The Last Scenes

ILLNESS LAST HOUES DEATH.

IT has been already said that the months immediately preceding his last illness were marked with unusual bodily comfort. He was alert and cheerful, and said that he never felt better. The last sermon that he ever preached was delivered to the students in the Seminary Chapel, on the 7th of September, from the words, Isaiah 54: 13, “All thy children shall be taught of God.” The Lord’s Supper was administered in the First Church of Princeton on the 14th of September; on which occasion he made an address to the communicants. This was his last public service. In the afternoon he was present at the Conference in the Seminary. The subject treated was the Sacraments, considered as Means of Grace. Feeling slightly indisposed he at first declined to offer any remarks; but after Dr. Hodge had spoken, he added a few words. The summer heat of that year was remarkably extended into the month of September, and, in his own apprehension, predisposed him to disease.

About the 18th of September he began to be more indisposed, but for a number of days only in a slight degree; and he continued to attend his classes. On Sunday, the 21st, he would have gone to the regular service in the Chapel, but was dissuaded from it by his family. He seemed exceedingly reluctant to omit his lectures, and even after becoming too unwell to leave the house, dictated the syllabus of a lecture on Mental Philosophy.

About a week after his seizure he had an interview with Professor Hodge, from whose notes we are permitted to make an extract, preferring his simple statement to any prepared report. “On going over,” says Dr. Hodge,” I found him reclining, in his ordinary dress, upon a sofa in the study. As I entered the room, he reached out his hand to me, and for the first time in my life called me his dear son; and said he had a few things to communicate, to which he did not wish me to make any reply. He said that his impression as to his situation was different from that of his family. They thought he was getting well; he was sure he was going to die. His increasing weakness, and the entire loss of appetite convinced him that he could not recover. After much reflection, he had come to the conclusion that there never was a time in which it would be or could be better for him to leave the world. He never had felt that his work was done before now. He had accomplished every thing he could for his family, and thought he could no longer be of service to the Seminary, and he therefore considered that it was desirable he should not recover. He said, he spoke thus not from any bright views of the future, which he had not, but from the convictions of his understanding. He had never known any man after eighty years of age to be useful, and he did not wish to drag on a few more years a burden to himself or others. His views of divine truth, he said, remained the same; and as to comfort and support in dying, he had as much reason to expect them now as ever. He added, ‘Kow, my dear son, farewell — you will never see me again, He told me to -make a short prayer — which I did, he adding Amen — with peculiar emphasis.

“As I was about to withdraw, he said — ‘Yes! I must see you again, as I have some things to say about the Seminary/

“October 15th. — Dr. Alexander sent for me again. He was still in his study. He gave me his account-book of the scholarships and explained to me what he wished done in reference to that matter. He was more cheerful than when I last saw him. Spoke of his dissolution as certainly near at hand, and gave general directions about his funeral,”

The disease, which took the form of a diarrhoea, now increased, so that he had no rest day or night. In the morning, instead of being refreshed he was quite exhausted. But until a week before his death, he came down regularly to his study, as early as six o’clock in the morning, and lay upon the sofa until bedtime. During the latter part of this time, however, he required the assistance of an arm to lean upon. For the last week of his thus coming down he seemed better; the disease was somewhat checked, he was driven out occasionally, and continued to walk into another room, where he listened to the newspapers and other reading, and seemed

much interested in all that was going on. The only distressing symptom was a total loss of appetite, which all around him tried in vain to tempt.

While his family were all hoping with much cheerfulness, his own judgment of his case never wavered. He declared that his stomach had lost all tone, and that he should gradually sink. In remembering the perfect calmness with which he contemplated every symptom, his friends now wonder that they were not more alarmed; for in his previous slight ailments he had usually been much discouraged. But his composure in speaking of his approaching dissolution tended to dispel all serious apprehensions of the result. When any new article was prepared for him by his loving family or sent in by kind friends, he would say with the utmost cheerfulness, “My stomach has lost its power, and cannot react.” From the very first, it is obvious that he had a clear understanding of his case, such as precluded all expectation of recovery.

