of bringing him to the repose of faith. From this time the gospel was precious to his soul. Soon afterwards he sought and obtained admission into the church of which the Rev. Greville Ewing was the pastor. He now became forward in❘ schemes of usefulness, and, together with several other young men in the congregation, he formed an association for the purpose of preaching. They met at stated times to read their sermons to each other, and to criticise each other's compositions. Some of the members of this society became afterwards highly distinguished, especially one of them, the late Dr. Russell of Dundee. A course of worldly prosperity was now opening before my father, and his industry and practical good sense were such as to insure his success. But it was at this time that his attention was turned to the work of the ministry; and, being urged to it by his own convictions, and by the strongly-expressed advice of esteemed friends, more especially of Mr. Ewing and Dr., then Mr., Wardlaw, he entered Homerton College, which was then, as now, presided over by one who bears a dear and honoured name, Dr. John Pye Smith.

Whilst at college, he pursued his studies with even an unwise ardour; and by sitting late over his books, he laid the foundation of the disorder in his head, from which he suffered, more or less, ever after, and which finally brought him to a premature old age. His fellow-students dubbed him Doctor on account of his marked superiority. Soon after he entered Homerton, there arose, in the school of the prophets, a questioning of the vital doctrines of Christianity. Some, it is feared, were led fatally astray, and never recovered their faith in the Divine nature of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the necessity and efficacy of his atonement. One of them, in particular, is now foremost in the ranks of scepticism. Between him and my father there existed a close intimacy, and, for some years after they left college,

they maintained an amicable controversy by correspondence. But in the end, the one wandered further and further from the doctrine of the cross, whilst the other, by the grace of God, kept the faith. The remarkably enlightened and consistent view which he afterwards held of the great truths of salvation, was perhaps partly owing to the investigation and thought induced by this controversy. Always requiring for himself the fullest evidence before he would yield assent to any dogma, he at the same time reposed, in the firmest assurance, upon the foundation supplied by the glorious gospel of the blessed God. Hence he was at all times ready, in a remarkable degree, to “give a reason for the hope that was in him."

Before he had finished the prescribed college-term, he spent a summer vacation in preaching to the congregation of Independent Dissenters at Wrentham, Suffolk, one of the most ancient nonconforming congregations in the kingdom. This led to his becoming the pastor of the church in that place, in the following year, 1807.

As a pastor, he was diligent in the instruction of his flock, exhorting them from house to house, catechising the young, supplying them with reading and exciting their taste for it, setting on foot among them many benevolent schemes, and himself taking the lead in every movement to which he urged his people. The character of his mind showed itself in his preaching. He sought to give a full and consistent view of the revelation of God in all its parts, and in all their bearings upon one another. It might be truly said of him, that he "kept back nothing that was profitable." His anxiety to bring before his hearers the whole Word of God, led him to adopt the old Scotch method of exposition, to which he devoted every alternate Sabbath morning. In this manner he went through nearly, if not all, the books of the New Testament, except some of the chapters in the Revelation. His judg

ment was too correct to allow him to indulge in fanciful speculations concerning the meaning of the Scripture. The prophetical books he studied long and deeply, and he read very much of what has been written on the subject of unfulfilled prophecy, but he had too much reverence for the Word of God ever rashly to hazard an assertion as to its meaning which would not bear the test of the severest judgment. Whilst, however, he shrank from the boldness with which some handle the "secret things which belong to the Lord our God," he was remarkably explicit in his statement of doctrines. He might be called a Calvinist of the school of Fuller and Wardlaw, though his sentiments were derived from no human authority, but every one of them thought out from the Bible individually and laboriously for himself. His hearers reaped the benefit. There was a clearness in his manner of stating truth, and a logical correctness in his inferences, which carried with them conviction.

His reading was copious and varied, and every book that he read be made his own. Hardly was there a subject on which he had not a considerable amount of knowledge. All looked up to him as an authority. Whether it was a matter of jurisprudence, or of political economy, or of mental philosophy, or of agriculture, or of physical science, reference was made to him with every probability of his deciding the difficulty. His love for imparting was even greater than his love for gaining knowledge; and partly on this account it was that he perhaps enjoyed, on the whole, no society so much as that of young people, who were always, in their turn, delighted with his communicativeness. No one was ever less dependent on the external sources of enjoyment. His mind was naturally cast in a mould of tranquil happiness. Surrounded by a rural and thinly-scattered population, many, with far less mental activity, would have complained of want of society. Such a com

plaint he scorned. "I never felt the want of society," he would often say. "When I meet with those whose conversation is interesting to me, I enjoy it, and am thankful; when with those whose conversation gives me no pleasure, I make myself happy by trying to give them some."

