none could doubt its truth, or fail to realize its power. Vain would be the attempt to catch the spirit of those glowing addresses in the lecture-room and the chancel, which received their charms from the inspiration of the moment. We might as well attempt to imprint the colours of the rainbow upon canvass by pressing it against the cloud, as to transfer such warm and living messages of truth to paper. To attempt to embody their excellences in a written address would be to strip them of their highest beauties. To use a comparison of Montgomery, it would be like gathering the dew drops in your hand in the hope that they would retain their brilliancy. While hanging upon the morning grass and reflecting the rays of the sun, they sparkle like diamonds of the brightest lustre, but when gathered and mingled together, there is nothing in their aspect to distinguish them from common water!

During his residence on Staten Island, Dr. Moore acquired habits of fidelity and zeal which were confirmed and strengthened, and gave great efficiency to his labours in subsequent years and other scenes of his devoted ministry. He never shrunk from self-denial and hardship, nor did he ever allow pleasure to interfere with duty. Not only was he ready to comply with all parochial services by day; but, if, as sometimes happened, he were requested in the night to visit a distant part of the Island to baptize a sick child, or administer the consolations of religion to a dying parishioner, he did not hesitate to expose himself to the inconvenience and danger of a dark and even stormy ride. This promptness in the discharge of the most trying duties which devolve on a parochial clergyman, was probably confirmed, if not induced, by an affecting incident which occurred at an early period of his ministry. "On one occasion he was invited to meet a company of highly

esteemed friends at dinner. Just as he was getting into his gig a messenger arrived from a distant part of the Island, requesting him to visit a very poor communicant, who was dangerously ill. Obedient to the call of duty he relinquished his proposed pleasure, but still with some reluctance, wishing that the call of duty had not been made, and almost inclined to delay it until to-morrow. When arrived at the humble cottage, he was unusually successful in imparting the consolations of religion, and in quieting the fears and animating the hopes of his humble friend. As he knelt on the dirt floor, the grace of God warmed his affections, and with unwonted fervour he poured forth his supplications for the dying Christian before the throne of their common Father and God. As he returned home late in the evening, with his own faith strengthened and his Christian graces enlivened, he wept at the thoughts of the reluctance with which he had gone to so delightful a duty, and was humbled under a sense of his ingratitude to that merciful God, who had thus by his very kindness rebuked him. That night his sick friend died, full of peace and hope. The Bishop continued to his death to look back to that evening, spent in the dying Christian's chamber, as perhaps, the happiest of his life; and he learned from the occurrence a lesson which he did not forget; never under any circumstances to postpone duty to pleasure."*

Soon after the death of Bishop Moore, there appeared in the secular newspapers a thrilling narrative illustrative of his philanthropy and piety. The act which it records is worthy of a more permanent memorial than it has received from the periodical press; and the reader will be gratified by having the original account of the incident transferred to these pages. It is as follows:

* Rev. Mr. Norwood's address at the funeral of Bishop Moore.

From the N. Y. Observer.

A REMINISCENCE OF BISHOP MOORE.

MESSRS. EDITORS,-I have read, with interest, your notices of the death and burial of the late Rt. Rev. Bishop Moore, of Virginia. No eulogy from so humble an individual as myself can add any thing to the estimation in which be was held by the public,-yet I have long owed him a debt of gratitude which I would repay by any means in my power. I must therefore solicit the privilege of recording in your valuable paper a scene of danger and distress in which the Rev. Richard Moore was made the instrument, in the hands of God, of saving myself and nine other persons from a watery grave.

Many years ago, before the bridges were built over the Hackensack and Passaic rivers, it was customary when a drove of cattle arrived from the eastward for the Philadelphia market, to transport them from Whitehall to Elizabethtown point; and on such occasions, all the ferry boats, six or seven in number, were collected, in order that the drove might be transported at one and the same time. It was on such an occasion, on the 9th day of April, 1793, that I took a passage in one of the Elizabethtown ferry boats, in which ten or eleven oxen completely filled up the hold. There were on board the boat eight male and two female passengers, and the boatman, named Hiram Hatfield. The wind was blowing so violently at S. W., and a strong tide of ebb, that all the boats which preceded us, thought it dangerous to keep the ship channel, and therefore steered immediately across the North river, in order to gain the shoal water to the west of Gibbet Island. But our captain, more ambitious and adventurous, determined

to avail himself of the strength of the tide in the ship channel, and in that way outrun his competitors. We had proceeded down the bay to a point between Robin's reef and Yellow-hook, on the Long Island shore, when the turbulence of the waves was so great, and the boat rolled so heavily to leeward, that much water was taken in over the gunwale, and the oxen occupied the hold of the boat so entirely, that no access could be had to the well, where a scoop was ordinarily used to free the boat from water: the consequence was, that the boat soon became waterlogged, and not answering her helm, fell off into the trough of the sea. In order to bring her head to wind, the foresail was lowered, but without effect; and an abortive attempt was made to put her before the wind and run back to the city; so that we then lay at the mercy of the wind and the waves, drifting rapidly towards the Narrows. An attempt was then made to free the boat of the oxen, and those to windward were cut loose, which only hastened the sad catastrophe-for the oxen, unable to keep their feet, sunk down to leeward, and the water then made a complete cascade over the gunwale. It now became evident that the boat would fill; but we had no apprehension that any part of her would sink-not knowing that there was a quantity of ballast under the floor of the cockpit but as soon as the water had reached that part of the boat it began to settle rapidly, and most of the passengers rushed forward to the forecastle; I myself ran to the mainmast and was in the act of ascending by the hoops of the mainsail, which was still hoisted, when one of the female passengers, a stout, athletic person of about my own weight, caught me round the neck, and held me with such a deathlike grasp that she broke my hold of the hoops, and we both plunged into the billows. My situation at that moment

appeared without a ray of hope; to unclasp her hands was impossible; but through the kind providence of God I was enabled to thrust them over my head, and I immediately rose to the surface, and found a barrel of oil about twenty feet to leeward of the boat, (as to the tide,) by which I sustained myself; but in a moment, the woman whom 1 had left eight or ten feet under water, and whose face I never expected to see again, rose by my side, (by reason of the quantity of air in her clothes,) and again attempted to grapple me; but dreading such a dangerous contact, I resigned the barrel to her and swam to the head of the mainmast, and straddled the gaff of the mainsail, which was still hoisted, holding on by the halyards. I had not a moment's time to look round for my fellow passengers, for I felt a youth of about twelve or fourteen years of age clinging to my feet, whom I drew up and placed before me on the gaff. It was the son of a Mrs. McLean, who had lived at Whitehall slip. As soon as he could speak, he inquired eagerly for his mother-but in looking round I found she was missing; and I afterwards learned that she had tied herself to the leeboard tackle to prevent being washed overboard, and attempted to tie her son also, but he made a successful resistance. In looking round for my other companions in affliction, I found that our brave boatman had secured six of them on the bow of the boat, not more than four feet of which was above water. Placing himself on the outside of the shivering group, with the boat rope in his hand, as often as one or another of them was washed off by the violence of the waves, he would leap off and restore them to their narrow and precarious resting place. The woman whom I left at the barrel of oil, had been driven by the wind within reach of the main