On the 17th of October, for the first time, his family were compelled to give up all hope of his amendment. The change on that day was marked and sudden. He had walked down as usual to the study, with the assistance of his beloved daughter, but was evidently weakened by the effort. During the day his debility increased so much that when night came he was utterly unable to walk. He was very desirous of being taken to his chamber, from which he said he should never descend alive. Accordingly, by the kind aid of Mr. Oleghorn of the Seminary and a few other persons, he was carried up stairs and laid upon his bed. It is proper

to say that the day before, his eldest son, who had been absent in Europe, was permitted to meet him. He was lying on the sofa, much emaciated, but with a countenance strikingly like that of thirty years before. Taking his son by the hand, he gave thanks to God for having preserved him, and for allowing this interview, which he had greatly desired. He then proceeded to give a number of directions and orders, with perfect composure and the deliberation of one who utters a series of charges from a memorandum. There was an air of unearthly authority which we remember with awe. He said that his end was approaching, and that all arrangements had been completed for the comfort and sustenance of his family. To this son he then gave the Hebrew Bible which had been his daily companion for forty years. He designated for his eldest grandson the fine Clarendon Cicero, in ten quarto volumes, and caused us for the second boy to choose between Hesychius and Burmann’s quarto Quintilian. He had previously pointed out for little William Alexander, one of his grandchildren, the walking-stick which he had long used. These things were done with all the calmness and cheerfulness of his most untroubled days. He proceeded to name two of his sons, who should have the entire control of his manuscripts, and of any notice that might be published of his life. He said that his treatise on Moral Science was in his judgment the most worthy of being edited. After having thus settled his last worldly affairs, he proceeded to talk freely about the work of God in the Reformed Churches abroad, and when his strength was exhausted, dismissed his son. In all that he uttered he was clear, succinct, and deeided, speaking with a mien which carried something of command. The writer of these pages may be allowed to record his heartfelt thanks to God, for the privilege of thus beholding once more the face of an honoured father.

During his illness he dictated a paper to be taken round for subscriptions towards the relief of a young man whose studies had been interrupted by disease. Only two or three days before his death he spoke of a clergyman whom he had met on the railroad some time before, and to whom he was very anxious to send some books. The name of this stranger had escaped his memory, though he remembered the county and presbytery somewhere near Buffalo.

On the 17th, already mentioned as his last day below stairs, he gave his last directions to his beloved wife and to his children. On the same day he had a last interview with his cherished colleague and friend Dr. Hodge, whose memorandum we will not mar by abridgment or change.

“Oct. 17. Saw Dr. Alexander for the last time. He was upstairs in bed. He said he had sent for me to speak about his funeral. He said as Dr. John McDowell had from the beginning been a Director of the Seminary, and was one of its best friends, he thought him the proper person to preach on the occasion. He commissioned me to make the request as from him, with the injunction not to utter one word of eulogy. ‘We cannot, he added, ( prevent people from talking about us, but I do not wish any delineation of character attempted, nor any praise.’ He then, with a smile, handed me a white bone walking-stick, carved and presented to him by one of the chiefs of the Sandwich

Islands, and said, c You must leave this to your successor in office, that it may be handed down as a kind of symbol of orthodoxy/

“The students of the Seminary had set apart this day as a season of fasting and prayer. When he was informed of this he said, c Give them my blessing; but tell them not to pray for my recovery, which is now out of the question, I never saw him more himself — more cheerful — almost playful. There seemed in his case to be no difference between faith and sight. He spoke of this world and of the next in the same tone of cheerful assurance, passing from one topic to the other without the least change of manner. There was no excitement nor tension of feeling, but the most perfect simplicity. I never saw and never imagined a death-bed where there was so little of death. It seemed to him as an ordinary matter, and he spoke of dying with the same natural cheerfulness, with which he would have spoken of going from one room to another. Indeed his chamber was the most cheerful room in the house,”

Either on this day or the preceding, he had an interview with the Rev. William E. Schenck, pastor of the First Church, a gentleman for whom he had always cherished much affection. From minutes of Mr. Schenck, intended solely for his own eye, we make the following extracts.

“It was on the morning of the Thursday preceding Dr. Alexander’s death, that I called to inquire after his health. My inquiries having been answered at the door I was about to leave, when I was called back by one of his sons, who said that his father had heard I was at the door and desired to see me. As I entered the study he was lying on the sofa in his usual dress, hut supported by pillows. He extended his hand in a very cordial manner; on taking it I found it icy cold. He at once said to me in a very warm and tender tone,? My dear young friend, I have much desired to see you once more, and am glad to have this opportunity. I wish to bid you farewell. You will see me no more in this life/

“I was so greatly overcome by this address that I hardly knew what to reply. I merely said, c I trust and most earnestly hope, dear sir, that you may yet be mistaken. Should it be so, we are confident it would be your inexpressible gain; but it would be a sorrowful day indeed for all of us that should survive/

