the hearts of all parties concerned were set on one who laboured with him "as a son in the gospel." That honoured individual was the Rev. George Clayton, now of Walworth, who accepted the call of the church, seconded as it was by the cordial concurrence of Mr. Kingsbury himself. The mutual esteem and confidence which ever afterwards obtained between the senior and junior pastor of the church, present a pleasing and instructive page in the history of sanctified humanity. The accession of Mr. Clayton's talents and zeal, added much to the prosperity of the cause. This happy copastorate continued until 1804, when Mr. Clayton was invited to occupy his present important sphere. During his stay at Southampton, the Independent chapel, which had been greatly enlarged, was re-opened in May, 1803. Though Mr. Kingsbury felt the great loss he sustained in the removal of so valuable a coadjutor, so cordially did he approve of the course pursued by Mr. Clayton, that he took part in his ordination at Walworth, and delivered the introductory discourse, which was afterwards given to the public.

He had but just returned from the ordination of his young friend in the metropolis, when he was called to preach the funeral discourse of one of the oldest and most endeared of his college companions-the Rev. Edward Ashburner, of Pool. The event was peculiarly trying to him; but the sketch which he drew of his friend's character was deemed both happy and faithful.

Some difficulties arose in supplying Mr. Clayton's place at Southampton; but after various negociations, the Rev. Henry Lacy was publicly ordained as co-pastor with Mr. Kingsbury, in October, 1805; with whom he laboured till September, 1807, when he resigned his position and settled at Westbury, in Wiltshire.

The death of many near relations, the removal of friends dear to him as his own soul, particularly the Rev. John Newton, the growing infirmities of age, the want of a proper assistant, and, above all, the mental alienation of Mrs. Kingsbury, (for he had entered a second time into married life), combined to fill him with anxious and foreboding thoughts, and led him to contemplate the resignation of his pastoral charge.

"To endeavour," said he, "to record my fears, temptations, trials, disbelievings, and perturbations, would be like an attempt to number the billows of the stormy sea. By these I am chastened every morning.""

While Mr. K. was anxiously deliberating as to the path of duty, Divine Providence interposed, though in a somewhat

painful way, to decide his course. Just as he was watching the pillar and cloud, for the purpose of ascertaining the mind of God concerning him, that he might not quit his sphere of labour too soon, nor remain in it too long, it pleased the infinitely wise Disposer of events to visit him with a slight attack of paralysis. Change of air was instantly resorted to, first to Caversham, near Reading, and then to London; but after mature deliberation on his state and prospects, the venerable pastor resolved on relinquishing his charge, and accordingly communicated this settled purpose of his mind to his beloved flock, in a letter, bearing date the 29th July, 1809. The tender of resignation was reluctantly accepted by the people of his charge, who, in answer to his communication, conveyed to him the unanimous resolution of the church to settle the sum of £200 upon him for the remainder of his life. With his characteristic disinterestedness, he would only accept £120.

"This token," said he, "of generous affection, is to me unlooked for. I thought of going into a lowly cottage, and living in the most frugal manner on my slender means; and I should have found it difficult to support myself comfortably with the kind assistance offered by my children."

In the beginning of 1811, Mr. K. felt himself settled at Caversham, where he spent the evening of his days as calmly and usefully as the nature of his infirmities would permit. He preached occasionally, read much, visited his beloved friends at Reading, London, and Southampton; and thus presented a fine spectacle of lovely piety, as we delight to behold it in one who had spent forty-five years in proclaiming the ministry of reconciliation. His diary, and his letters to friends at this period were rich in wisdom, spirituality, gratitude to God, and love to the souls of men. Many of his papers, written at this period of his life, displayed vigour of intellect, sound critical knowledge, accuracy of composition, as well as depth of piety. His last hours were sweetly irradiated by the sunshine of peace and heavenly hope.

"He was confined," says his friend Mr. Buller, "to his bed for one day only before his dissolution. He suffered no acute pain. On the Sunday before he died, when his son said, 'How do you do, sir?' he replied, Well: for I have peace with God.' He expressed an earnest wish to obtain his dismission, and frequently was heard to say, When will he come? O! when will he come?' One of his attendants supposing him to inquire after his son, Mr. Thomas Kingsbury, who was hourly expected from London, said, We look for him every minute.' He shook his head, saying, 'No, no: when will MY BELOVED COME?'

"His senses were retained to the last moment of life. He kissed the hand of his affectionate and only remaining daughter: he made a sign that his son Walter should

offer prayer; and, about seven in the evening of the 18th Feb., 1818, the happy man, his hands and eyes lifted up in the attitude of devotion, drew a long breath, and, without a groan or convulsion, expired."

Thus lived and thus died one of the brightest ornaments of the ministerial character, that has graced the church of Christ in modern times;-a man of rare and exalted worth, adorned by equal strength and refinement of mind, and nobly consecrated to the cause of God and souls; yet humble to a proverb, and ever disposed to acknowledge and admire the excellences of men far inferior to himself.

