"Never to do anything, which, if I should see in another, I should count a
just occasion to despise him for, or to think any way the more meanly of
him."

"Never, henceforward, till I die, to act as if I were any way my own, but
entirely and altogether God's."

He earnestly tried to keep these resolutions until the end. After a
successful pastorate of twenty-three years at Northampton, the church
dismissed him for no fault of his own.

Like Dante, he was driven into exile, and he went from Northampton to the
frontier town of Stockbridge, where he remained for seven years as a
missionary to the Indians. His wife and daughters did their utmost to add
to the family income, and some contributions were sent him from Scotland,
but he was so poor that he wrote his books on the backs of letters and on
the blank margins cut from newspapers. His fame was not swallowed up in the
wilderness. Princeton College called him to its presidency in 1757. He died
in that office in 1758, after less than three months' service in his new
position. His wife was still in Stockbridge when he passed away. "Tell
her," he said to his daughter, "that the uncommon union which has so long
subsisted between us has been of such a nature as I trust is spiritual, and
therefore will continue forever." In September of the same year she came to
lie beside him in the graveyard at Princeton.

In 1900, the church that had dismissed him one hundred and fifty years
before placed on its walls a bronze tablet in his memory, with the noble
inscription from _Malachi_ ii., 6.