the zeal with which he asserted their claim to public patronage, partook more of the fervour of youth than the cool sobriety of age. To all charities, indeed, he contributed to the extent of his ability-his moderate income, like his house, was "for God, his people, and the family." His public obligations never interfered with his private duties; the same love which prompted him to seek sinners in the highways and hedges, shed a hallowing influence over his home. He was a devoted husband, a tender father, an affectionate brother, a beneficent uncle. All claims were properly adjusted. His discipline was so tempered by love that the rule of the house was always felt to be both kind and just. Ever more ready to commend than censure, with a judgment that seldom erred, the right way was made the pleasant way as well as the way to please. Seldom, perhaps, has the master of a household been more loved and honoured. He rarely, if ever, rebuked any one of his family in public. Were there evils to be corrected, a private interview was sought at some suitable time which should most avoid observation; plain, affectionate conversation was concluded by prayer, and the culprit came from that private interview loving his reprover with a more ardent affection, and manifested by his conduct, for months to come, how deeply it had impressed him. The ruffled brow of care was smoothed, discordant tempers harmonized, and a new spirit infused. No one knew, by word or hint from the master of the household, that reproof had been administered; but a quiet smile passed around as the settled demeanour and the cheerful alacrity of the delinquent was noted. Such was the paternal influence that he exercised in that sweet, tranquil abode up to the last hour of his stay in it.

On Friday, the 17th of August, 1827, he left home in his usual health, expecting to spend the Sabbath in NewYork, and to return the following Monday or Tuesday. On Sunday morning he preached his last sermon, in Duane-street Church, and administered the sacrament; on Sunday evening he went to the same church, though he did not preach. After a fatiguing day, on Monday he came to the house of his friend, George Suckley, Esq. He appeared to the family to be in unusual health and spirits, and sat up beyond his usual hour, although he intended to take the boat at six o'clock. That night, however, he was seized with his last agonizing disorder, and, after passing several days of intense pain and extreme danger, he abandoned the thought of returning home, and sent for his wife and daughter to come down to him. The following passages, copied from letters written immediately after his death, will best detail the closing scenes of his life :

"On our arrival we were told that the crisis of his disease had been favourably passed, and that, though lingering, there was every prospect of his ultimate recovery. But, though we suffered our judgment to be led captive by our wishes even to the last, no hopes of that kind were ever implanted in his mind. His sufferings were, at times, unutterable; but through them all were manifested a resignation and fortitude no agony could destroy. 'I shall be purified as by fire;' 'I shall be made perfect through suffering;' 'It is all right, all right; not a pain too much,' he would often say. As he descended into the dark valley, his views of the grandeur and efficacy of the atonement became more and more enlarged. His disorder inclined him latterly to slumber, and he was often delirious; but even then the same subject was the theme of his dis

course.

Toward the last, his strength was so much exhausted that articulation became a painful effort; but we would often hear him say, 'I want to go home; I want to be with Jesus, I want to be with Jesus.' To a friend, who asked him how he was, he said, 'I feel the perfect love of God in my soul.' A day or two before his departure I heard him say, 'And I shall see Mr. Wesley too.' It seemed as if he were contemplating the enjoyment of that world upon the verge of which he then was-enjoyments which he said a Christian might well understand, as they began in his heart even in this life. His mind was employed with subjects for the sweetest emotions of love and adoration. When asked how he did, he would answer, 'I feel love and good-will to all mankind,' or, 'I see a beauty in all the works of God;' forgetting that the infirmities of his body had been the subject of inquiry. His last sentence was, 'Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty! Hallelujah! hallelujah! After that, though he lingered many hours, he could not speak articulately. Once only, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to heaven, he uttered, 'Glory! glory!'

"When the hour arrived in which his spirit was to achieve its last great victory, we all kneeled around the bed, and Mr. Levings, in a manner and in language of which I can never give you an idea, commended his spirit to its Father and its God. You would have imagined that he really saw the chariot and the horsemen which were sent to convey the father and the patriarch to his reward; and as fervently did he implore that the mantle might fall-as triumphantly did he resign him. And as he prayed, my dear mother, stretching forth her hands as if she felt the immediate presence of God, exclaimed, 'Yes, Lord, we do resign him! freely resign him! We give him up to thee! He is thine; receive his spirit!" Mr. Levings ceased praying: there was a pause, and in that pause the spirit departed. And, as if our united prayer was answered, and the mantle did descend, such a divine influence pervaded the apartment that two of the preachers almost sunk to the floor, under a glorious sense of His presence who filleth immensity. The spirit departed, leaving the body impressed with the sweetest expression of peace and tranquillity-an expression which it retained until the moment when it was shrouded from human observation. We could stand beside those dear remains, and imagine that their appearance of renewed youth and happiness was a pledge of that glorious resurrection, when 'death shall be swallowed up in victory,' and the 'mortal put on immortality.'

"Thus, as a ripe shock of corn, he was gathered into the garner of his God, in the seventy-sixth year of his age and the fifty-second of his itinerant ministry. He ended his useful life at the house of his long-tried friend, George Suckley, Esq., in the city of New-York, about two o'clock in the morning of the 26th of September, 1827."*

His remains were conveyed to his own residence, accompanied by his family and many sympathizing friends; and soon after, followed by a large concourse of people, they were deposited in the rear of that church where he had so often explained the word of life.

In so brief a memoir, it would have been impossible to give more than an outline of the character and labours of this useful and laborious servant of the Lord. In treating of the former, I have endeavoured to place in bold relief Dr. Bangs.

those features which have hitherto escaped notice. His singleness of view, his brotherly kindness, his perfect guilelessness, his activity, his zeal, and his piety, have all been dwelt upon by others. I wished to dilate upon his social character to show him as a husband, a father, and a patriot; but the limits assigned me are passed.

His labours speak for themselves. He was one of the most efficient agents in building up a Church to spread Scriptural holiness throughout the land. When he joined it, there were but nineteen travelling ministers, and three thousand one hundred and twenty-eight members; when he died, the ministry numbered one thousand five hundred and seventy-six, and the membership three hundred and eighty-one thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven. He rests from his labours, and his works do follow him.