“e I feel confident, said he, c that I am not mistaken. I shall not live long. Nor have I any wish to stay longer. I have lived eighty years, which is more than the usual term of human life, and if I remain, I have little to look forward to, but infirmity and suffering. If such be the Lord’s will, I feel thoroughly satisfied, and even would prefer to go now. My work on earth, I feel, is done. And it does seem to me (he added with great earnestness), as if my Heavenly Father had in great mercy surrounded me with almost every circumstance which could remove anxieties and make me feel that I can go without regret. My affairs have all been attended to, my arrangements are all completed, and I can think of nothing more to be done. I have greatly desired to see my son James before my departure, and sometimes feared I should not have that privilege, but the Lord has graciously brought him back in time to see me, having led him safely through much peril on the ocean. My children are all with me (I think he excepted Henry). The church of which you are pastor is prosperous and flourishing. The Seminary Faculty is again full, and the Institution in an excellent condition. The more I reflect upon the matter, the more all things seem to combine to make me perfectly willing to enter into my rest. The Lord has very graciously and tenderly led me (he added, closing his eyes and clasping his hands in a devotional manner) all the days of my life — yes, all the days of my life. And he is now with me still. In Him I enjoy perfect peace.’ The last sentence he uttered in a quick, earnest and happy tone of voice, such as was peculiar to him in certain moods. Pausing a moment or two, as if to recover breath, he then said:

“c I have much desired to see you, that I might bid you farewell, and once more invoke God’s blessing upon you and your ministry. You have had a strong hold on my affections, and I have felt much satisfaction in your preaching. Continue as you have begun, and have done thus far, to preach Christ and Him crucified, scripturally, plainly, earnestly, and God will continue richly to bless your ministry, even as he has here so lately done. He lifted his hands, as if to pronounce a benediction. I fell on my knees, beside the sofa, with my head bowed, and weeping bitterly; nevertheless I tried hard to restrain my feelings, while with his hands extended over me, he offered a short and fervent prayer, closing with these words: ‘God greatly bless his servant, in his person, in his family, and in his ministry. May it please God to give him great usefulness and success.

May many souls be saved through his efforts; and when his work is done, may we be permitted to meet again in a happier world, Amen.;

“As I arose from my knees, he reached out his hand as if to bid me farewell.

“i I cannot go (said I) until I attempt to thank you, which I do with my whole heart, for your long and unvarying kindness to me. You have been to me the best and most valued of earthly friends/

“‘You must thank God for that, (said he quickly.) All kindness and all friends are His gifts. Give my love to your wife and children/

“The last sentence he repeated when I had reached the door, and very slowly, as if he were loath to have me leave him —

“c Give my love and a very affectionate farewell to your wife and to your dear little children.’

“As I walked away from the house I could not repress my tears, and a sense of utter desolation came over me for a little while as I thought that I had probably taken a lastview, and received the last words of affectionate counsel from that beloved and venerated friend, to whom I have been accustomed to resort, and on whose counsels I have been accustomed to rely as on those of no other man on earth. But soon my feelings grew calmer. I felt that I had been breathing an atmosphere redolent with the very fragrance of heaven. The room that I had left seemed to have been perfumed with holy composure and immovable confidence in a glorified but present Kedeemer. As I reflected upon the 610 REVIVAL OF YOUTHFUL SCENES.

scene, I gained new views of life, of death, and of Heaven. I felt, as I had never felt before, how ‘sure and steadfast’ is that anchor of Gospel hope which c entereth into that within the veil, I could not help asking myself, ‘Is it possible to die so? Does the Lord Jesus give his people such complete and quiet victories over the grim King of Terrors? ‘There was nothing excited, nothing exultant; and yet it seemed to be thoroughly triumphant; a calm, believing, cheerful looking through the gloomy grave into the glories of the eternal world. It was the steady, unfaltering step of a genuine Christian philosopher as well as an eminent saint, evincing his own thorough, heartfelt, and practical belief in the doctrines he had so long and so ably preached, as he descended hour by hour into the dark valley and shadow of death. And I could not help praying as I had never prayed before, ‘Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his,”

In his illness his early days seemed to pass before him in review. The anniversary of his licensure, sixty years before, had recently occurred. To this he alluded on the last day that he sat up, recurring to his unwillingness to be licensed, and his dislike to the text assigned to him, as before related. During one of these nights, while his devoted wife was watching by his side, he broke out into something like a soliloquy, rehearsing God’s gracious dealings with his soul. There was so great an elevation in his language, that Mrs. Alexander was unwilling to be the sole witness, and called in their daughter. He recounted the particular exercises of his youth, and especially dwelt on that scene in the Bushy Hills, of

which notice has been taken in one of our early chapters. On this occasion, more than any other in his illness, his views and emotions appeared to acquire the form of holy rapture.

