life, took his own way. He went to New Zealand, and, now that it was
done, the interest and sympathy of all his family and friends followed
him. Let me give here the touching letter which Arthur Stanley, his
father's biographer, wrote to him the night before he left England.

UNIV. COLL., OXFORD, _Nov. 4, 1847._

Farewell!--(if you will let me once again recur to a relation so long
since past away) farewell--my dearest, earliest, best of pupils. I
cannot let you go without asking you to forgive those many annoyances
which I fear I must have unconsciously inflicted upon you in the last
year of your Oxford life--nor without expressing the interest which I
feel, and shall I trust ever feel, beyond all that I can say, in your
future course. You know--or perhaps you hardly can know--how when I
came back to Oxford after the summer of 1842, your presence here was
to me the stay and charm of my life--how the walks--the lectures--the
Sunday evenings with you, filled up the void which had been left in
my interests[1], and endeared to me all the beginnings of my College
labors. That particular feeling, as is natural, has passed away--but
it may still be a pleasure to you to feel in your distant home that
whatever may be my occupations, nothing will more cheer and support
me through them than the belief that in that new world your dear
father's name is in you still loved and honored, and bringing forth
the fruits which he would have delighted to see.

Farewell, my dear friend. May God in whom you trust be with you.

Do not trouble yourself to answer this--only take it as the true
expression of one who often thinks how little he has done for you in
comparison with what he would.