Writing to his daughter Sarah in 1845, he thus returns to the same beloved theme: ‘I lately happened to open the Memoirs of Sarah Harrison. It seemed to place me among my old friends, with whom I walked in sweet unity and Christian fellowship, in days that are gone forever. I there saw the names, and read the letters, of William Savery, Thomas Scattergood, and a host of others, who have long since gone to their everlasting rest. I hope, however unworthy, to join them at some day, not very distant.’
‘Next day after to-morrow, it will be fifty years since I was married to thy dear mother. How fresh many of the scenes of that day are brought before me! It almost seems as if they transpired yesterday. These reminiscences afford me a melancholy pleasure, and I love to indulge in them. No man has experienced more exquisite pleasure, or deeper sorrows than I have.’
Perhaps the reader will say that I have spoken little of his sorrows; and it is true. But who does not know that all the sternest conflicts of life can
