feeble, struggling church, where his services might be acceptable, and he would go to break to them the bread of life. Indeed, he often went when we felt that he greatly needed rest, and when the companionship of his ministerial friend would have been very pleasant and refreshing. But his soul was engrossed with his Master's work, and these less-favored corners of the vineyard claimed his tenderest sympathy. He had his reward. The warm, affectionate welcome which he always received, was to him soul-inspiring and restful.
He was regular in his habits, being uniformly an early riser, and never prolonging his studies into the small hours of the night.
The world did not appear to have a very strong hold upon him. We can remember no moment of his life when it would have looked inconsistent or irreverent for him to pause, and, lifting up his hands, say, "Let us pray." He lived for eternity, and had no time for idle conversation or foolish jests. Every one seemed instinctively to acknowledge this, and his friends showed their respect by checking, at the first sound of his footstep, all noisy demonstrations. Yet he did not lack a certain quiet humor. We remember his telling, with an amused smile, a little story of Alvan Stewart. Mr. Stewart was a large, tall man, living in one of the finest residences in Utica. He came to lecture at an anti-slavery meeting in our church, and spent the night with us. At that time our house was small, and that he might be as handsomely accommodated as possible, father and mother gave their room to him. In the morning, when father inquired how
