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thing he gives thanks to God. His wife lately reading to him these words, "I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of my God;" he exclaimed, "Oh, if I were even a stone to be trampled on in the house of my God, it would be better than I deserve." Taking up a small edition of Thomas à Kempis, which lay on the table, he said, “I have often read that book through with great delight; I have admired the piety which it breathes, and the beauty and force of its language; but I never was enabled to make it my own, as I do now. I look back on my past life, and see the vanity of all things here below, in this my last illness, in a manner I never did before I feel how foolish were many of the pursuits, which have occupied my gliding hours. Oh, how pitiable is the situation of those whom death surprizes, who have neither had time nor inclination to think on these things. How dreadful is sudden death to the unconverted; I now feel the force and excellence of the prayer in our Litany, to be saved from it." When in great pain, he cried out, " I suffer joyfully what is the will of God." He cannot bear his wife to be a moment out of his sight: and to her he is always uttering expressions of gratitude and praise. "O my God, I am thankful: if I could speak, it would be all blessings." To his wife he says, "Do you, my love, speak to the doctor: I do not now like to speak to any one but you. Do not stir from my bed-side I feel to sleep more sweetly when you

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are near. Sure, never man was taken such cafe of you have been a great blessing to me :-my God, I thank thee. When you see me hold up my hands, though I cannot speak, it is to implore blessings upon you. When you are laid upon a sick bed, may you never want such a kind, tender, watchful friend, as you are to me." Such are the thankful pious feelings of this dear servant of God, now while he stands on the brink of Jordan. Through faith he triumphs over the fear of death, and has obtained that peace which passeth all understanding. He talks of his change with the calm composure of one about to take a pleasant journey; gives directions about his funeral, and desiring that the burial service should be performed in the English language, he makes the German minister practise reading it to him, that he may correct his pronunciation. Within the last few days he is become so weak as to be incapable of the smallest exertion. His absent sons are much in his thoughts. Of the eldest he talks incessantly; the last effort of his strength was to write to him, which was the laborious occupation of many days; and now that he conceives there may be time to have had an answer, he anxiously watches each day's post.

The desired letter is come, and has created in Sir Walter an ardent wish to see his son. My sister, in compliance with that wish, has written for him in the most urgent terms, as dictated by his father, though the physician told her, that it

Wale HIS DEATH LEVIZ

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will not be possible for him to arrive in time, for even now the messenger of death is at the door.

THE bitterness of death is past! The night of sorrow is over! The meek sufferer sleeps in Jesus, and has found that rest which remaineth for the people of God! At a little after eleven o'clock this day the mortal struggle ceased. During the night he spoke little, but the motion of his lips, expressing short ejaculations, and his uplifted hands and eyes evidently proved to us that he passed it in prayer. Even in the last extremity, he evinced the strongest affection for his wife, making frequent efforts to cast his feeble arms around her, when his eyes were so dim that he could not see her. His last request was to be taken in her arms, from whence, in a few moments, his happy spirit was set at liberty. Peaceful was the death of that righteous man, who will long live in the hearts of his family, his friends, and his tenantry.}>

In him was truly verified that promise," He

was blessed in that he considered the poor and needy, he was delivered from all his trouble; the Lord was with him, and strengthened him on the bed of languishing; yea, he made all his bed in his sickness." While we adore the mercy and goodness of God, who has given his faithful servant an easy passage, and gathered him into his fold, we must feel that our loss is great. The death of those whom we love is a severe trial for human nature. It is hard to commit that body to the ground which lately was the companion and solace of our days. What a blank a few minutes have made! What a mournful appearance all around has assumed! The silence and stillness of death prevails. No sound is to be heard but the sobs of the two children, who remain in a corner of the room in each others' arms. That dear parent lies breathless, whose eyes never beheld them without pouring blessings on their heads. The bereaved wife has requested to be left alone, and no one ventures to break in upon her solitude, for we see that "her soul is vexed within her," and that, by pouring out her grief in secret prayer to God, she can alone find relief.

Saturday, 11. At nine o'clock at night, lighted by torches, the funeral procession has once more left our door. My sister, trusting in the support which has hitherto upheld her, took her fatherless children with her to accompany the remains of her beloved husband to their last earthly abode; but

when she saw the coffin dropped into the grave, she sunk on the ground, for the powers of nature yielded. The two coffins were laid side by side according to his dying request, "Lay me by the side of my daughter."

Monday 13. When all the bustle attending the last solemn scene is over, loneliness and desolation of heart succeed the first burst of grief. This day, my sister, whose outward garments of woe but ill describe the sorrows of her heart, was persuaded to resume her seat at the dinner table, but on casting her eyes around, she perceived the mournful blanks, she saw the empty seats, and could bear no more. The aching void can never be filled up. He who was the delight of her eyes, her world of enjoyment, is gone, where her eyes can behold him no more, and the remainder of her days in this vale of tears will be sad and solitary. The physician and all our friends so strongly recommend change of air and scene for my sister, that she has at length yielded to our united entreaties, more for her children's sake than her own; since their health too requires the change, their passing so much of the summer at Rome having been attended with much risk.