’When your sainted Mother died, she not only tenderly committed you to God, but left you also as a solemn charge to me, to bring you up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.  That responsibility I have sought constantly to keep before me:  I can truly aver that it has been ever before me—­in my choice of a housekeeper, in my choice of a school, in my ordering of your holidays, in my choice of a second wife, in my choice of an occupation for you, in my choice of a residence for you; and in multitudes of lesser things—­I have sought to act for you, not in the light of this present world, but with a view to Eternity.

’Before your childhood was past, there seemed God’s manifest blessing on our care; for you seemed truly converted to Him; you confessed, in solemn baptism, that you had died and had been raised with Christ; and you were received with joy into the bosom of the Church of God, as one alive from the dead.

’All this filled my heart with thankfulness and joy, whenever I thought of you:—­how could it do otherwise?  And when I left you in London, on that dreary winter evening, my heart, full of sorrowing love, found its refuge and its resource in this thought,—­that you were one of the lambs of Christ’s flock; sealed with the Holy Spirit as His; renewed in heart to holiness, in the image of God.

’For a while, all appeared to go on fairly well:  we yearned, indeed, to discover more of heart in your allusions to religious matters, but your expressions towards us were filial and affectionate; your conduct, so far as we could see, was moral and becoming; you mingled with the people of God, spoke of occasional delight and profit in His ordinances; and employed your talents in service to Him.

’But of late, and specially during the past year, there has become manifest a rapid progress towards evil. (I must beg you here to pause, and again to look to God for grace to weigh what I am about to say; or else wrath will rise.)

’When you came to us in the summer, the heavy blow fell full upon me; and I discovered how very far you had departed from God.  It was not that you had yielded to the strong tide of youthful blood, and had fallen a victim to fleshly lusts; in that case, however sad, your enlightened conscience would have spoken loudly, and you would have found your way back to the blood which cleanseth us from all sin, to humble confession and self-abasement, to forgiveness and to recommunion with God.  It was not this; it was worse.  It was that horrid, insidious infidelity, which had already worked in your mind and heart with terrible energy.  Far worse, I say, because this was sapping the very foundations of faith, on which all true godliness, all real religion, must rest.

’Nothing seemed left to which I could appeal.  We had, I found, no common ground.  The Holy Scriptures had no longer any authority:  you had taught yourself to evade their inspiration.  Any particular Oracle of God which pressed you, you could easily explain away; even the very character of God you weighed in your balance of fallen reason, and fashioned it accordingly.  You were thus sailing down the rapid tide of time towards Eternity, without a single authoritative guide (having cast your chart overboard), except what you might fashion and forge on your own anvil,—­except what you might guess, in fact.