"I preached yesterday on this passage:-"Though he will not give him because he is his friend, yet, because of his importunity, he will rise and give him as many as he needeth." This, as well as the parable of the unjust judge, evidently teaches, that importunate prayer will prevail when nothing else can. A man may pray ten times, and be denied; and yet, by praying ten times more, obtain the blessing. Had the Syro-Phoenician ceased, after making three applications to Christ, she would have gone away empty; but, by applying once more, she obtained all that she asked.

"It has been a time of trial with me, as well as with you, since we parted. I have been reduced lower, in point of health, than on any former occasion. For four weeks I was unable to preach, and doubted whether I should ever preach more. But this was all my trial, and I was kept very quiet. My sermon on "Be still," &c., followed me, and God, in mercy, inclined me to be still. My people urged me very strongly to make a voyage to Europe, and offered to supply the pulpit and pay all my expenses. But, though I should like well enough to see Europe, I could not feel any freedom to go. I did not like to have so much expense lavished upon me, nor did I know how to lose so much time as such a voyage would require. I am now better, and have been able to preach the three last Sabbaths. But I seem to preach in vain. There is no noise nor shaking among the dry bones; and, even of the church, I may almost say, There is no breath in them. But I am kept from impatience, and am not quite discouraged. As I know how desirous you feel that your children should love each other, I would tell you, if I could, how much I love E. I loved her much before her last visit, and she endeared herself still more to us during that visit. I believe, too, that I love my brothers pretty well. Do tell them so. What you say respecting the complaints of ministers who visit us, I have heard before. I do not wonder at it. They have some reason to complain. But the reason of our apparent coldness is what you suppose it to be. Pressed down to the very dust, as I usually am, I cannot always dress my countenance in smiles, nor prevent it from expressing my sufferings. Hence I am unpopular among ministers. It is a trial, but I cannot help it "

CHAPTER XVIII.

His private character-His affections and demeanor as a husband, father, master, friend-His gratitude, economy, generosity-His temper of mind under injuries.

Ir is not every character that will bear a close inspection. The more intimately some men are viewed, the less veneration and respect are felt for them. This is true of some in elevated stations, and possessing no small share of public confidence. Even the church presents this anomaly. A man may bear a saint-like visage abroad, and yet be a very fiend in his own family; may put on meekness and devotion in a worshipping assembly, while he is the haughty tyrant of his wife and children; may preach self-denial and condescension, and yet carry it lordly towards the inmates of his own dwelling, making them the ministers of his will and pleasure, or else imbittering their existence by his savage temper and unreasonable complaints.

Professional men, whose public duties are very numerous and urgent, are liable to fail in many of those minute regards which contribute so much to heighten the

"only bliss

Of paradise which has survived the fall."

With the prevailing desire and purpose to yield to every claim its due consideration, they are in danger of thinking that they do well if they are only indifferent to those of the least imposing description which originate in their domestic relations; that they are not only excusable, but disinterested and praiseworthy, in neglecting, from devotion to the public welfare, the ten thousand little attentions to a wife's comfort and children's instruction and enjoyment, which, though each requires but a moment's time, and, taken singly, scarcely deserves specification, constitute, in the aggregate, the principal part of domestic felicity. But a man's circumstances must be very peculiar, to render these two classes of duties incompatible with each other. The look of affection, the kind word seasonably interposed, the helping hand which love extends, the eye ever awake to anticipate the little wants of the household, the heart

prompt to seize opportunities to soothe sorrow, to calm excited feelings, to inspire and promote joy, and to alleviate the burden of maternal anxieties and cares which press incessantly upon the wife, what sacrifice of public duty do these require? Yet who can calculate the misery which they prevent, or the blessedness which they confer ? As it is not great calamities which render men unhappy, but petty injuries, and provocations, and disappointments, constantly recurring, too trifling to excite public sympathy, or to be made the subject of loud complaint, so it is not insulated acts of profuse generosity, and widely separated, though extravagant expressions of affection, which constitute the reality or the happiness of friendship-especially of a friendship so pure and endearing as ought ever to subsist between those who are united by conjugal ties. These holy bonds, are cemented and strengthened by daily and hourly acts and expressions of kindness. And where, in the whole compass of motives, could a consideration be found to enforce this conjugal tenderness, so affecting and impressive as that example of love to which St. Paul refers the husband for a pattern of his own duty ?-and it may be added, what other reference could have conferred such exalted honor on the marriage relation ?—" Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church. Be not bitter against them." This was Dr. Payson's law in all that pertained to conjugal duties; and to this his daily practice exhibited as exact a conformity, perhaps, as is ever seen in this state of imperfection. Reasons have already been suggested, why a sparing use should be made of those letters which exhibit his tenderness and fidelity in this relation; but a few extracts may with propriety be introduced :—

"MY DEAR WIFE,

you.

