Tired out with your own work, and yet come up here to help a young man
to whom you are under no obligation!" Well, that was the last sermon he
ever preached. The very next Saturday he dropped dead in his house.
Outside of his own family no one was more broken-hearted at his
obsequies than myself, to whom he had, until the meeting of Classis,
been a total stranger.

I stood at his funeral in the crowd beside a poor woman with a faded
shawl and worn-out hat, who was struggling up to get one look at the
dear old face in the coffin. She was being crowded back. I said, "Follow
me, and you shall see him." So I pushed the way up for her as well as
myself, and when we got up to the silent form she burst out crying, and
said, "That is the last friend I had in the world."

Dr. Hardman lived on. He lived to write a letter when I was called to
Syracuse, N.Y., a letter telling a prominent officer of the Syracuse
Church that I would never do at all for their pastor. He lived on until
I was called to Philadelphia, and wrote a letter to a prominent officer
in the Philadelphia Church telling them not to call me. Years ago he
went to his rest. But the two men will always stand in my memory as
opposites in character. The one taught me a lesson never to be forgotten
about how to treat a young man, and the other a lesson about how not to
treat a young man. Dr. Scott and Dr. Hardman, the antipodes!

So my first settlement as pastor was in the village of Belleville, N.J.
My salary was eight hundred dollars and a parsonage. The amount seemed
enormous to me. I said to myself: "What! all this for one year?" I was
afraid of getting worldly under so much prosperity! I resolved to invite
all the congregation to my house in groups of twenty-five each. We [A]
began, and as they were the best congregation in all the world, and we