His death was improved at Reading by his former attached colleague, the Rev. George Clayton; and at Southampton, by the Rev. Dr. Bogue, of Gosport, and the Rev. Thomas Adkins, his respected and greatly honoured successor.

MEMOIR

OF THE LATE

CAPTAIN JAMES WILSON,

COMMANDER OF THE SHIP DUFF, IN HER FIRST VOYAGE TO THE SOUTH SEAS.

IF Captain Wilson was not strictly one of the founders of the London Missionary Society, he was at least so influentially and interestingly connected with its first mission, that he cannot consistently be excluded from a place in these memorials. His life was one of great adventure, and his conversion was a remarkable illustration of the sovereignty and riches of Divine grace.

James Wilson, the youngest of nineteen children, was born in the year 1760. His father was a captain of a Newcastle trader, and brought up his son to the same calling with himself. In early life, the young sailor proceeded to America, during the war, and fought in the battles of Bunker's Hill and Long Island. On his return he became mate of an East Indiaman, though still but very young; and on his arrival at Bengal quitted his ship, and determined to remain in the country. There, for a season, he engaged in country service, but afterwards proceeded to Madras, where he soon distinguished himself by the success and energy of his enterprise. Providence, at this time, placed him in circumstances in which both his

skill and bravery were put to a decisive test. The British troops, then under the command of Sir Eyre Coote, were so hemmed in by Hyder Ali's army, that no supplies could be conveyed to them by land, while, on the other hand, the French fleet had to be passed in reaching them by sea. By the singular address and officer-like courage of Captain Wilson, several vessels were conducted with ample supplies along one of the Indian rivers to the vicinity of the spot where the British troops lay, in want of almost all the necessaries of life. On his return to Bengal, he was employed for some time in conveying supplies to the army, which he did without detection by the enemy. But at last, when proceeding with a valuable cargo of military stores, for the assistance of Sir Edward Hughes, whose ammunition had failed him in the conflict with Suffrein, he was captured by the French, and carried into Cuddalore, which was at that time in their possession. There he found the crew of the Hannibal in the same captivity with himself. He was permitted, indeed, with other officers, to be at large on his parole of honour, and anticipated the period when, by an exchange of prisoners, he might be released from the hand of his oppressors.

Hyder had at that time laid waste the fairest portions of the Carnatic, and, aided by the French, who had seized on Cuddalore, he allowed himself to dream of the speedy expulsion of the English from that part of India. He had just defeated the detachment of troops under the command of Colonel Bailey. Such of them as had not fallen in battle he had cast into prison, tempting them to join his standard, or gratifying his brutality by exposing them to a lingering and cruel death. He had bribed Suffrein with three hundred thousand rupees, to surrender up to him all his prisoners at Cuddalore; a transaction so infamous, that, when communicated to the commander of the fort, it filled both himself and his officers with unutterable indignation and grief. He dared not, however, to disobey the orders of his superior; and after acquainting Captain Wilson, and the other officers on parole, of the disastrous transaction, prepared to send them away the following day, under escort, to Seringapatam.

The moment Captain Wilson heard of the iniquitous bargain, he formed the resolution of attempting an escape from the horrors of captivity, which now stared him in the face, and

which, to his bold and enterprising mind, seemed more appalling than even death itself. In passing along the ramparts, he thought he perceived the possibility of dropping down into the river, and accordingly determined to seize the first opportunity for accomplishing, at all hazards, his heroic purpose. He communicated his intention to a brother-officer and to a native servant, who both resolved to accompany him in his dangerous flight. It was agreed to meet just before guard was mounted, in the dusk of the evening; but ere the hour arrived, the resolution of his brother-officer failed him, so that he had to execute his plan in company only with his little Bengalee boy. He was not, however, to be diverted from his purpose, and at seven o'clock ascended the rampart without being perceived, and leaped down a height of forty feet. The shock was so great as he lighted on the ground, that his chin struck against his knees, and, losing his balance, he fell headlong into the river. He was not without fear that the noise of his body coming in contact with the water might be heard in the fort. This, however, was not the case, and speedily recovering himself from his perilous position, and gaining the bank of the river, he approached the foot of the wall, and beckoned to his little boy to throw himself down gently into his arms. The boy did so, and received no injury whatever. The country of Tanjore round the fort is low, and intersected with numerous streams, all branching off from the Coleroon, the great river of the district. The boy, unfortunately, could not swim; but the Captain, having full confidence in his skill and strength, mounted him on his back, and swam across without considerable difficulty. They proceeded in the direction of Porto Nuovo, about thirteen miles from Cuddalore, having to cross three arms of the river, and proceeded with a rapidity almost unaccountable, in order to reach the greatest possible distance from the fort before the break of day. Near Porto Nuovo, a Seapoy sentry called aloud, "Who goes there?" on which they suddenly concealed themselves, and proceeded down to the river-side; when, mounting the boy on his back, Captain Wilson once more plunged in the waters; but when they began to encounter the breakers occasioned by the tide, the boy began to be afraid, and clung so closely to his master as almost to cause him to sink. He was obliged to return to the shore, and with difficulty escaped a watery grave. Having gained the shore, and perceiving that it would be impossible to proceed