At this time a youthful parishioner, for whose soul he felt much anxiety, left his father’s roof.  Ever watchful for souls, he seized this opportunity of laying before him more fully the things belonging to his peace.

“Larbert, August 8, 1836

“MY DEAR G.——.  You will be surprised to hear from me.  I have often wished to be better acquainted with you; but in these sad parishes we cannot manage to know and be intimate with every one we would desire.  And now you have left your father’s roof and our charge; still my desires go after you, as well as the kind thoughts of many others; and since I cannot now speak to you, I take this way of expressing my thoughts to you.  I do not know in what light you look upon me, whether as a grave and morose minister, or as one who might be a companion and friend; but really, it is so short a while since I was just like you, when I enjoyed the games which you now enjoy, and read the books which you now read, that I never can think of myself as anything more than a boy.  This is one great reason why I write to you.  The same youthful blood flows in my veins that flows in yours, the same fancies and buoyant passions dance in my bosom as in yours; so that when I would persuade you to come with me to the same Saviour, and to walk the rest of your life ’led by the Spirit of God,’ I am not persuading you to anything beyond your years.  I am not like a grey-headed grandfather,—­then you might answer all I say by telling me that you are a boy.  No; I am almost as much a boy as you are; as fond of happiness and of life as you are; as fond of scampering over the hills, and seeing all that is to be seen, as you are.

“Another thing that persuades me to write you, my dear boy, is, that I have felt in my own experience the want of having a friend to direct and counsel me.  I had a kind brother as you have, who taught me many things.  He gave me a Bible, and persuaded me to read it; he tried to train me as a gardener trains the apple-tree upon the wall; but all in vain.  I thought myself far wiser than he, and would always take my own way; and many a time, I well remember, I have seen him reading his Bible, or shutting his closet door to pray, when I have been dressing to go to some frolic, or some dance of folly.  Well, this dear friend and brother died; and though his death made a greater impression upon me than ever his life had done, still I found the misery of being friendless.  I do not mean that I had no relations and worldly friends, for I had many; but I had no friend who cared for my soul.  I had none to direct me to the Saviour—­none to awaken my slumbering conscience—­none to tell me about the blood of Jesus washing away all sin—­none to tell me of the Spirit who is so willing to change the heart, and give the victory over passions.  I had no minister to take me by the hand, and say, ‘Come with me, and we will do thee good.’  Yes, I had one