Disease was now rapidly doing its work. His appetite was gone. Through the night he would occasionally take a little ice or a spoonful of ice-cream. There was something touching in the value which he set on the most ordinary attentions. He was especially thankful that our dear mother was permitted to wait on him to the last. She was much attenuated and exhausted by solicitude and loss of sleep, and could scarcely have held out many days longer; yet the support of her faith and patience was little less remarkable than his own. When approaching his end, he said to her with great tenderness, “My dear, one of my last prayers will be that you may have as serene and painless a departure as mine.” How wonderfully was this prayer soon to be answered! He said, “Now I understand, as I never did before, what is meant by that promise, Psalm xli. 3, Thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness.” Before this time he had suffered little acute pain, but his disease was of such a nature as to allow him no rest. Yet no word of complaint or dissatisfaction fell from his lips. He often said, “Why should a living man complain, a man for the punishment of his sins?” To his daughter, who was leaving him in the morning, he said, “You have been a watcher indeed — ever on the alert.”

On the day after he finally went to his bed, he gave his last directions about the Seminary, and many little things which were on his mind. He seemed to forget nothing, but

made suggestions even to the last of matters pertaining to the health of the family. On Saturday, October 18th, his weakness was extreme, and from this time he positively refused to take any anodyne. He said he knew that death could not be far off, and he wished his mind to be entirely free from the effects of stupefying drugs. During the night he suffered more pain than at any time previous, but in the intervals was perfectly calm and peaceful — more than peaceful — he seemed as happy as if he was already in heaven, and talked without intermission in the most delightful way. His discourse was much about dying, and he expressed a wish that he might pass away on the morrow, which was the Lord’s Day; but added, “Just as God sees best.” When relieved from pain, he said that such relief was often to be attributed to the ministration of angels; and afterwards, “They are always around the dying beds of God’s people.” He repeated part of Watts’ s hymn, “0 for an overcoming faith, To cheer my dying hours.” He spoke of the preciousness of the word on which God had caused him to hope; “just the same word,” said he, “that caused me to hope so many years ago, when I was in such distress because I thought I had not conviction enough; and could get no comfort till a good minister (the Rev. James Mitchell) told me that there was no certain degree of conviction prescribed as necessary to salvation; and it was by hearing this again and again that I found comfort.” All this with a serene and heavenly glow, which can never be described.

About the same time he said to one of his sons, who inquired whether he was at peace; “0 yes!” with a tone

which implied, “How could you doubt it?” Then he added, “No ecstacy — but clear faith. I have been reviewing the plan of salvation this morning, and assuring myself that I do accept it. — The transition to a state so unknown is certainly awful; but Christ can prevent the shock. I have never been afraid to die, and I have never before seen a time so suitable for my departure. I am in the fortieth year of my professorship. I have seen all my wishes accomplished. God has answered my prayers, even in averting particular diseases which I feared. The Seminary has never been in so prosperous a state. If I were to recover, it would be for no use; I have seen no man fit for much after eighty. But I shall not recover.” To others he had said, “My views of theological truth are what they have always been.”

On Sunday he was still weaker, and said that he could not last long; but his mind was just as clear as ever. He designated a passage of Scripture, which he wished to hear read by one of his children, and when some difficulty occurred in turning to it, he mentioned the beginning of the verse, Who shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s elect? When the family returned from church, and spoke of Dr. Hodge’s sermon, he was much interested, and said with much animation, “He is a noble man.” About noon a very perceptible sinking took place, so that we looked every moment for his last breath. He lay quiet, breathing quick but feebly, and with his eyes closed. During Monday the 20th, he slumbered, but now and then uttered broken expressions which were truly characteristic of him; such as “We must devise something for them,” “Penitence and faith.” To-

wards night he was seized with a hiccough, which continued through the next day; yet he seemed little annoyed by it. His voice was hardly audible, and his eyes were very dim. On the morning of Tuesday the 21st, he seemed somewhat revived, and talked a little. Though he had some return of appetite, he was averse to taking food; and when the physician urged it, asked if it was to strengthen him, and spoke of that as useless and absurd. But when told that it was only for his temporary comfort, he assented. His taste seemed as acute as in health, and he never had greater quickness of hearing. After this he lay in the same tranquil state, though perfectly collected in reason, growing weaker and weaker, until about six o’clock in the morning of “Wednesday, October 22d, he ceased to breathe. It was observed by his older children that as he drew near to death, his countenance assumed more and more the look which he had when they could first remember him. To the last he was exempt from the marked changes of appearance which are common in illness; his face looked comelier, and as if chiseled out of marble.

