The communion seasons were from the first occasions of the manifestation of spiritual power. Often the minister himself would be almost overcome by his own feelings, or, perhaps we should say, by the vividness of his vision of the crucified Lover of our souls. Often in such a case it was his habit, during a pause in the rush of feeling to sit down upon his chair, throw his head back and completely cover his face with his handkerchief, his hands resting upon the arms of his chair until his tears and the storm of emotion had swept by. These over, he emerged as the embodiment of quiet grace, dignity, and calm strength, the master of the assembly. After the darkening of his home through the removal from it by death of his wife, Mr. Chambers, left with two little children, found consolation in even profounder consecration to the work of leading souls into the Way. His own spiritual life was deepened and his sympathies with suffering humanity widened by his own sorrows. He had always a message for those, who like himself, knew the weight of known griefs or secretly borne crosses. In later years he was to lose his only son. My own recollections of the young physician, whom my pastor always so tenderly referred to as "my son Duncan", are of a handsome and promising man, whose life was all too short. I remember how keen and warm were the sympathies of great congregations, during the time when the father's heart was wrung with grief, as the telegrams and letters told of the ravages of disease and the approaching end. The biographer never saw the first Mrs. Chambers, who is described by those who knew her as very lovely in person and manner, but her children and the other "partners in life"--his favorite phrase--are well remembered. The second marriage of Mr. Chambers was on September 30th, 1834, to Martha, the widow of Silas E. Weir, a merchant of Philadelphia and the daughter of Alexander Henry, a merchant in Philadelphia, and aunt to Mayor Alexander Henry. My impressions of Martha Chambers extend from the month of March, 1855, until a short time before her death, on Friday, March 16, 1860. I have dim remembrances of my being a very little boy, when an august lady, who wore her hair in bands low down on her cheeks, as the fashion then was, with a very sweet smile, spoke kindly to me in the Broad street Church. I recall how every Sunday morning and afternoon, the stately man of God with his "companion in life", a lady of equally imposing appearance with himself moved up the middle aisle and, if I am not mistaken, often arm in arm, until reaching the space opposite the pew. Then the pastor would with his left hand, open the door. After ceremoniously seeing his consort well inside, he would shut the pew door and then move briskly forward and up the pulpit steps to the sofa.