"At Sea, May 10, 1815.

"As this is the first time I have had occasion to address à letter to you since we were married, I thought it necessary, beforeI began, to consider, a few moments, by what title to address The result of my meditations was a determination to employ the term 'wife' in preference to any other. If you ask why I prefer that name, I answer, Because it reminds me that you are mine, my own. I might call you 'Dear Louisa,' 'Dear friend,' or 'Dear' any thing else—and it might mean only that you were a sister, a friend, or a favorite. But, when I call you 'My wife,' it seems to me to mean every thing sweet, amiable, and endearing. It not only reminds me that she to whom I write is, under God, mine, but that she is mine

by the gift and appointment of God-mine by the sacred bond of marriage, which seems to give an air of sacredness to our union. After all, I have not said what I meant to say, but something a little like it. So do you try to imagine what I meant to say, and then confess that I have succeeded better than you, in choosing a title with which to head a letter. For my own part, I would rather you should call me 'Dear husband,' than 'Dear friend,' or 'Dear Edward,' &c. However, call me by what name you please, your letters will always be precious while they continue to utter the language of affection. I have just been reading one of two which I have already found among my baggage. If you knew the pleasure they gave me, you would feel well paid for the trouble of writing. I fully intended to write at least one to you, and leave it behind me; but I could think of no place to put it, in which you would be certain to find it. But I must hasten to give you some account of our voyage:

"Friday and Saturday, we had fair winds and pleasant weather, and I was not at all sea-sick. But on Sunday, it began to rain and blow hard. In the evening, it increased to quite a gale, but was still favorable; so that, on Monday noon, we found ourselves, by observation, ninety miles south of Philadelphia. Since that time, we have been beating about, vainly trying to get within the capes of Delaware. We have just taken a pilot on board, and hope to reach Philadelphia in about forty-eight hours. Since the gale on Sunday, the doctor and I have been very sick, and able to eat nothing. For two days and nights, without intermission, I was tormented with one of my nervous head-aches. This morning it has left me, and I begin to feel something like an appetite. I will only add now, as an excuse for writing so miserably, that I am, at this moment, tossing and rolling about worse than a boy in a swing, or on the end of a plank. Every thing near me, which is movable, rolls from side to side incessantly; and I should do the same, did I not hold on to something stable. I will, therefore, defer the conclusion of my letter till I am more established.

"Philadelphia, May 11.

"We arrived here last night, after a most delightful sail up the Delaware. Wind and tide both favored us, so that we came at the rate of eleven miles an hour, for ten hours successively. Scarcely ever have I experienced so much pleasure in one day. Every body seemed happy. Dr. and I vere in high health and spirits; the prospect on the banks of

the river was delightful, and changing every moment; the day was fine, and the swiftness of our motion was very agreeable; and, to crown all, I saw God in his works, and tasted of his goodness in every thing. Excess of pleasure was almost painful; before night, I was fairly weary of enjoyment, and wished for sleep. I thought of you almost every moment; and nothing but the presence of yourself and the children was wanting, to render me as happy as I can ever be in this world. Last night, I dreamed that I had reached home. I felt your tears of affection upon my cheek, and little Edward's arms round my neck; but I awoke, and it was a dream.—I have not yet been ashore. Every body on board is in a bustle; the passengers hastening to visit their friends, and I standing away in one corner alone, talking with my best, dearest earthly friend. You, at the distance of five hundred miles, have more attractions for me than the whole city of Philadelphia, which lies spread out before me, and on which I have scarcely, as yet, bestowed a glance. If I did not write thus early, I should not be able to send my letter to-day; and you would be obliged to wait one day longer before you heard from us. I now begin to regret that I did not urge you more to meet me at New Haven. It would be a great gratification to have you so much nearer to me, and to think of meeting you so much sooner. I still have a faint hope that you will be there.

"Kiss the children for me; talk to them about me; love me, as I do you, better than I did—yes, far better than I did, when I wrote the last letter to you before we were married. Love to all who inquire for me. God be with you, bless you, keep you, my dear, dear wife.

"So prays your affectionate husband.”

In a letter written during another season of absence, is the following beautiful passage, in which the gentle and the severe are most charmingly blended:

"Though your letter was consoling, it grieved me for a moment. It did not seem to breathe so much tenderness as your former letters. But I soon perceived the reason. Your mind was braced up to help me bear my burdens; and in such a state of mind, it is not easy to feel or express tenderness. I hope you will remember this remark. You know that I am

often obliged, while at home, to put on all the iron I can command, in order to bear up against trials and discouragements; and many times, when you know nothing of it, I am engaged in most distressing inward conflicts. Now, how can a man