The event was the more impressive, because the Synod of New Jersey was at the very time assembled in Princeton. To this he made frequent allusion, a very short time before his death. There were many devotional acts held by this body, in reference to the illness of their venerable member. An end so blessed, so edifying, so fitted to suggest high thoughts of God’s covenant faithfulness, could not fail to make its deep impression on these servants of Christ. In looking back upon the scene, we find nothing absent which lie could have desired. It was a comment on the words which were often upon his lips, How excellent is thy loving kindness! It was, to the letter, a fulfilment of wishes expressed by him some years before, in the following devotional exercise, which he doubtless penned with reference to his own case.

“prayer for one who feels that he is approaching
the borders of another world.

“0 most merciful God! I rejoice that thou dost reign over the universe with a sovereign sway, so that thou dost according to thy will, in the armies of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth. Thou art the Maker of my body, and Father of my spirit, and thou hast a perfect right to dispose of me, in that manner which will most effectually promote thy glory: and I know whatever thou dost is right, and wise, and just, and good. And whatever may be my eternal destiny, I rejoice in the assurance that thy great name will be glorified in me. But as thou hast been pleased to reveal thy mercy and thy grace to our fallen miserable world; and as the word of this salvation has been preached unto me, inviting me to accept of eternal life, upon the gracious terms of the Gospel, I do cordially receive the Lord Jesus Christ as my Saviour and only Redeemer, believing sincerely the whole testimony which thou hast given respecting his divine character, his real incarnation, his unspotted and holy life, his numerous and beneficent miracles, his expiatory and meritorious death, and his glorious resurrection

and ascension. I believe, also, in his supreme exaltation, in his prevalent intercession for his chosen people, in his affectionate care and aid afforded to his suffering members here below, and in his second coming to receive his humble followers to dwell with himself in heaven: and to take vengeance on his obstinate enemies. My only hope and confidence of being saved, rests simply on the mediatorial work and prevailing intercession of the Lord Jesus Christ; in consequence of which the Holy Spirit is graciously sent to make application of Christ’s redemption, by working faith in us, and repentance unto life: and rendering us meet for the heavenly inheritance, by sanctifying us in the whole man, soul, body, and spirit. Grant, gracious God! that the rich blessings of the new covenant may be freely bestowed on thy unworthy servant. I acknowledge that I have no claim to thy favour, on account of any goodness in me by nature; for alas! there dwelleth in me, that is in my flesh, no good thing; nor on account of any works of righteousness done by me; for all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags. Neither am I able to make atonement for any one of my innumerable transgressions; which, I confess before thee, are not only many in number, but heinous in their nature, justly deserving thy displeasure and wrath; so that if I were immediately sent to hell, thou wouldst be altogether just in my condemnation. Although I trust that I have endeavoured to serve thee with some degree of sincerity; yet whatever good thing I have ever done, or even thought, I ascribe entirely to thy grace, without which I can do nothing acceptable in thy sight. And I am deeply convinced, that my best duties have fallen far short of the perfection of thy law, and have been so mingled with sin in the performance, that I might justly be condemned for the most fervent prayer I ever made. And I would confess with shame and contrition, that I am not only chargeable with sin in the act, but that there is a law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, aiming to bring me into captivity to the law of sin and death. This corrupt nature is the source of innumerable evil thoughts and desires, damps the exercise of faith and love, and stands in the way of well-doing, so that when I would do good, evil is present with me. And so deep and powerful is this remaining depravity, that all efforts to eradicate or subdue it, are vain without the aid of divine grace. And when at any time I obtain a glimpse of the depth and turpitude of the sin of my nature, I am overwhelmed, and constrained to exclaim with Job, ( I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes, And now, righteous Lord God Almighty, I would not attempt to conceal any of my actual transgressions, however vile and shameful they are; but would penitently confess them before thee; and would plead in my defence nothing but the perfect righteousness of the Lord Jesus Christ, who died the just for the unjust, to bring us near to God. For his sake alone do I ask or expect the rich blessings necessary to my salvation. For although I am unworthy, he is most worthy; though I have no righteousness, he has provided by his expiatory death, and by his holy life, a complete justifying righteousness, in which spotless robe I pray that I may be clothed; so that thou my righteous Judge wilt see no sin in me, but wilt acquit me from every

