found that his public ministrations, or pastoral labors, did not give entire satisfaction to every individual. So very sensitive was he, that if any of his members incidentally observed, “Your sermon last Sabbath morning was not equal to the one in the afternoon," or dropped any similar remark,—as he expressed himself, "It made him nervous all day long."

A friend of his says, "One time when I called upon him, I was much amused at his expense, seeing what a grievous trouble he made out of a mere nothing. Said he, 'I preached last Sabbath afternoon a sermon upon the atonement, which occupied fifty minutes. I had spent much time upon it, and had prepared it with great care. As I was leaving the meeting-house, deacon Woolvane said to me, 'I liked your sermon, but you did not do justice to your subject, because you did not take time enough. If you had preached some fifteen or twenty minutes more, you would have done up the matter finely.' Now this morning I was at brother Shifter's house; and in the course of conversation he referred to that sermon, and said, 'I thought your views were just, and I was pleased with your man

ner of treating that important doctrine; but you preached too long to interest. I tell you what, brother Merton, ministers make a mistake when they preach over forty minutes. They had better fall below than go beyond forty minutes.''

'Now,' said he, with quite a mournful cast of countenance, and for the life of me I could not help laughing as I looked upon it, 'what shall a poor fellow do, when he prepares an occasional sermon with elaborate care, hoping to benefit and satisfy his people, and finds that one thinks it too long, and another too short?—but what are you laughing at?' Why I cannot help laughing, said I, to see what a sorrowful look you put on, and what a grievous affair your sensitiveness leads you to imagine this is. Do you suppose that all your sermons will please every hearer? If you do, you will find yourself amazingly mistaken, I assure you. The only way to get along comfortably is, to preach the truth as plainly and forcibly as you can, and take no notice of any such remarks people may make about your discourses. As to pleasing all, if you undertake to do it you will find yourself in the same

predicament with the poor man in the fable who tried to please all; sometimes riding on his ass, then letting his son ride, then both riding at once, and then again, neither riding; but whichever way it was, some would find fault. You will be compelled also to come to the same conclusion with this man—that is, do what you think is best, let the people say what they please.

Now is not that right? Is not that the best way for you to do? Why yes,' said he, 'I suppose it is, but my sensitiveness, as you call it, is so great, that in spite of all that I can do, these sort of things do plague me.' Here our conversation was ended by a person calling to request Mr. Merton to go immediately to see one of his parishioners, who had met with a dangerous accident, and was not expected to live.

Poor Mr. Merton! his sensitiveness was indeed distressingly acute, and was soon the means of his leaving. How this happened may be gathered from the following extract of a letter which we received from him soon after his resignation.

"The expenses of living being very high

in and receiving nothing but my salary and some $30 or $40 a year from marriages, the people not being in the habit of making pres ents to their minister, I found that each year I was running in debt some $60 or $70. None of my own relatives being able to help me, my father having done all he possibly could do in assisting me to obtain my education, I was exceedingly distressed, and knew not what to do. I consulted with a ministering brother, who advised me to make known my case to the church. I told him many of the members already knew about my affairs. He said that was not the thing; and that I ought to make a fair and open statement at some full meeting of the church.

"After thinking the matter over a few days, and in fact nights too; for it worried me so much I could sleep but little, I concluded to follow his advice. Accordingly, at our next monthly church meeting I candidly stated just how I was situated, and then left the vestry. The next day deacon Woolvane called, and informed me that the church had voted to raise my salary to $800. This, of course, considerably relieved my mind, especially as

deacon W. was very kind, and expressed himself as highly gratified with the way in which I had stated my circumstances before the church. But the trial was to come. I soon found that all the members were not like deacon W. I heard of many complaints. One said, 'I shouldn't have thought our minister would have hinted for an increase of salary.' Another said, 'Mr. Merton is too extravagant.' A third said, his wife need not dress so expensively.' A fourth, he might live in a smaller house.'

A fifth, it don't cost me

anything like $700 to support my family, and it is larger than bis.' And thus one said one thing, and another another, till I was so fretted and nervous I was almost afraid I should lose my senses. Oh, how heartily did I wish I had never opened my mouth about my pecuniary embarrassments. I talked with deacon Woolvane about the matter, and he told me not to mind anything that was said—to just let it alone, and it would all soon blow over. I tried to follow his advice, but I could not. I summoned all my philosophy to my aid, and determined that I would not let such trifling matters harrass me. I denounced myself as