CHAPTER XXII: "The death-bed of the just is yet undrawn YOUNG. WE come now to the closing scenes of her existence, and they are to be described in the most simple and chastened language. But some of them were of such deep tenderness and unearthly elevation, that we shall not attempt their description. In allusion to them, her pastor, in his sermon at her funeral, remarked, that "they were fit to be enacted in heaven." We have aimed at great simplicity through the entire sketch, and the author has not on a single occasion gone beyond his theme; while in most instances, it is to be feared, he has not reached it. In writing the closing chapter, I feel like a Gentile who left the court of his people, and pressed his way into the holy of holies, which he trod with no less awe than we should tread in her dying chamber, which was none other than the house and the gate of heaven. During her declining days she only once expressed a momentary anxiety in regard to her spiritual condition. "Do you think," said she to her pastor on one occasion, "that there is any danger of my being deceived? or is it wrong to feel such confidence of my safety? I feel that I am on a rock, and have no solicitudes about being swept away; I feel the strength of my foundation; the cold waves of Jordan, I think, will dash against it in vain.” Her sufferings were sometimes acute, and when she had escaped from a paroxysm of pain, she would say, My heavenly father has bidden it, and I welcome it; for it will promote his glory, and work for my good." The triumphs of her mind over her physical distress were prodigious. One attack of pain did not seem to weary her for a fresh encounter. The buoyancy of her faith and the clearness of her understanding were not perceptibly impaired by the assaults of disease and pain. While prayer was being offered up at her bedside, she interposed a few petitions in the most emphatic manner. "Oh God! dispose of me according to thy own will; but why are thy chariot wheels so long in coming; oh! why tarry the wheels of thy chariot?" and then turning to her pastor, she says, "Sir, will you have the goodness to find that passage for me, that I may see its connexion ?" When she parted with her little child the last time, she put into his arms her pocket bible, and had a few lines inscribed upon its blank leaf, which were designed to win him to a love for his Bible by his affection for his dying mother. For some time now her pastor had been able to say nothing of the dark valley in prayer or conversation; for, says she, "The valley is not dark to me, it is bright with summer light." Her faith, with its powerful wing, swept away all the clouds of the valley and all the dishonors of the grave, and made her passage from this world to the world to come resplendent with sunshine. She had a deep sense of her personal unworthiness; and as through life she had always contemplated herself as an obscure and unworthy individual, so now she seemed to be as unconscious of her spiritual attainments as she had always been of her personal charms. She said to her pastor, who in prayer acknowledged with devout gratitude, the grace which had steered her through so wayward and cheerless a lot, and at last brought her out on so bold an eminence as she was departing, "My dear Sir, I am glad you offered that thanksgiving, and I can most heartily unite in it; but I don't desire to have you think of me, but of the grace of God that is in me." All her prayers and efforts for the conversion of her husband had thus far proved unavailing, and she still felt the deepest solicitude for his salvation. She requested her pastor to look after his spiritual welfare, and entreated her husband often to visit Mr. Woodbridge after her decease. The day on the evening of which she expired, her pastor called on her about three o'clock. She requested him to pray for her speedy release; but not being anxious, like herself, for her departure, he did not pray for this event so fervently as she desired, she raised herself up, and was sustained by her sister as she broke forth with most intense eagerness, "Oh! Lord Jesus, do come quickly; oh, why are thy chariot wheels so long in coming?" In some of the last stages of life, while her pas tor was at prayer, she held his hand, and signified her fervid approbation of certain petitions that particularly met her feelings, by pressing it. I have conversed with those who watched with her some weeks before her death, and they say that she slept little during the night, and often requested them to read the Bible to her, and portions of religious works, and sing devotional hymns; and often she would join them. Thus passed her nights of weariness, which in most cases of the kind are scenes of gloom. Her watchers have all told me that it was a luxury to spend the silent hours of night by her bed. On the morning of the last day her physician called on her, and she asked him how long she would live. He answered, "I will tell you as near as I can, for I think it will not trouble you; I think you will die in the course of the day." She instantly added, "Oh, Lord Jesus! come quickly; my soul panteth for thee more than they who wait for the morning." Her voice was natural and distinct to the last; there were no sepulchral tones; but the same winning grace and cheerfulness which had charac |