suggesting the suspicion that while he had arrayed himself with care in the morning, he thought not of his attire again till he put it off at night. In manners he was dignified and gentlemanly, though sometimes wanting in suavity. He occasionally threw off flashes of pleasant wit which laughed in his eye; but more frequently sparks of sarcasm which knit his brow. Those who formed their first acquaintance with him when in the latter mood, would be likely to deem him severe, harsh, capable of sawing a man in two without compunction. Something like this was occasionally his appearance in the pulpit, which doubtless hindered his usefulness. But when you sat alone with him in familiar conversation, all this vanished; an intelligent benignity assumed its place, a cheerful vivacity illumined every feature; unless some character, or characteristic, was mentioned, fitted to call forth those half-feelings of contempt, which, in a mind like his, usually stimulate sarcasm; then, his lip curled for a moment, and his eyebrows contracted. The true dignity and amiableness of his countenance only appeared when in conversation you touched on some grand scriptural theme, such as the perfection and glory of God, of his holiness and sovereignty, of Christ, the God-man Mediator, the Holy One, especially his majesty and tender love and all-sufficient grace; then every feature would assume a subdued expression, and tears not unfrequently suffuse his cheeks. No man ever revealed in his face more legibly the ever-varying workings of his thoughts and emotions.

"Every

When old, his appearance was very venerable. one seemed impressed by it. A lady at Waukegan told me that one Sunday, as he entered the pulpit of the Presbyterian church there, her little child, sitting beside her, turned to her and said, 'Mamma, is that God?'"'

It may seem irreverent to repeat this; but it is mentioned to show the impression which his appearance made.

"Mr. Healy, who painted his portrait when he was about

eighty years of age, seemed struck with admiration at his venerable and saintly head.

This portrait was hung, for a time, in the Crosby Gallery at Chicago, and has been much admired. One who saw a copy of it said, "He looks like the inhabitant of another world."

28

CHAPTER XVII.

THE CLOSING PERIOD; HIS LAST SICKNESS, DEATH, AND BURIAL.

THE tenacious principle of life began at last to yield. About four years previous to his death he was smitten with paralysis, which much enfeebled him. His daughter says:

I entered his chamber soon after the attack, and found him lying upon his bed, apparently unconscious of all that was passing. Drawing near him, I heard him murmur,

Father, glorify thy name; Father, build up thy kingdom.' Then, lifting both hands feebly, 'Hear thou in heaven, thy dwelling-place.' A few minutes after, he said, 'When all thy mercies, O my God.' There he paused, and soon fell into a long sleep, from which we thought he would never awake."

His step now became tottering, his flesh wasted, his cheek grew pale. He, however, became comfortable; but the strong man was bowed. He had the appearance of extreme old age. But the inner life decayed not. This was kindled at the fountain of all life, and had a vigor which no wastings of the body could weaken. It had long been growing, and with more rapidity the longer it grew. The few past years had seen a perceptible advance. It now shone out with the softened splendors of the setting day. "The last years of his life," says one of his family, were passed almost wholly in the retirement of his chamber in reading the Scriptures and in prayer; yet he usually went to the house of the Lord on the Sabbath, and enjoyed the public worship of God."

"IS IT MORNING OR EVENING?'

435

The following lines, descriptive of her father both physically and spiritually, were written by his daughter about a year before his death:

"IS IT MORNING OR EVENING?

"Twilight which? "Tis evening twilight,

For the day is almost done;

Shadows lengthen, dews are falling,
Chilling winds are coming on.

"No, it is the morning twilight

"Tis the dawning of a day;
Flowers are opening, voices call him,
'Rise, beloved, and come away.'

"Yet it must be evening twilight:
He is weary, and would rest;
All the day he has been toiling, —
Lay him on his mother's breast.

"No, it is the morning twilight:

-

In the summer of 1869 he went to reside in a village near Chicago to enjoy a purer atmosphere. His white locks falling low down below his hat, his stooping form, his feeble and trembling steps which he supported with a cane, and his whole appearance indicative of great age, rendered him a marked object as he walked the streets. His benignity

and kindliness of expression, his venerableness and saintliness, won the hearts of the good, the respect of all. The children even were attracted towards the good old man, and would sometimes kiss their hands to him as he passed.

He now reached the close of his official work.

"On the 7th of September my father performed his last official act by solemnizing the marriage of a granddaughter with a young gentleman of whom he was particularly fond. His appearance on that occasion was unusually venerable, as he stood leaning upon his cane; and his accents were so feeble and tender that the young bride burst into tears. After the ceremony, having kissed his granddaughter, he said to the bridegroom, 'I want to kiss you too.' And so with a kiss this dear saint ended his ministry.

"After the marriage, as he was looking over the bridal presents, he paused and turned over the leaves of a beautiful Oxford Bible, the gift of the bridegroom's father. As he did so, the tears gushed from his eyes, and he exclaimed, 'Precious book; so old, and yet so new.'

"The time at length arrived for him to obtain the fulfilment of the loving promise of the Saviour, made to his disciples in their anticipated sorrow, - 'I will come again and receive you to myself.""

His daughter has beautifully described the closing scene: "For some months before my father's death there had been many indications of approaching dissolution. He often paused in his walks to take breath, and was hardly able to lift his feet from the ground, but dragged them heavily. He spoke of seeing objects double; sometimes finding it difficult to distinguish the substance from the shadow. Still his hearing was but little impaired, and his voice, though weaker, was never tremulous. When he hummed tunes to himself, as was his wont, there was still melody in the sound, and he was able to read the Divine Word until about eight days before he died.

"His mind was most of the time very tranquil. One of his grandsons said of him, two or three years before this period, that he was the happiest old man he had ever seen.' And for the most part he continued happy.

"He drank daily of that water of which if a man drink he shall thirst no more;' and so near the fountain of bliss,