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But he was not without occasional society, and that of no ordinary kind. Till within the few last years of his life, when his strength declined, his brethren in the ministry, more especially a small circle of those who were of the same standing with himself,-delighted to gather round him, and engage in animated theological and metaphysical discussion; and often has the night waned, and the morning dawned, before they could break away from the spell which bound them together. His conversational powers were extraordinary. With his richly-stored mind, lucid judg ment, ready wit, wonderfully tenacious memory, and command of words, it is no wonder that his society was generally sought after by the pious and intelligent.

It was not alone by the people of his charge, or by the pious elsewhere, that my father was loved and venerated. The beauty and completeness of his Christian character won the admiration of the ungodly. The sceptic has been heard to say, "Well, if any man goes to heaven, Mr. Ritchie will." Even by the profligate and the profane, whose evil practices the faithful minister has reproved, the tribute has been paid,"If woe be to the man of whom every one speaks well, then, woe be to Mr. Ritchie !"

As a husband and a father, his character becomes too sacred and dear to be spoken of in a record designed for the public eye. His wife and his children still live to mourn his loss, and to embalm his memory in the inmost recesses of the heart. To all he was tender, loving, and compassionate; but his warmest affections were poured forth on

the beloved circle who surrounded his fireside. If his gentleness, his playfulness, and the readiness with which he poured forth his rich stores of information, made him everywhere a favourite with the young, how much more dear must he have been to the children who grew up by his side and called him father! If his unvaried kindness, his self-forgetfulness, his integrity, and his universal benevolence, commended him even to the passer-by, how happy must the home have been, on which the mild and steady lustre of these combined virtues ever shone!

During the latter years of his life, he saw his early friends, one after another, gathered to the tomb. Mr. Ewing, of Glasgow, whom, perhaps more than any other, he esteemed and loved, entered into rest. Then his much-loved relative, Mr. Guyer, of Ryde, and his brethren in the ministry nearer Wrentham, Sloper, of Beccles, Hickman, of Denton, Blackie, of Bungay, Creak, of Yarmouth, passed away. His own strength was failing, and the conviction fastened itself upon his mind, that he should shortly put off this tabernacle. In the middle of last June twelvemonth, he consented to seek for renovated health in change of scene, and, accompanied by my dear mother, came on a visit to the house of his son-in-law, the Rev. Thomas Fison, of Romsey. After a time he grew better, and fixed a day for returning. But three days before his intended departure, he was seized with apoplexy. Again he gradually became better, and fixed to return in October. Again, the arrangement was frustrated. Within a fortnight of the time specified, another attack of apoplexy occurred, more severe than the former. After this, he became better, but he never recovered the ground he had lost. From this time he felt himself standing on the threshold of eternity. "This will be the way in which I shall leave the world one of these days," he remarked: "it will not be a painful way of going home." His

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thoughts were entirely occupied with heavenly things, and his conversation turned much upon the glories of the place to which he was expecting soon to be summoned. We often heard him quote the following passages of Scripture: "To depart and to be with Christ is far better." "I am willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." He shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body." "For I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed to him against that day." He used to say, "I do not experience any rapture, but my mind is calm. A mysterious eternity is before me, but I am not afraid. It has been my constant desire to understand and to receive the truths of the gospel, and those glorious truths now form the basis of my hope."

The propriety of his sending in his resignation of the pastoral charge at Wrentham had already suggested itself, but seemed too painful. It now no longer admitted of hesitation. The resignation was accordingly written, and signed by his own trembling hand. His people returned an answer, testifying their affection and regard. This document he never saw. It would have been more than he could bear. It was no ordinary trial to him to withdraw from the pastoral office. Many of his people well remember the wish which he so often expressed, that he might preach as usual three times on the Sabbath, and then come home and die. The prospect now offered itself before him, of months-it might be of yearsof weakness and decay, and cessation from labour. It was a sad future, and it sometimes weighed upon him heavily. But whilst he bowed his head to the appointment of infinite Wisdom, such a future was not in store for him. The cup was put to his lips, and he was found ready to drink it, bitter as it might be. God was glorified in the

submissiveness of his servant. But he was not called to drink of that cup.

