‘Forgive you? oh, yes! you little know a parent’s feelings. But there is One whom you have offended, whose pardon I hope you desire and ask—One who delights to forgive—ah! cling to Him, my child, He will never forsake you. I will soon have crossed “that bourne from whence no traveller returns.” In a short time you will have no father; but it would smooth my passage to the tomb, to think that you felt inclined to throw yourself into the hands of the living God, and beg his assistance to curb that unstable spirit, which has caused you and us so much misery; and that we shall yet meet, no wanderer lost, a family in heaven—there is joy in the thought.’ I felt my heart softened more than it had been in all my misery; surely adversity is no tamer of the human heart—at least, I never felt it so. I am of opinion that it is calculated rather to draw forth the darker passions of our nature, and shut up all the holy avenues of the soul. I wished to sit up with my father that night, but my mother urged me to retire to rest. I did so, but I could not sleep; I lay ruminating on my past life, and on my father’s situation, my mind stung with remorse. I had learned that his distress of mind, when I first went abroad, had been great, and that insensibly his health had sunk, and that his disorder (which proved eventually to be a cancer of the stomach) had been lingering on him for some years—I therefore could not but consider that I had contributed to the state he was now in. He grew rapidly worse; he was never satisfied when I was out of his presence, and I generally sat up with him at night. His malady caused him the most excruciating pain, but he bore it with the greatest patience and fortitude. He had always been remarkable for his piety, but it was that unostentatious kind of it which shows itself more in actions than words: the world was receding from his view, but he did not feel or feign those ecstasies which we often have described in the obituary of religious people; his was an humble confidence, alike removed from despondency and presumption. It was remarkable that this gave offence to some of his more enthusiastic brethren. One, in particular, having called upon him, seemed to feel disappointed that he was relating no heavenly raptures or beatific visions, and very anxiously endeavoured to draw him into some confession of this kind. ‘My friend,’ said my father, ‘you seem disappointed that I do not speak in certain and rapturous terms of my future state; but if we consider that when we have done our utmost, we are but unprofitable servants, we ought to beware of presumption, and not give the reins to a wild imagination, on the verge of a solemn eternity, and on the point of entering the presence of the Judge of all the earth. I feel a confidence in my Almighty Creator—I know he is a God of truth, and I rely on his promise—I know he is a God of love and mercy, and I have given up my all into his hands; more than this I dare not say.’