CHAPTER VII.

"Dress and undress thy soul. Mark the decay
And growth of it.

In brief, acquit thee bravely; play the man."

An hero in humble life-One talent-" How does he use it?"-A sickbed-Heart not older- A travelier - Impressions-RetirementOvation-Humble under all that glory"-Triumph of truth.

THERE lived in those days, in a humble room in Sheffield, a Christian shoemaker, who, after calling one evening on Montgomery for a subscription "in aid of one of those many works of mercy in which he was engaged," was suddenly summoned, a day or two afterwards, to his heavenly rest. Samuel Hill was very poor-so poor that he could not always afford to pay to a Tract Society, of which he was a member, his subscription of six shillings a-year; but so rich was he in faith, so ripe in religious experience, and so mighty in prayer, that Montgomery tells us, that for the sake of being present at the society's monthly private meeting for prayer, he many a time, notwithstanding his constitutional indolence and weakness, "left his warm bed on a cold winter's morning." "I declare to you," is his remark at the first meeting after the shoemaker's sud

den departure from this life, "that I never stood in the presence of any man with such trembling as I used to feel beside that humble individual. Let the weather be as cold as it would, our hearts were sure to be warmed here. O God! I thought-thou hast given to that man perhaps only one talent; but how does he use it?" And on the evening of his interment the poet adds, in another assembly:-"Could I now be reinstated in the heyday of youth, with the promise of fifty additional years of life, in which I might enjoy all and more than all the honors I have received from man since the period when I first set up in my heart that vain and delusive idol of human applause, which I have so long and so intensely worshipped at the peril of my soul-I say, rather than voluntarily incur the dreadful risks arising from the repetition of such popular praise as even I have experienced, I would prefer to occupy that grave in which the remains of our friend are now for their first night sleeping, 'in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ." " An incident like this reveals, as in the light of a sunbeam, that growing lowliness which adorns him in these ripening years.

Another glimpse into his inner life occurs on one of those scenes of tender friendship which his genial heart and warm spiritual sensibilities so often brightens. "I sometimes returned from visiting you," he writes one day in January, 1823, to a dear friend, who has been unexpectedly restored to convalescence,

"with feelings as if we had parted for the last time in this world. On those occasions, however, I wept rather for myself than for you, fearing that, when my heart and flesh.should fail, I might not have that clear, simple, scriptural confidence and hope-though humble, full of immortality—which I saw, and rejoiced to see, in you. So might I live, so may I die, in the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me!' was the constant prayer with which I closed your door. You had been peculiarly endeared by our frequent association in the most delightful labors in the cause of Him whose service is perfect freedom; and therefore I thought I had a right-I will not call it a claim to be peculiarly interested in your sufferings and in your consolations. Thanks be to God, the latter now abound."

A glimpse of a different kind we have in a letter of this period thus:-"You may think that I forget you, because I so seldom tell you on paper that I remember you, both with gratitude and esteem, for many kindnesses shown to me, especially in former days; but the truth is, that my letter-writing age is gone by-never to return-unless youth, the season for correspondence, comes back again. That, however cannot be childhood, I believe, does sometimes pay a second visit to man-youth, never. The heart, howeve, when it is right, is always young, and knows either decay nor coolness: I cannot boast of mine in other respects; but assuredly, in the in

tegrity of its affections, it has not grown a moment older these five-and-twenty years."

One evening, in July 1825, a traveller from New York paid a brief visit to our poet, and published afterward his impressions of him. Introduced into a parlor in which is "a table set for tea," the stranger soon finds himself at home. "The poet," he wrote, describing the interview, "is now at the age of fiftyfour. In his person he is slender and delicate, rather below the common size. His complexion is light, with a Roman nose, high forehead, slightly bald, and a clear eye, not unfrequently downcast, betraying a modest degree of diffidence. In his manners, the author manifests all that mildness, amiable simplicity, and kindness of heart, so conspicuous in his writings. His flow of conversation is copious, easy, and perfectly free from affectation. His sentiments and opinions on all subjects of remark were expressed with decision and frankness, but at the same time with a becoming modesty. His language is polished and select, betraying occasionally the elevation of poetry, but exempt from any appearance of pedantry. While the merits of all his cotemporaries were freely discussed, and the meed of discriminating praise liberally awarded to each, not the slightest allusion was made to his own productions, although they are quite as much read in our country as those of any other living poet. It would have been a breach of politeness in me to have told him how many generous sentiments he has instilled, and how many hearts he

has male better, beyond the Atlantic. He appears to be universally respected and beloved in the place of his residence."

In the autumn of this year, the poet finally surrenders into other hands the "Iris,” on which he has expended so many years of toil, and through whose columns he has given forth to the world so many earnest and noble thoughts. "From the first moment," are his farewell words, "that I became the director of a public journal, I took my own ground; I have stood on it through many years of changes; and I rest by it this day, as having afforded me a shelter through the far greater portion of my life, and yet offering me a grave when I shall no longer have a part in anything which is done under the sun. And this was my ground—a plain determination, come wind or sun, come fire or flood, to do what was right. I lay stress on the purpose, not on the performance; for this was the polar star to which my compass pointed, though with considerable "variation of the needle."

Montgomery's religion is a sterling thing, moulding his whole commercial transactions, and regulating his whole life. And now, retiring from public life, he receives from his fellow-townsmen, through the lips of their chairman, Lord Milton, a verdict of approval, which draws forth from him these words:

"There is a splendid Italian sonnet by Giovannibattista Zappi, on Judith returning to Bethulia, with the head of Holofernes in one hand and the sword