Mr. H. N. Barnum, who knew Dr. Williams intimately, while admitting that he was unduly disposed to distrust his own powers and judgment, says that, aside from this, he was a rare man. "He had great self-control, and was so undemonstrative, that those who did not know him intimately can scarcely be said to have known him at all. He possessed genuine refinement; and with his marvelous fund of information in almost all departments of knowledge, his fine command of language, and his good nature and enthusiasm, he was, in his more cheerful moods, a fascinating member of our social circle. His clear mind had been carefully cultivated, and his acquisitions were very exact. However much he distrusted his own judgment, his associates confided in it. He was forward to acknowledge any mistake, and correct it, and he was enthusiastic in his zeal for the policy of self-support in the missionary work. His students held him in the highest admiration, and very few missionaries have secured the affection of the people for whom they labor so fully as he did. Had he remained at home, I am sure he would have stood conspicuous among the clergy. He was very careful in the use of missionary funds, and in everything maintained a conscience void of offense. He was, withal, eminently spiritual. His many trials had wrought in him a deep and thorough work of grace." "The _one_ attraction of heaven for Mr. Williams," writes his bereaved wife, "was _Jesus_. 'Like Jesus,' and 'without sin,' and 'to be with Jesus and see Him as He is,' were phrases ever on his lips. He used often to speak of the great host gone before, and of the loved ones constantly gathering there; but it was rare to hear him speak of joy at the prospect of meeting them. It was always '_Jesus_, the joy of loving hearts.' Neither did he long for heaven as a place of _rest_, until very near the end. He loved toil, and felt a great desire to live and labor for the Master." "At last," she says, "he did grow very weary, and often exclaimed; 'So tired, O, so tired.' In one of those weariest hours, he asked me if I remembered Bickersteth's description of Paradise. 'Well,' he said, 'I can't bear to think of it. To think of climbing over those mountains, it is so wearisome. I think, 'In my Father's house are many mansions,' and I want to be taken right into one of them, and laid down to rest--to rest--O, how sweet.' His intellect was clouded in the last hours."