any formal committal of myself to the work." Now he did consecrate himself with a holier purpose to a service which he was willing never to perform if God. should so require of him. As one who once seeing Death now sees Life newly revealed to him, so David from this moment kept steadfastly before him the revelation; the voice which spoke through Thompson's death never grew faint.

[TO REV. BENJAMIN LABAREE, JR.]

BOSTON, Nov. 10, 1860.

Delay in answering your two last letters seems unpardonable, but I have been full of business, having just returned from the West. I was away four weeks, and stopped at Cincinnati on my way back. Whilst there I bought a copy of "The World." In it was Washburn's Turkey letter, and at the close a brief sentence weightier than all the rest to me. I was all alone, and in a state to have the sad news weigh upon me in its full power. Arriving at New York a few hours later, I found your letters awaiting me at H.'s room. I hardly knew what to think. My first feeling was an indefinable one of insecurity, as if I myself were standing in some perilous position, in momentary danger of death. You know my own circle of friends has seldom been broken in upon, and I think this bereavement has come nearer to me than any previous one. Our little company all seem like brothers more than "Brethren," and Thompson was a near brother. I thought of our classmeeting and its final scene: Thompson leading us, and speaking of his prospects as cheerfully and hopefully as any one of us. So even in the first moments of dismay, I felt that his death was proving a blessing to

me in opening my eyes. He with his firm health, his high aspirations, his full plans was not proof against the Destroyer, and was I? I found that I had been looking to the future with unwarranted presumption; that I had not so much lived in the spirit of the prayer"Take me not away in the midst of my days," as taken it for granted that these past days of preparation, this clear sailing toward my goal, were surety to me that I could presume confidently upon at least a few years' lease of life. My eyes were opened, and though I rode homeward saddened by the event, yet I could not but feel thankful that I was led by it to look upon life in a more truthful aspect.

The day of sailing was at length set for the 11th of March, 1861, and the bustle of immediate preparation began. It was well for all that so much was required to be done. David was busier than ever, attending to a thousand things, and still working perseveringly at Sankya and Yoga; but all his business could not keep his thoughts off the day so near at hand. It has been shown how eagerly he looked forward to this day, how impatient he was of the repeated delays, and how hard. he found it to be content to remain at home. The one purpose of his life impelled him and there was little looking back; forward he always had looked by the very cast of his nature. It was all changed now. The deep home affection which had found abundant expression was intensified by the coming separation ; it was India still to which he was going, but — it was home that he was leaving. These things cannot be written, perhaps his own words are too sacred to be here set forth; but I am writing of one who left home,

brothers, sister, father and mother for the sake of Christ, and the fulness of the sacrifice can only be shown by what it cost him to make it. To Mr. Labaree he writes:

"I write you once more from these shores, that I may call to mind a dear old acquaintance and remember that Persia has a special hold upon my love. A long, long time it seems since I bade you good-bye, but at last my turn has come. Leaving home is not a fancy, but a living fact which strikes me hard. I did n't know I loved my home so much. But He giveth me grace. To-night I bid good-bye to So they go, one by one. How full these days; how one's heart sinks. But let us put a cheerful courage on and look up. Well, I am as near to you in India as here, — and as near heaven. Good-bye, Ben, and good-bye to the others with you. When I pray for you I still unconsciously whisper Thompson's name. He needs not our prayers. Pray for me."

.

To Mr. Washburn he writes: "I am off. We expect to sail on Monday next. I write only to hail you, though I must say I am not in a hailing mood. But I must go. Duty, work, Christ calls me hence and I must obey. But I must obey, not go because I have made up my mind. These sacrifices I must make for Christ. I think I wish to. I think I wish to. I cannot write more now. I am to leave for India, dear India. I may not live long there, indeed I cannot drive away the feeling that I shall not, but let me be faithful while I live. And you will meet me and welcome me? Do, — and help me to be faithful on the ship — that I may be in India. And I will always love you. Love to the Brethren, my brethren, now at last, an unworthy one am

I, your old friend David.”

He was ordained as a missionary on Monday, February 25th, in the church in which he was educated; his pastor, Rev. Dr. Nehemiah Adams, preached the sermon. Rev. Edward Webb, of the Madura Mission, gave the charge, and his brother, Rev. Evarts Scudder, gave him the Right Hand of Fellowship; the other parts in the ordination were taken by Rev. Drs. Fisk, of Newburyport, Thompson, of Roxbury, and Hooker, of Boston. On the Wednesday following he was married to Miss Harriet L. Dutton, daughter of George D. Dutton, Esq., of Boston, who was associated as deacon in Union Church with David's father. Monday, March 11th, was the day appointed for the company to sail, and the following extract from a letter written to an absent member of the family presents the scene of the embarkation :

"The people began to come by nine o'clock, and every one must see the state-room. There was a terrible jam, and persons would stand and stand in the passage-ways. The day was perfect, a good westerly breeze, bright sky, and fleecy clouds, a little bit cool, so that the religious exercises were held in the cabin instead of on the deck. Those outside joined in the singing, but were half a line behind the others at one time. After it was through the missionaries stood outside and bade all good-bye. Father was off in the forecastle talking with the sailors, and knew nothing of the persons leaving the ship, and was one of the last to go. David had to go ashore once or twice to bid some one good-bye who in the hurry had passed him by, and there was in general some little hurry. The exercises were at ten, and the tug started after eleven. The end of Devens's Wharf and the whole sidewalk of the bridge

were packed with persons, though many had gone away unable to wait so long; they waved their handkerchiefs till the very last, a mass of moving white, and sang 'Coronation' as the vessel started fairly from the bridge. It sounded most beautifully on the ship. J. said that they started very loudly, but that as they went on singing and the faces began to become undistinguishable, one voice after another dropped away uncontrollable. We rounded the point at the north end of the city, and gave our handkerchiefs a last wave, till David said 'There, they are gone out of sight,' and I turned and saw the big tears stand on David's eager, joyful face.

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We who were with them went out to the outer light; they told us it was time to get into the tug, and put a ladder down the side for us to get in by. It was pretty hard work, for the little tug was pitching and rolling at a fearful rate. Dave had gone down into the cabin and I had to rush around in a great hurry. I bade him good-bye and hurried down the ladder, pretty difficult work, for it was grinding on the side of the ship to the danger of crushing fingers and toes in our descent. It was well we hurried, for scarcely were we all aboard than one of the hawsers parted with a snap. We got on top of the deck of the tug and gave them three hearty cheers, which they returned lustily, but we soon found that we had not yet parted company, but were putting to sea with them, dragging them after us by a long rope; after two or three miles, the rope was heaved overboard and we gave them six glorious cheers which they again returned, David's clear voice ringing above them all: there stood Dave, as I last saw him, waving hat and handkerchief, which we returned as we could with our only free hand.