could fill several sheets of paper with her expressions of ineffable peace in God and confidence in her Redeemer, but I am almost too much exhausted to collect and note them down. They have dropped from an overflowing heart in so natural, serene, and simple a way, and with such a heavenly radiance upon her countenance, that you would have felt it an unspeakable privilege to look upon her and to listen to her. Several times an unexpected occasion or remark has led on to a conversation in which I have witnessed more of heaven upon earth than I ever before beheld in any sick-room or "chamber where the good man meets his fate." Oh, how I have wished that you could have been present! Yet it would have been too much for you; and for your health's sake I am glad you are not in a household of so much anxiety and suffering, though at the same time of so much consolation and peace.

I told you before that dear mother was happy in the prospect of death. She said that the terrors of death were entirely taken away, and that her confidence in Jesus was unwavering and her peace entire. The text was repeated, "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose soul is stayed on thee." "Perfect peace!" she responded, with a smile of such radiance that it was inexpressibly delightful. "Oh," exclaimed she, I long to be at rest, —

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'This mortal tenement to quit,

That I may be with God!'

You must not pray for my recovery. I take my staff and travel on. 'He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness, for his name's sake.'

'If e'er I go astray,

He doth my soul reclaim,

And leads me in his own right way,

For his most holy name.'

I never thought to realize so much of his presence and his love."

She was frequently repeating some of Watts's most beautiful stanzas, and said,

"Jesus can make a dying bed

Feel soft as downy pillows are.""

To-night I said to her, "Dear mother, amidst all your sufferings, your mind does not seem to have wandered from the Saviour at all." "NOT IN THE LEAST," was the answer, in a slow, emphatic, grateful utterance, so full of the expression of deep peace that it was as the voice of an angel. One of us repeated the text, "I know in whom I have believed." "I know in whom I Do believe," was the answer. We repeated the passage, "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation," etc. "Oh, blessed, precious passage!" she exclaimed. We repeated the text, "O death, where is thy sting?" etc. Then she answered: "Yes, the sting of death is sin; but praised be God, he has taken the sting of death entirely away. Perfect peace!"

One of those present, thinking to awaken an association of delight in the thought of meeting dear ones in heaven. who have gone before, said, "You will meet your dear Nathaniel there." "I shall meet Christ there," was the serene and gentle answer. Then she said, "I long, oh, I long to be there!" Then the expressions of her own unworthiness were most affecting; and her gratitude for the

divine mercy, and for every token of kindness bestowed by those around her, and her words of deep affection for the church and people, and especially for some whose Christian character she had intimately known, were most impressive and delightful. Gratitude was always one of her ruling traits of character. It is impossible to describe how affectingly it has been manifested. Amidst her great sufferings, not a complaint nor expression of impatience has escaped her, but always there has been the same radiant manifestation of peace. Sometimes she would repeat a stanza of an old Methodist hymn,

"Oh, how happy are they

Who their Saviour obey,

And have laid up their treasure above!'

That sweet comfort is mine," and there stopped; and on another occasion said that she wished she could tell us some of the things of which her mind was full.

But I give you a most imperfect and inadequate idea of the beauty, sweetness, and serenity of this exhibition of the power of a Saviour's love to take away the terrors of the grave, and afford some little foretaste of heaven. Some one asked if her head pained her greatly, and she said, "Yes, but I shall soon be where it will cease to ache forever." All these things, in her weak and suffering state, and with great difficulty of articulation, have been exceedingly affecting and impressive. And then such sweet messages of love and kindness!

Dearest Lizzie, you cannot tell how affectionately she spoke of you. I told her how much you loved her. "I know it," said she; "I know that she loves me, and I love

her dearly." And then she added, "I can say before God that I have loved her ever since I knew her. I believe she is one of God's true disciples. I love her dearly! I love her dearly! I only regret that she could not have been more with us here at Greenport. I hope that she and George will be happier together than ever." Oh, my dearest wife! I wish you could have heard her accents, the deep tenderness of them, the depth of feeling and meaning every word carried, and could have seen the ineffable sweetness of her face, the radiant peace and love beaming in it.

--

And all this amidst anguish and oppression and suffering of body such as we have not been able to understand! For her disease baffles all examination and effort. Nothing has the least effect upon it. Indeed, she cannot swallow anything, not even the smallest quantity of liquid, without great pain, and consequently can take little or no nourishment.

But I will not trouble you with this. We cannot tell how soon the scene will end. Dear mother has not had the least hope of recovery from the beginning, and lately not the least wish. But oh, the anguish of beholding her sufferings without being able to alleviate them! and oh, the bitterness of parting with so dear a mother! I cannot tell when I shall be home. I am to write to Poughkeepsie that I cannot be there to lecture on Friday evening. Dearest Lizzie, be careful of yourself; and may our dear Lord keep you as in the hollow of his hand. I wish I could get a letter from you.

Ever most affectionately your loving husband,

GEORGE.

GREENPORT, Tuesday evening, January, 1853.

DEAREST LIZZIE, Our dear, dear mother is almost home. Last night was a night of distress, but not so great as before, and caused partly by the great effort of the hour of sacred heavenly conversation in the evening. in which such clearness of mind and celestial light and peace were vouchsafed that nothing in all our experience, and few things that we have even read of, could surpass it. To-day she has been sinking fast, the power of consciousness gradually declining; and now at any moment she may cease to breathe. I shall continue the record which was begun in my letter of yesterday. She said again,

"I long, oh, I long to be there!'"

Elizabeth continued,

"I long to put on my attire

Washed white in the blood of the Lamb;

I long to be one of your choir

And tune my sweet harp to his name!'"

Then it was evident that the hymn was passing through her mind:

"Hark, they whisper! Angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!'"

1 told her she was going to Mount Zion above, and to the innumerable company of angels, and to Jesus, the Mediator of the New Covenant, and that God had said, "Them that sleep in Jesus will God also bring with him." "Oh," exclaimed she, "that is the best thing I have!"