ed him rather to purchase a farm in Vermont. God, howev er, had other purposes, and, in humble dependence upon his infinite wisdom and mercy, we may well spare ourselves all painful reflections upon the past, and look to the grounds of hope and satisfaction which we find in his exit. You do not refer to his state of mind in the last extremity, but I do not allow myself to doubt his full preparation for the future. I have long regarded him as a sincere and devout Christian, and I have good confidence in his safe transition to a better and happier world. I had much respect for his character. He was a kind and provident husband and father, and it is in that relation that I most deplore his loss, just at a time when his family so much need his care. And yet God will no doubt provide for the seed of the righteous. The widow, we know, is his peculiar care. I inclose a line to dear sister Palmer, not knowing her post-office. I am glad to hear that she bears her loss with Christian meekness, though I am sure that her sensitive nature must feel the shock very deeply.

I am truly sorry to learn that you are no longer able to preach the Gospel. I can sympathize with you in this great privation, than which none can be more grievous. It is yet matter for congratulation that you have so much strength for ordinary pursuits. It is a great blessing to live for one's family after you can do little more for the Church. How happy should I be to visit you all in Illinois. This may be practicable hereafter, though just now I am too busy with imperative duties to think of indulging my fervent wishes in this respect. I must work while it is day. My health has failed me during the present year, and I hardly dare to hope for permanent improvement. I only resolve to do what I can as long as I can, trusting in God for results. to dear sister Adams and the children. grown by this time. May Heaven bless them great comforts to their parents.

I send my love They are nearly them, and make

I am very truly your brother and friend,

STEPHEN OLIN.

CXXXVIII. TO A GRADUATE OF 1845.

New York, December 31st, 1845.

MY DEAR FRIEND,-I suppose you are acquainted with the cause of my long silence. I received your letter in October, and, I assure you, with much satisfaction. I had already been ill six weeks or more, commencing with September 5th. I was unable to perform any duty during the fall term, and attended prayers in the chapel but three times. About the 1st of November I sailed for Savannah, and returned to this city about the 7th of the present month, much better—indeed, in about my usual health. A multitude of duties, which had accumulated during my illness, had to be attended to, and, according to an invariable rule of mine, took precedence of all claims not imposed upon me by my official engagements. I have given great prominence to an explanation, because I wish to hear from you again, and would not have you to suppose that I have neglected to acknowledge your letter. were likely, also, to feel some interest in my health—enough to tolerate this paragraph.

You

I highly approve of your reasons for preferring to engage in teaching, at least for the present; and I trust I may have opportunities to aid you in obtaining a satisfactory situation. It would give me great pleasure to do so, whenever I may be able. I should, perhaps, feel much less of difficulty with your peculiar religious notions than you imagine. I habitually extend a very large charity to opinions not precisely like my own, and I assure you that increasing years and ampler opportunities to observe have no tendency to chill this feeling. I have been fortunate in becoming acquainted with excellent men, belonging to religious denominations not accredited for the soundest opinions; and I am unable, perhaps constitutionally so, to reject, on the score of a rather unsatisfactory creed, piety that commends itself in the deportment and temper. In the case of a young man like yourself, there is yet

stronger reason for both hope and charity. Every thinking young man is likely to pass through a probation of many doubts and speculations before he reaches the high vantageground of a settled, sustaining faith. So long as the morals are pure, and a love of truth and a deep reverence for God maintain their ascendency over the heart, I can not feel that there is any very imminent danger. Whatever errors of sentiment you may have had the misfortune to embrace-and of these I can not pretend to be well informed—I have always supposed that you had these safeguards, and therefore have felt less solicitude about the ultimate issue of your speculations. Allow me to add, that I have thought your chief want to be one which would be satisfied by personal consecration to God. I think your speculative difficulties will mostly disappear when you shall have reached that point in your religious history. Without knowing what may be your peculiar faith in regard to the divinity of Christ, for instance, I suppose that a deep conviction of sinfulness and of utter helplessness would place you in a position highly favorable to the reception of such views on this subject as I esteem orthodox. Some progress in Christian experience can hardly fail of suggesting wants not easily satisfied by inadequate views of the Redeemer's offices and agency. The renewed soul speedily comes to feel the power of what are called high views on these points, and nothing is so calculated to awaken and sustain its faith and its gratitude as the contemplation of a Savior clothed with the functions and attributes which we are wont to ascribe to him. I do not mention these things in a controversial way, which seldom does any good, but as my justification for taking far more encouraging views of your religious position than you may have imagined. I have not thought you confirmed in any opinions incompatible with a saving piety. I know of nothing to interfere with your usefulness in any situation among us, and I will gladly aid you in your wishes and objects, when it may be in my power to

