then shall that Spirit which strives even with the heathen speak to his heart, and say, "The white man's message was truth,-believe it and be

saved!" O yes! the mouldering bones of the Christian missionary shall invigorate that barren land.

I would not have you suppose that I expect the praise of men; my talents do not merit it. I regard reputation so far as it can confer honour on my dear parents and friends, so far as it may be considered an earnest of future usefulness, and so far as it can subserve the cause of Christ. To these bounds I trust my desires may ever be limited. Ambitious I know I am, but I would fain believe that ambition is restrained by religion.

I rejoice that I have subscribed my name to the creed of Wesley. I rejoice that, though unworthy, I belong to a church which, with the Bible in her hand, with the grace of God and the illuminations of uncreated wisdóm in the hearts of her members, goes forth from conquering to conquer. She need not fear: enemies may rise up against her; pious men, as well as the irreligious, may condemn her motives; but she stands, and will stand while God is with her. Would I could be a champion in her cause! then would I joy to be foremost in the fight, and bear the brunt of the battle. But no, I have not the talent adequate to move as a captain! Well then, I can march in the ranks, and do my duty as a soldier. Many a soldier has saved the life of his general. But I have forgotten myself; really I have written like a soldier who has just enrolled; one or two skirmishes may cool my courage.

You seem willing to admit that your minds are too much occupied with temporal affairs. It is strange, my dear parents, since the evening of life is so fast approaching, that you should toil so hard to lay up that which will not benefit you, but remain for your children. We do think you ought not to labour so hard; and we rejoice that we can, with some degree of confidence, look forward to the time when we shall not daily and hourly consume that which costs you so much labour.