sun, to feel the balmy breeze which wafts the fragrance of the flowers-to listen to the warbling strain of the nightingale, and give way to the wanderings of my imagination, which gave perhaps a delusive yet fascinating sensation of pleasure to the fleeting moment.

"I have sailed above a thousand miles on the sea. I am beginning to like boisterous weather, though I seldom escape the consequences. Adieu. Yours, sincerely,

W."

"About this time my father began to prepare Wilberforce to receive the holy sacrament for the first time, and they used to retire together every day after breakfast during our stay at Rothsay. Willy listened to instruction with respectful silence, and seeming acquiescence in the sentiments laid before him he appeared interested and anxious to be received into full communion with the church of God, and was often observed to be in deep thought, and sometimes greatly depressed. His unwillingness, however, to free communication rather increased, and as his health was not materially improved, his father's anxiety often amounted to agony, and he could not conceal the mental agitation which afflicted him. He continued to weep and pray in secret for his child's confidence. From Wilberforce's conversations at a later period, and from letters written about this time, unknown to his father till after his decease, we learnt what had been the deep exercises of his mind-that he was then earnestly seeking the knowledge and enjoyment of God-that eternal things were daily subjects of his contemplation and inquiry, and that he also suffered much from an insurmountable repugnance to make known his feelings, his wishes, and wants. He told us afterwards, that though he suffered more

from suffering alone, he seemed like one bound with a chain, and could not venture to lean or place his confidence on any human help. At this time he wrote as follows.

"MY DEAR MAMMA,

Rothsay.

"I was beginning to write to you when your letter arrived. Very many thanks to you for it. It is impossible for me to say how much a letter from home rejoices and relieves me, under the peculiar circumstances by which I am separated from it. The simplest thing which happens in Turvey, becomes to me an object of interest.

"I am very sorry I should be the cause of anxiety to you or to any one I love: I feel this thought more than any pain I suffer in my body. Indeed I lament our separation as much as you can do. This period is one in which I could have wished we might all have been together, but things do not fall out as we would have them, and it is best for us that they do not. I wish to feel resignation in every thing. As for my illness, I trust I receive it at the hands of God, and most firmly believe it to be the greatest mercy he ever vouchsafed me. My heart was engrossed by this world. My affections were not set on things above. I did not sufficiently feel my need of a Saviour. Christ was not my beacon-star to direct the future wanderings of my life, but I looked to the false glare of human ambition, which would have led me to serve myself rather than God; now I have discovered the worthlessness of all my hopes and aims. I find that all I have hitherto done is of no avail in sickness. I have seen what earthly dependance is,when the world and all that is in it seems about to be hidden from our view for ever. I trust also I have known something of the joy arising out of

dependance on Christ in the moment of extremity. I would ask God's forgiveness for making less improvement of his "loving reproof" than I ought to have done. Remember me to Mr. and Mrs. G. I hope the school is going on prosperously. I wish my class to be told, that though far from them, I have not forgotten them. I hope they are regular in their attendance, and that if I return, I shall find them all much improved. Oh! if you knew how very often I think of home. I did not know till now how much I was attached to Turvey. I shall never forget my feelings when I lost sight of our little village. I was obliged to summon up every weak and weary faculty to prevent my quite sinking under the removal from it. * Your most affectionate and dutiful Son,

MY DEAR MAMMA,

*

*

W."

Rothsay, September.

"Many thanks for your affectionate birth-day letter. I shall always recollect my last birth-day, for it was the first in which I felt melancholy. In the full enjoyment of health and spirits, surrounded by all I most loved, and by the companions of my boyhood, those days were wont to pass away more quickly and happily than any other. But as I sailed pensively down the waters of Loch-lomond on the 20th of last month, a day dark and gloomy, and in unison with my feelings, I felt that I was no longer in the spot where I had spent the former anniversaries with those who shared and welcomed my happiness. Yet I solaced the desolation of feeling with the recollection, that though absent, there were those who were thinking of me, and of this your letter convinced me. * * We spent last Sunday at Greenock; a day, I trust, ever to be remembered by me, for on that day I was

*

*

admitted to the highest Christian privilege, the sacrament of the body and blood of our Saviour Jesus Christ, ordained by him as a perpetual remembrance of his precious death and passion. Oh! that it may be to me a sign and pledge of my admission to the marriage supper of the Lamb in glory. I was very much affected, and should have been quite overcome by the, emotions of my own mind, if I had not felt stronger and better than usual on that day. Now that I am an outward member of the visible church of Christ, may I daily prove myself to be one inwardly, in spirit and in truth; and whatever portion of life God is pleased to allow me, I would devote it to his service, and love him with my whole heart, who first loved me. I wish another summer was at hand, instead of another winter. I feel a dread of the winter. There is already an autumnal feeling here. The leaves are beginning to change their lively green to more varied hues. Did the fading leaf ever remind you of the decay of a Christian in this world? Like the early tints displayed by the unfolding bud, are the opening dispositions of a young Christian. His active walk and conversation resemble the healthy vigor of the full matured foliage and fruit. In the signs of withering decay we see an emblem of his closing scene, when he has arrived at the end of his mortal existence, and sinks into a temporary suspension, to shoot forth in a never-fading spring of immortal joys."

"We spent the months of July, August, and September in the Isle of Bute, but as the season advanced, we were advised to return home. Apparently, there was little improvement in Wilberforce's health. Probably from being constantly with him, we had not noticed the gradual, yet real increase of the disorder. He certainly considered himself much better, and entertained hopes of recovery, and

expressed great pleasure in returning to Turvey. We passed a few days on our way home, with some dear friends in Yorkshire, with whom our father left us while he went to preach at Bradford. His great anxiety for Willy's eternal destiny, appears by an interesting letter written to him at this time.*

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My brother arrived at Turvey Rectory the beginning of November, and was restored to the quiet and peace of his own family. Six weeks elapsed with little or no alteration in his appearance. In a letter which my father wrote to me at this time, he says,

66

Dear Willy is much the same. I wish he was more confidential and communicative as to the real state of his soul. Oh! what would I give for one voluntary conversation or letter, detailing the former and present history of what is passing in his mind. I think well of it, and I hope it is comfortable; but I want to know this from himself. Many a secret tear does his silence cost me."

"It was during the six months following his return from Scotland, that poor Willy's soul was so severely tried. He never spoke of death, but he must have been sensible of increasing inward decay. He could not hide from himself or his family, the depression and anxiety of his spirit. He was much alone, and when he returned from his closet to his family, the signs of sorrow and the traces of some deep mental conflict were frequently visible in his countenance. The Bible was scarcely ever out of his hand, and after his return from the north, he seldom took up any other book, religious or literary; which was the more remarkable, as his chief occupation and delight had ever been in reading authors on almost all subjects. He would now sit for hours,

* See Memoir, page 528.