After this, six weeks of continued suffering and sleeplessness, by night and by day, were appointed him, occasioned by a painful tumour in the back of his neck. During this trying season, he was shut out from all his ordinary sources of enjoyment. But the tumour was unexpectedly healed, and a measure of strength returned. Again he was able to come up with the multitude to the house of the Lord. Once again he delighted in the companionship of books. Once again his conversation flowed forth, instructive and interesting as was its wont. He even said, "What would you think, if I were to preach again, after all?" On the morning of the last Sabbath but one in last year, he occupied his usual seat at chapel; and it was only the intense cold of the weather that kept him at home in the evening. That evening, at supper, he was more cheerful and conversational than he had been for weeks past. His favourite topics, theology, Biblical criticism, his Scottish home, and the friends of his youth, were glanced at in succession. Alas! it was the last flickering of the flame of life, before it was finally quenched in the night of death! The next morning, whilst dressing, my beloved father was seized with apoplexy, and he spoke, and that with extreme difficulty, only for the first hour or two afterwards. In answer to our remark, "You will soon be better," he replied very tenderly, "When I get to my

Father's house, I shall be better." He was right. Our hopes were not realised. He was to become no better till he reached his Father's house. On the noon of that day, Christmas-day, ho closed his eyes, and then lingered, in a state of insensibility, till one o'clock on Thursday morning, when he sweetly fell asleep in Jesus. There was no struggle -no parting agony. His end waswhat his life had been-peace.

On the following Saturday, his remains were interred in the buryingground connected with the Abbey Chapel, Romsey, when the Rev. Thomas Adkins, of Southampton, delivered an appropriate address. On the next Sabbath evening, the Rev. Thomas Fison preached a funeral sermon from the words of Scripture, which appeared most aptly to accord with the faith and confidence of the departed saint, “I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day."

It was the cherished desire of the church at Wrentham, that the faithful and beloved pastor of upwards of forty years should at last rest in death among the scenes hallowed by his lengthened ministry. But the providence of God ordained otherwise, and it matters little. When "the angels shall be sent forth to gather the elect from the four winds," the pastor and his flock, though divided in death, shall meet again. E. F

Romsey.

to the public in laying before our readers the following extract.-ED.]

THE instincts of our nature are enlisted on our side against such as would deny the reality of a special revelation.

The need of it has been universally felt. Man has still some impressions of a superior power. Fetishism, polytheism, every form of idolatry, is only the outward development of this ruling emotion. Wherever a God is believed in, he is supposed to deliver his oracles through some appointed channel, and, in order to receive his counsels, he is consulted by his worshippers. The rude thicket of Calabar is not less sacred than the classic tripos at Delphi. The desire to know the mind of the gods has universally obtained, and the arts of magic, necromancy, and witchcraft, are but the abuses of this general law. The outgiving of an oracle is associated with all conceptions of deity; and to gather instruction on duty and destiny from the object of its worship, is an instinctive yearning of the unsophisticated heart, which has been fully grati

fied in that Word which He has " magnified above all his name." For no sooner did man need Divine communication than it was given. Promise of blessing by a woman-born Redeemer was appended to the primeval curse. From time to time fresh oracles were imparted to the ancient world, and sav ing truths were also embodied in the pictorial services of the Hebrew institute. Christianity is as old as the Fall, and its facts and blessings are specially adapted to a sinful world. The knowledge we want, the good we need-light to the mind, life to the heart-are revealed in the "lively oracles."

But if there be no genuine revelation, from what source are we to receive enlightenment? Are we doomed to wan der without a resting-place? Are we to take our theology from the star that twinkles above us, or the violet that blooms at our feet? Are we to be left the prey of that earth-born philosophy, whose endless disputations are proof of its turbulence and darkness? It amuses, but it cannot satisfy; it mocks our wishes, but supplies not our wants. Shall none see heaven, but the Titan

who scales it? and if he be thrown back and baffled, alas for the feeble millions! We cast no disrespect on nature nor natural theology, but we want something more-something higher.

Nature around us mirrors the glory of its Lord. Who has not felt such sensations as Coleridge describes,—

"With other ministrations, Thou, O Nature,
Healest thy wandering and distempered child;
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing
sweets,

Thy melody of woods, and winds, and waters;
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amidst this general dance and minstrelsy:

*

*

*

His angry spirit healed and harmonised By the benignant touch of love and beauty." Ah! but to be brought into harmony with nature, is not to be introduced into fellowship with nature's God, for the poetic rapture may co-exist with hostility to Him who has ordained the life of spring, and poured out the exuberant and crowning fulness of autumn. He who, in describing the gloom and fury of an Alpine thunder-storm, was transported as to pour out in earnest agony a prayer for absorption into the terrific scene,—

"Let me be,

SO

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight; A portion of the tempest, and of thee;" this man was blasted in spirit, at fierce enmity with his species, for he was a scornful and cold misanthropist - a stranger to happiness and hope-and, therefore, at enmity with Him of whom sung of old the sacred bard, in his thunder-psalm, "The voice of the Lord is powerful, the voice of the Lord is full of majesty." Was there ever a human bosom possessed of such exquisite sensibility to the beauty and voice of nature as his, who yet subscribed himself "Atheist" on a spot around which were heaped and spread, in majestic profusion, the proofs and traces of almighty power and goodness! Poetry and song are not devotion. Tranquil