e heart feels in reading the simple
phrases of such a hero. Here is victory and courage, but love sublimer and
superior. Here is a Christian soldier spending the night before battle in
watching and preparing for the succeeding day, thinking of his dearest
home, and sending many blessings forth to his Sarah, "lest he should never
bless her more." Who would not say Amen to his supplication? It was a
benediction to his country--the prayer of that intrepid loving heart.

We have spoken of a good soldier and good men of letters as specimens of
English gentlemen of the age just past: may we not also--many of my elder
hearers, I am sure, have read, and fondly remember his delightful
story--speak of a good divine, and mention Reginald Heber as one of the
best of English gentlemen? The charming poet, the happy possessor of all
sorts of gifts and accomplishments, birth, wit, fame, high character,
competence--he was the beloved parish priest in his own home of Hoderel,
"counselling his people in their troubles, advising them in their
difficulties, comforting them in distress, kneeling often at their
sick-beds at the hazard of his own life; exhorting, encouraging where
there was need; where there was strife the peacemaker; where there was
want the free giver."

When the Indian bishopric was offered to him he refused at first; but
after communing with himself (and committing his case to the quarter
whither such pious men are wont to carry their doubts), he withdrew his
refusal, and prepared himself for his mission and to leave his beloved
parish. "Little children, love one another, and forgive one another," were
the last sacred words he said to his weeping people. He parted with them,
knowing, perhaps, he should see them no more. Like those other good men of
whom we have just spoken, love and duty were his life's aim. Happy he,
happy they who were so gloriously faithful to both! He writes to his wife
those charming lines on his journey:--

If thou, my love, wert by my side, my babies at my knee,
How gladly would our pinnace glide o'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning grey, when, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay and woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream my twilight steps I guide;
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee by my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try, the lingering noon to cheer;
But miss thy kind approving eye, thy me