do so. Unquestionably, it might be indiscreet for you, if, for instance, in a Methodist institution, to promulgate sentiments and views objectionable to that denomination; nor, until you had embraced such opinions fully, would you be called on to publish them; and when you had, you would be at liberty to adopt a creed and a position in accordance therewith. I earnestly hope and pray that your doubts and speculations. may result in your embracing heartily that form of Christianity which may prove most favorable to elevated piety. The little distaste you may have for Methodism in some of its manifestations should not, and, I am sure, will not have any permanent influence upon a mind so philosophical as yours. I am glad to see a good article of yours in the Methodist Quarterly Review. It is favorably received, and I hope you will write again. Give, I would suggest, a fuller expression of your own views. Here is a field open in which you may do good, despite your "chaotic faith." Occupy this, and othMay God be your guide to a proper field of action, to a sound, saving faith, and to all happiness here and hereafter.

ers will open.

CXXXIX. TO MRS. OLIN.

Boston, Wednesday, January 7th, 1846.

This, the first morning of my visit in this enchanted city,

opens with a northeast storm.

It snowed in the night; it rains since the dawn of day. Darkness lasted till seven o'clock. I am, of course, shut in, having a too lively recollection of my adventure last winter to invite the fate to which I was then doomed, or doomed myself, under circumstances so precisely like the present, that I am not a little startled at them.

I was at the South Ferry yesterday morning half an hour before the time. Our passage to Greenport was nearly at the rate of thirty miles an hour, diversified only by a little sleep, which, indeed, helped me to dispose of several hours of the

tedious day. We crossed the Sound to the Thames, and took the road at Allen's Point, some six miles below Norwich, the ice preventing our nearer approach to that city. Near the termination of our ride on the island, a man or boy threw a stone through the window into the car, and ran away off from the bank. The broken glass flew across the car into my face, but fortunately did no harm. I presume this is a fruit of the grudge against the rail-road intrusion into this secluded region. On coming to Allen's Point, I saw standing among the waiting crowd the Rev. Mr. B- who was once at our

I accosted him before

house—a short, stout, primitive man. he saw me. His eyes filled with tears as he replied to my inquiry, "I am well, but in affliction. My children are all dead, and now my only grandchild has died of the croup. We"-pointing to his wife and son-in-law, to whom he introduced me-_“ are going to New London with the corpse, to bury it there." All then wept. I did not, but realized the uncertainty of earthly good. What sorrow was there! May God bless the sufferers! May He give me a heart to sympathize more deeply with all the forms of human woe! I often fear that I am greatly deficient in this, and yet I am no stranger to sorrow myself. It would be good for me to visit more sick-rooms, more death-beds-good, I mean, for the soul, though my nerves might complain.

The captain of the boat was very polite, having heard me preach on Sunday, in John Street, of which church his wife is a member. I rode on and nodded on to Boston, which we reached, I think, before seven o'clock.

nursery.

My narrative has now reached the present moment (twenty minutes short of eleven o'clock). It rains dismally. Mr. S - has gone to his office; his wife to the The children are scattered. E- is studying the seventh book of Virgil here in the dining-room, where I write by a bright coal-fire. I have not many bright thoughts, as you see. I wish you were here; it would brighten our view, despite the outdoor manifestations.