was seized by a cold, which terminated in a few weeks in rapid consumption, depriving her fond husband of the desire of his eyes, and leaving him in his widowed state nothing but the remembrance of his departed joys.

Bitter indeed to him was this trial. He had long and tenderly loved her; he had encountered innumerable difficulties in obtaining this cherished object of his regard: but just as he had surmounted them all, just as he was beginning to taste the cup of earthly joy, and allowing his imagination to depict to him scenes of future happiness, to have that cup dashed from his lips, to see the funeral pall covering and enshrouding all his earthly hopes, was agony indeed. As the flattering disease varied, his hopes and fears were kept alive, and alternately prevailed. Sometimes the hectic flush, the buoyant spirits, and lighted eye of his beloved one would quicken the pulsations of his hope; and anon, her extreme depression, hollow cough, and cadaverous aspect accelerated his palpitations of alarm. As she receded from earth, and seemed brightening for heaven, she became in a tenfold degree more endeared to him. Her pious converse, her affectionate efforts to comfort

him, her commendation to him of their babes, her pious resignation to the will of Heaven, her deep sense of guiltiness as a sinner, in a word, her example of meek and lovely piety served to show him how great and extensive his loss, and to barb the arrow which was about to transfix his heart. Often did he repair to the throne of Grace for strength, that he might endure the final separation. But when he saw her depart in peace, though grateful for the joy into which he was sure she had entered, yet he could not, though he struggled for it, resign her. The stroke which separated her from him had palsied his very heart. His grief was deep and silent; he nursed it; his frame, previously enfeebled, now became completely shattered; busy memory constantly brought before him her last, last look, gave a resurrection to a thousand interesting events and occurrences of their past life, and then enveloped them from his view in the livery and silence of death. True it is, he sought for solace where only it was to be found, and much he strove to exemplify the submission he had preached to others; but the shock was too great for his already emaciated constitution. The lightning's flash

which had withered his earthly joys had not only scathed him, but riven his very heart. It was the summons which called him to the grave.

A few weeks only did he linger; but as his end approached he regained his tranquillity. His submission to the Divine will became more easy and simple, his hold upon earthly objects was loosened, and like the Israelites, who, when lacerated with the scourges of Egypt, turned their eyes to Canaan, and were anxious to be gone, so he longed to depart and be with Christ. His faith grew up to the degree of full assurance, and like the ship whose sails are filled by the favouring wind, he seemed to be rapidly and magnificently entering into the harbour of eternal glory.

His disconsolate flock, to whom he preached spite of all his weakness, till the last Sunday but one which preceded his dissolution, saw that he had now nearly finished his course. To them it seemed as if the high spirituality of his sermons partook of something superhuman; as if, like the dying swan, of whom it is fabled that as her end approaches she sings in unearthly minstrelsy her funeral dirge, so he now was indicating that the time

of his departure was at hand. Like Elisha, who, when the aged prophet was about to be taken up, redoubled his attentions, and followed him more earnestly and sedulously, so his afflicted church were more than ever diligent in attendance on his ministry: They hung with intense eagerness upon his lips, while many treasured up in their memories and hearts his last sayings, as Aaron did the last of the manna on which the Israelites had fed, and which he deposited in the golden urn in the sanctuary. Such was the unction which accompanied these last ministrations, that multitudes, who till then had been thoughtless and unconcerned, were brought in good earnest to seek for their salvation; so that his last days were his best and most useful.

His last address to them was in its effect completely overwhelming. His hollow voice, his emaciated frame, his sunken but enkindling eye, his impassioned earnestness, awakened in their bosoms the most thrilling interest. He appeared to them as the oak which the lightning had scathed, and by the same stroke consecrated too; and when he concluded his last admonitions with these words, "Oh! make trial of it for yourselves,

and you will be happy; repose on the Redeemer in the dependency of faith, and you shall enjoy perfect peace. I can bear to it my dying testimony, that it is unutterably sweet, after being tossed to and fro by the tempests of time, to feel my feet stand secure upon the Rock of ages; to shelter my agitated spirit in the bosom of Providence, and to find myself encircled by the everlasting arms."—When thus he finished his last address, one intense sensation of interest pervaded every bosom, and the solemn silence of the auditory was only broken by its stifled sobs: for they sorrowed at the thought, they should see his face no more.

On the next day he was confined to his chamber. His malady now made rapid progress; but his spirit was calm and serene. Frequently was he heard to commit his orphan babes to the care of their Heavenly Father, and to repeat to himself those promises of the blessed Word on which his faith had rested, such as, "Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive;" "In thee the fatherless findeth mercy." On the ninth day of his confinement he asked to see his babes. He implored upon them in faltering accents the