accusation, and justify me freely by thy grace, through the righteousness of my Lord and Saviour; with whom thou art ever well pleased. And my earnest prayer is, that Jesus may save me from my sins, as well as from their punishment; that I may be redeemed from all iniquity, as well as from the condemnation of the law; that the work of sanctiflcation may be carried on in my soul by thy Word and Spirit, until it be perfected at thine appointed time. And grant, 0 Lord! that as long as I am in the body, I may make it my constant study and chief aim to glorify thy name, both with soul and body, which are no longer mine but thine; for I am c bought with a price ’ — not with silver and gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot. Enable me to let my light so shine that others seeing my good works shall glorify thy name. 0! make use of me as an humble instrument of advancing thy kingdom on earth, and promoting the salvation of immortal souls. If thou hast appointed sufferings for me here below, I beseech thee to consider my weakness, and let thy chastisements be those of a loving father, that I may be made partaker of thy holiness. And let me not be tempted above what I am able to bear, but with the temptation make a way of escape.

“0 most merciful God! cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength declineth. Now, when I am old and gray-headed forsake me not; but let thy grace be sufficient for me, and enable me to bring forth fruit even in old age. May my hoary head be found in the ways of righteousness! Preserve my mind from dotage and imbecility, and my body from protracted disease and excruciating pain. Deliver me from despondency and discouragement in my declining years, and enable me to bear affliction with patience, fortitude, and perfect submission to thy holy will. Lift upon me perpetually the light of thy reconciled countenance, and cause me to rejoice in thy salvation, and in the hope of thy glory. May the peace that passeth all understanding be constantly diffused through my soul, so that my mind may remain calm through all the storms and vicissitudes of life.

“As, in the course of nature, I must be drawing near to my end, and as I know I must soon put off this tabernacle, I do humbly and earnestly beseech thee, 0 Father of mercies, to prepare me for this inevitable and solemn event. Fortify my mind against the terrors of death. Give me, if it please thee, an easy passage through the gate of death. Dissipate the dark clouds and mists which naturally hang over the grave, and lead me gently down into the gloomy valley. 0 my kind Shepherd, who hast tasted the bitterness of death for me, and who knowest how to sympathize with and succour the sheep of thy pasture, be thou present to guide, to support, and to comfort me. Illumine with beams of heavenly light the valley and shadow of death, so that I may fear no evil. When heart and flesh fail, be thou the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever. Let not my courage fail in the trying hour. Permit not the great adversary to harass my soul in the last struggle, but make me a conqueror and more than a conqueror in this fearful conflict. I humbly ask that my reason may be continued to the last,

and if it be thy will, that I may be so comforted and supported, that I may leave a testimony in favour of the reality of religion, and thy faithfulness in fulfilling thy gracious promises; and that others of thy servants who may follow after, may be encouraged by my example, to commit themselves boldly to the guidance and keeping of the Shepherd of Israel.

“And when my spirit leaves this clay tenement, Lord Jesus receive it S Send some of the blessed angels to convoy my inexperienced soul to the mansion which thy love has prepared. And 0! let me be so situated, though in the lowest rank, that I may behold thy glory. May I have an abundant entrance administered unto me into the kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ; for whose sake and in whose name, I ask all these things. Amen.”*

The unvarnished narrative of such a scene might perhaps claim to be left to make its own impression; but there are a few reflections which force themselves upon our thankful minds, and which shall be simply and briefly expressed.

The first is, that death approached in a great degree disarmed of its ordinary terrors. Here was nothing ghastly. Though not painless, his dying bed was exempt from agony. He was surrounded by his family, was waited on by the wife of his bosom, and was in full possession of his intellectual powers.

Another remark is, that in his last hours there was no vacillation, as to the truth of the system which he had spent his life in maintaining. He may be said to have reasserted it with his last breath.

* Thoughts on Religious Experience, p. 307.

But more striking than all, is it, that in dying he was pre-eminently true to the natural simplicity of his character. Not one syllable was there for effect. All was as in his days of health. He looked collectedly on the awful change, and met the enemy as one whom he had long surveyed and was now to overcome.