year; of it, however, no notices are found among Mr. Hobart's papers.

TO MRS. HOBART,

Frankfort, July 1st, 1802.

My dear Goodin,

I am rejoiced to find by your letter that you are as well as when I left you, and that our darling, Jane, is

as usual.

My sister I think is weaker than when I came, but her fever has in a considerable degree yielded to some powerful medicines which she has been taking. It is possible she may recover-our wishes catch at every favorable appearance. God grant they may not be blasted! Though exceedingly weak and depressed, she is perfectly sensible, and discovers the ardent tenderness of her heart by her solicitude for the happiness of those she loves. She often speaks of you, whom she loves for your own sake, and as the wife of her beloved brother. It seems impossible for me at present to leave her, and I must therefore repress my earnest desires to embrace you and my sweet Jane. Do not let her forget her papa. You must try to keep up your spirits, and do not confine yourself—yield to invitations to go abroad confinement will injure both your spirits and your health. Do write to me again immediately.

I have written to Dr. B., that I shall not be in NewYork next Sunday. I conclude I can be spared, as Trinity Church is to be shut up, and Dr. Blackwell, I understand, is in New-York.

My dear Goodin has the prayers of her affectionate,

J, H. HOBART.'

TO MRS. HOBART.

'Frankfort, 5th July, 1802. I was disappointed in not receiving a letter this morning from my dear Goodin. I am anxious to hear of your health and that of our little darling, and I must hope that I shall receive a letter from you by the next mail.

Sister continues exceedingly weak and low, though the physicians encourage the hope that for a few days past the symptoms of her disorder have been rather more favorable than before. For my own part I am almost afraid even to hope. It gives me inexpressible pleasure to find her mind perfectly composed, and that the religious principles, which she hath long cultivated, support her in this trying period. Nothing but a wish. to cherish these religious hopes, and thus to soothe the illness of a beloved sister, could reconcile me to a separation from you. When I consider how strong her

affections are, and how numerous the ties that attach her to the world, I am disposed to bless the divine goodness which inspires her with so much resignation. May GoD still raise her a blessing to her family and friends.

I must endeavor to see you this week, though I cannot name the day. It will most probably be toward the close of the week. I often think of my Goodin and our dear infant, and commend them to the Divine protection and blessing.

Your sincere and affectionate,

J. H. HOBART.'

With small means, and a growing family, his establishment, in an expensive city like

New-York, required to be regulated in the strictest style of economy. His earliest residence was, therefore, a very small two-story house in Greenwich-street, the rear, however, of which was rendered airy by the proximity of the river. The attic chamber here formed his study, as being the most retired and quiet spot in the house, with windows looking out over the noble expanse of the Hudson to the opposite shores of Jersey, and having for the background of the view the distant hills of Springfield, in which very hills, by a singular coincidence, he found, in later years, that quiet rural retreat he always longed for.

In this little sanctum' surrounded, or to speak more justly, walled in, by piles of folios and heaps of pamphlets, through the zigzag mazes of which it was no easy matter for a stranger to make his way, did our young theologian entrench himself, passing every minute, both of the day and night, that could be snatched from sleep or hasty meals, or spared from the higher claims of parochial duty. These latter interruptions were so numerous, that to one less vigorously resolute in gathering up the scattered crumbs of time, they would have been pleaded as a sufficient apology for the remission of all study beyond necessary preparation for the pulpit.

But with Mr. Hobart such was not the spirit either of the man or the minister. By nature he loved labor, and by profession he was bound to it. Idleness had no charms for him any where, least of all in the midst of the 'vineyard;' so that exertion was both a pleasure and an obligation.

In the scale of duties he placed first, as was his duty, his parochial ones, and these, as already stated, were almost unintermitted. Being equally connected with the three united parishes, the calls upon his time were limited only by the acceptableness of his services-but that acceptableness, it may be truly said, was unbounded, the zeal and eloquence of his public ministrations, and the attractive kindness and warmth of his private ones, soon made him a universal favorite, so that the only wonder was how he found time for any thing else. With slight alteration we may apply to him St. Augustine's admiration of Varro, How he who studied so much could write so much, or he who wrote so much could study so much.'

What adds to our wonder too at this amount of labor is, that it was in spite of much bodily weakness, arising from natural delicacy of stomach and occasional great debility of the nervous system. On one occasion, as related by a nephew who was on a visit to him in

1802, in the family evening prayer-he faltered -repeated the clause-then stopped, and fell upon the floor in a fainting fit, from which he was with difficulty recovered. This irritability of system continued with him through life; oftentimes, as he once told the present writer, did he find himself forced to cast aside pen and books, and literally rush to some physical exertion in order to overcome it. But in spite of all this he was through life a hard and watching student -late to bed and early up-at his books or pen, in summer always by daylight, in winter long before.

But his parishioners were his first care; however deaf to other calls while absorbed in his books, to a spiritual one his ears were ever open -in comparison with such, study was nothing, and personal ease was less than nothing—even health and prudence were disregarded when the question was one of comfort and consolation to the bereaved, the sick, or the dying—these once performed, with a rapidity of movement that distanced ordinary men, he was again to be found at his post, among his books and with his pen entrenched as before, in his lofty citadel, from whence he had been for a moment dislodged, behind ramparts of books that, by their perilous elevation, as the author well remembers, being then a boy, threatened dan