how could he be sad? This prayer was often on his lips : . Let the people praise thee, O God, let all the people praise thee.'

"When overcome by physical weakness he once or twice wept very much, exclaiming, as he did so, 'Jesus Christ took upon himself our nature with all its infirmities.' The thought of that infinite condescension seemed to affect him more than his own sufferings.

"He lamented that he could not still labor for Christ, but betook himself to prayer with the more earnestness and constancy, as this, he thought, the only way left him to serve his Lord. He little knew how great was the influence of his holy living, so great that those who attended him could almost see the shining ones' who gathered around his steps.

"Once or twice he spoke of feeling dejected, as if he had lost the light of God's countenance. But he knew where to go for refuge in the darkest hour; and the reading of the Bible, his beloved old Bible, was an unspeakable solace. He would sit and read chapter after chapter, as if he were never weary; and when at length he closed the book, it was evident that its blessed words had brought healing and peace to his soul.

"He grew very tender towards his children and grandchildren, and seemed to feel a kind of affection for every living thing. He smiled on the children and young animals that he passed in his walks; and it was pleasant to see babies in their nurses' arms kissing their hands to him. The kind people in Waukegan were always ready to do him. a service. As he passed their houses, some friendly face frequently appeared at the door, and gentle voices begged him to enter and take refreshment. Poor Irishmen would rush from their hovels or shops with chairs, that he might rest; and so reverent were the looks and tones of all, that it was evident they felt him to be very near the celestial courts.

"Yet while others looked upon him as a holy man of God, he was full of self-abasement, constantly adopting the publican's prayer, 'God be merciful to me, a sinner.' Sometimes he appeared in the deepest grief on account of his sins, but must surely have been comforted with the thought that he could say, with as much sincerity as Simon Peter, 'Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee.'

"A few weeks before he died there occurred an almost total eclipse of the sun. He sat in an arm-chair outside the door, and with a smoked glass in his hand surveyed the unusual scene. To those who loved him there was something pathetic in the sight. It was a reminder of his own condition and the great event which to him was so near at hand.

"His noble, mental powers had suffered a partial eclipse, and his voice, his step, his glance, were not what they had once been. But, apparently regardless of these things, he sat gazing up into heaven as if, like Moses, he were 'drawing near to the thick darkness, where God was.'

"We felt as we looked upon him, that he was fast approaching the deeper gloom of the grave; that he, who had so long been to us a guiding light, would soon be hidden from our eyes; but there was comfort in the thought that out of the shadows he would emerge into the ineffable Light; into the immediate presence of Him whom his soul loved, no longer to see Him through a glass, darkly, but face to face.'

"On Tuesday morning, the 7th of September, he performed the marriage service before mentioned, for his granddaughter, and had a happy meeting with children and friends.

"At that time he was informed of the birth of his first great-grandchild, and received a message from the infant's mother, requesting him to baptize her son with the name of 'Woodbridge.' The child received the sacred rite from

another hand, and in a few days winged his way upward to herald the swift approach of the saint from whom he was descended.

"The excitement and fatigue of that wedding-day were too much for the worn old man. From that time he became more feeble, though he still continued his daily walks and baths, his reading of the Bible, and his seasons of meditation and prayer.

"On Sunday, the 12th of September, he attended divine service for the last time. He came home much fatigued, but it was hoped that perfect quietness and rest would restore him.

"The following day, and every day until Saturday, he kept about as usual, though very restless at night, and with loss of appetite.

"On Friday he went out with his daughter, and attended to a little business. He walked more feebly than usual, but appeared much absorbed in heavenly musing. Tears came unbidden into his eyes, and when asked the cause, he answered in the words of the sacred poet,

See how the cruel Jews deride

The tender patience of our God.'

Soon after, as if thinking of his approaching release, he said, 'My father died on Sunday morning.' He had several times mentioned this before, and, although he did not express it, I think it was the desire of his heart that he too might enter into rest on that sacred day.

"On his return from this walk he appeared so feeble that his daughter consulted a physician, and that evening, having administered prescribed remedies and seen him laid to rest apparently comfortable and peaceful, she retired for the night. Near midnight she was aroused by hearing his labored breathing, and went immediately to his bedside. In answer to her inquiries, he said he had not slept at all, but in a peculiarly gentle tone told her that she had better

lie down again and get some rest. But as the difficult breathing continued, a messenger was dispatched as quickly as possible for the doctor.

"On his arrival the physician gave it as his opinion that the discase was not congestion of the lungs, as it appeared to be, but rather the result of exhaustion, the giving out. of vital energy. He considered his situation very critical, and messages were sent at once to his absent children, desiring them to come quickly.

He felt himself that his final hour was near, saying to his daughter who stood beside him, I may be mistaken, but think it is the summons.' There was no appearance of mental agitation, but two or three times he asked, 'Do I seem impatient?' alluding to the distress which he suffered.

"Toward morning his breathing was so much better that our anxieties abated, and we began to think he might recover. He was visited the next day by several of his children and grandchildren, and spoke to each affectionately, being quite conscious. He was unable to talk much, but at intervals called on several members of the family to pray. He was also visited by the pastor of the Presbyterian church where he had attended service during the summer, who offered prayer several times by his bedside.

"On the Thursday after his attack his mind was unusually clear, and four of his daughters visited him. At this time there seemed little prospect of his recovery, and that last family talk was all about the country toward which he was going. They spoke of the kindred and friends from whom he had long been severed, that he was soon again to meet; of the good men of whom he had read, and whose writings had refreshed and strengthened him during his earthly pilgrimage, that he was soon to behold for the first time; of the holy apostles and prophets, of whom this world was not worthy, but whose companion he was soon to be. answered, as other saints have done before him, I hope I shall see my Saviour.'

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"When asked by one of his children whether he desired to live or die, he replied that 'he would rather leave it with God.' When asked if he had any message for his absent grandchildren, he roused himself and began to speak very rapidly, as if he feared that he should not say all that was in his heart. The purport of it was that he hoped they would remember that they sprang from a long line of pious ancestors, many of whom had preached the gospel; that they had, therefore, peculiar privileges to answer for, and that they must remember that now is the accepted time, and now is the day of salvation.'

"He afterwards sent his love to his youngest daughter, who lived at a distance, and a charge to her to be faithful.

"He desired his love to the church in Hadley, and addressing the daughter who had been his nurse, said, 'I should like to be carried to Hadley, and laid beside your mother.' She promised that this should be done.

"His only son was with him several nights, and his presence seemed greatly to comfort him. Two little grandsons who visited him in his illness, received a special charge, the memory of which they still affectionately cherish.

"But why need we linger over these last few days? From time to time we heard him say in low tones, as to a friend, 'Come, Lord;' and the prayer of the tired servant was heard and answered.

"In the gray light of the Sabbath morning, September 26th, eight days after his first attack, the pale messenger approached his bedside, and whispered gently, The Master has come and calleth for thee.' Waking out of a peaceful sleep, he heard the voice, and when his daughter entered his room, she found him lying very quietly, with an unusual lustre in his eyes.

"Sending the watcher away, she took her station beside him, and remarked that he looked so well she thought he must indeed be better. He made little reply, but took some nourishment which she brought, and presently asked for a