over with grass and weeds; but even now in August, when the fierce heat has dried up all the larger pools, that scanty supply does not fail them. On disentangling the weeds I see the water sparkling beneath. It is thus, I trust, with my heart. The life of God is often veiled in it by the rank luxuriance of evil thoughts, but, when a new manifestation draws these aside, I can catch a glimpse of what they conceal. I can hope, too, that as the love of Christ is unchangeable, this element of life will continue to spring up in my soul, however dry and arid the atmosphere which surrounds it.” Bunyan has described a green pleasant valley, besprinkled with lilies, which lies between the palace of the virgins and the valley of the shadow of death. “It is blessed,” says he, “with an exceedingly fertile soil, and there have been many labouring men who have been fortunate enough to get estates in it.” Andrew was one of these. He was humble and unobtrusive, and but little confident in himself--a true freeman of the valley of humiliation. Though no longer the leader of his schoolfellows--for he had now so little influence among them, that he could not prevail on so much as one of them to follow him--he was much happier than before. Leaving them at their wild games, he would retire to his solitudes, and there hold converse with the Deity in prayer, or seek out in meditation some of the countless parallelisms of the two great works which had been spread out before him--Creation and the Bible. He was no longer a leader even to himself. “I have been taught,” said he, “by experience, that my heart is too stubborn a thing for my own management, and so have given it up to the management of Christ.” Mr. Davidson saw him, for the last time, about the beginning of the year 1740, when he complained to him of being exposed to many sore temptations. He had met with wild beasts, and had to contend with giants--he had been astonished amid the gloom of the dark valley, and bewildered in the mists of the enchanted ground. The interesting little tract from which I have drawn nearly all the materials of my memoir, and which at the time of its first appearance passed through several editions, and was printed more recently at Edinburgh by the publishers for the Sabbath-schools, concludes with a brief notice of this conference. The rest of Andrew’s story may be told in a few words. He lived virtuously and happily, supporting himself by the labour of his hands, without either seeking after wealth or attaining to it; he bore a good name, though not a celebrated one, and lived respected, and died regretted. It is recorded on his tombstone, in an epitaph whose only merit is its truth, that “he was truly pious from a child--his whole life and conversation agreeable thereto;” and that his death took place in 1769, in the fiftieth year of his age.