Page:Records of the Life of the Rev. John Murray.djvu/130

120 nor again to think of me, as of a living son. Be thankful, my mother, be thankful it is no worse; be thankful I have not fallen a victim to the despondency of my spirit. I leave you with your children, with children kind, and dutiful; and, what is better than all, I leave you in the hands, and under the care of a kind God, who hath said, I will never leave you, nor forsake you. "But shall I hear from you, my son?" Do not, I entreat you, think of me, as living; I go to bury myself in the wilds of America; no one shall hear from me, nor of me. I have done with the world; and, prostrating myself in the presence of my mother and my God, with streaming eyes, and supplicating hands, I commended my soul, and all who were connected with me, or allied to me, to that Being, who orders all things according to his own good pleasure.

I left my mother in an agony of affliction, and retired, but not to rest. My baggage had been sent on board ship in the morning, and, accompanied by my brother, we took a boat and passed down to Grave's-End, where I entered on board the vessel, that was to convey me to America, which, in my then judgment, was tantamount to quitting the world.

The vessel, however, did not sail immediately; I had an opportunity of going on shore again, and spending some time at Grave's-End. Fond of being alone, I ascended a lofty eminence, and sat me down under the shade of a wide spreading tree; here I had leisure, and inclination for reflection. On one hand, I beheld the wide ocean, my path to the new world; on the other, the Thames, upon the silvery surface of which, many were passing to London. My mind rapidly ran over the various scenes I had witnessed, since my arrival in that great city. I dwelt upon the good I had lost, never more to be recovered. My soul sickened at the recollection of my heavy bereavement, of the solitary situation, to which I was reduced. I was going from a world, in which I had some associates, and some friends, into a country where every individual was unknown to me! I was going on board a vessel, to the crew of which I was an utter stranger—all gloomy—truly gloomy. One idea, however, continued my abiding consolation; I might soon finish my course, and bid an eternal adieu to sorrow of every description. Yet I trembled at what was before me; I was fearful I was wrong. Just at this period the wind shifted, the signal was made for sailing; but before I descended the eminence, I once more threw my eyes upon the surrounding scenes. I felt destitute, and forlorn; tears gushed in my eyes. My domestic felicity, my social connexions, the