A clergyman writes of him, that “his appearance when preaching was very remarkable, and singularly beautiful. When standing in a great crowd, every soul seemed agitated to its centre, and cheeks streaming with tears. It is but justice that every one should have his likeness taken when he appears to the greatest advantage; and so Williams. His picture, on such an occasion, would be an honour to the country which reared him, a treasure to the thousands who heard him, and a name to the painter.” The likeness is before us now, and in the firm, composed thoughtfulness, a kind of sad, far outlook in the eyes, and the lips which seem to wait to tremble into emotion—we think we can well realize, from the inanimate engraving, what life must have been in the speech of this extraordinary man. His mind was cast in a sweetly meditative mould. He was fond of retreating by himself among the trees, and walking beneath their shadows, as they formed a canopy over his head. He said of one such place, “I think I must love that spot through all eternity, for I have felt a degree of heaven there.” And thus he died. He had lost his wife some time before. It is very affecting to read the account of himself, and his daughter, dying together in different rooms of the same house. As he said to her, one day, “We appear to be running, with contending footsteps, to be first at the goal.” They spent much time in talking together, with unruffled composure, of death, and heaven, and being “absent from the body, and present with the Lord.” Every morning, as soon as he was up, found him by the bedside of his daughter. Once he said to her, “Well, Eliza, how are you this morning?” “Very weak, father.” “Ah!” said he, “we are both on the racecourse. Which of us do you think will get to the end first?” “Oh, I shall, father. I think you must have more work to do yet.” “No,” he said; “I think my work is nearly over.” “It may be so, father; but, still, I think I shall be the first to go.” “Perhaps,” he said, “it is best it should be so, for I am more able to bear the blow. But,” he continued, “do you long to see the end of the journey?” “Oh, from my heart!” she replied. “But why?” “Because I shall see so many of my old friends, and my mother; and, above all, I shall see Jesus.” “Ah, well, then,” he said, “tell them I am coming! tell them I am coming!” She died first. Her last words were, “Peace! peace!” He followed her shortly after—on the 17th of March, 1840, in the fifty-ninth year of his age.