During the last years of my dear father's life, those who saw him most, observed in him such constant growth in grace, such an earnest endeavor to obey the inspired precept, and to "add to faith, virtue; and to virtue, knowledge; and to knowledge, temperance; and to temperance, patience; and to patience, godliness; and to godliness, brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness, charity," that they felt his divine Master was fast fitting him for his heavenly home.

"In the latter of these graces," says one who knew him well, "he was certainly far beyond any Christian I ever met."

Indeed, I once heard the remark made concerning him by a good minister, that he carried these traits so far as to be a weakness.

When he heard any unkind remarks which one Christian brother made of another, they gave him great pain. He often said, "It makes my heart sore. I want to live in an atmosphere of love."

Some time after my mother's decease, my father, being left entirely alone by the marriage of his daughters, married Mrs. Lucia J. Ives, widow of the late Dr. Ansel G. Ives, of New York.

At the time of her marriage to my father, she had seven sons living, two of whom accompanied her to Andover.

The relation proved in every respect happy. Toward her children he manifested the affection of a tender father, an affection they fully reciprocated, while she took to her heart all who were dear to him.

During his distressing illness, her devotion to him never wearied. Her sons left their business to minister to his comfort. It was among the expressed causes of his gratitude to God that he had, aside from his own, such sons to be with him in his hour of trial.

It was an inexpressible comfort to my dear father that, between his children and the children of his second wife, there was such a marked affection.

In these last days he talked and wrote much of his wish that his children should continue to love each other.

In a farewell address to them, left by him to be read to them after his decease, he earnestly expressed this yearning of his heart. In closing he wrote: -

"It is also my desire and prayer that my children and the children of my dear wife may ever cultivate, as they have done, the kindest affections toward each other.

"The Lord grant that this our family circle may all be united in love to Christ and love to one another, and through the abounding grace of God may at last be united in the everlasting employ-

ments and joys of that happy world, where there is no sin, nor sorrow, nor death.

"And it is my desire and prayer that all my grandchildren and all my future descendants may love the Holy Scriptures, and be followers of Jesus; that they may be adorned with the beauties of divine grace, and that they may be lovely and useful in life, and happy forever.

"The Lord, in infinite mercy, grant that I and all my descendants may thus be saved from sin, and at last inherit the kingdom of heaven, and all to the glory of divine grace."

My father's delight in the Scriptures, which had been his study for fourscore years, increased with each revolving season.

During the latter period of his life, when he and my present mother constituted all the family at home, it was his habit at morning and evening prayers to read chapter after chapter in the Bible. Often she, fearing it would fatigue him, asked, -

"Shall we stop now?"

He replied, "One more chapter"; and then, "One more."

The simple word of God, without comment or remark, was indeed meat and drink to him.

My lamented father spent the Fourth of July, 1854, with us at our seaside home, where we had a happy, though unexpected meeting of many dear brothers from a distance. For a long time I had not seen father so vigorous and his spirits so cheerful as

during this never-to-be-forgotten visit. He had now just passed his eightieth birthday. He could read in fine print without glasses. His hearing was as acute as ever. His teeth perfect in number and beauty. His nerves unshaken and firm. He accompanied my mother and myself down to the beach, and even waded barefoot into the surf while we plunged into old ocean's arms. On our return he sat smilingly watching me as I was arranging on paper some flowers of the sea, repeating two or three times, as he gazed on the delicately colored mosses, "Wonderful! Wonderful!"

On the 5th, he returned to Andover. The heat of the day was intense, and he was greatly exhausted. After a day or two, being recruited, he went out to take his usual exercise in the garden, when, it is supposed, his fatal illness commenced. Upon returning to the house, he was so much distressed that he took medicine, from which he found temporary relief.

The result of the post-mortem examination proved that the violent exercise he then took caused the lower part of his heart to expand, and rendered the valves useless, so that the blood rushed through it in a tumult. The upper part appeared to have been diseased for years.

For several days he was comfortable, though distressed at times for breath, especially at night and upon lying down. Yet he walked out daily, accompanied by my mother, and went as usual to church on Sunday, though I think but a part of the day.

He soon, however, grew rapidly worse, and when I went to Andover on the second day of August, I found him in such agony as I can hardly endure to think of. From this time until the day of his death, with one or two exceptions of an hour, he was unable to lie down. For a few days he used ether freely, which seemed to abate his distress, but which made him "dreamy," as he expressed it. It rendered him also so drowsy, that he dropped to sleep the moment he was relieved, resting his poor, wearied head on our hands as we stood before him. But we were obliged to awaken him, having received orders to do so from his physicians.

After some days the ether ceased to soothe him, and it required no small degree of fortitude to witness his sufferings. Indeed, there were few who could be calm enough to watch over him and minister to his wants, as we were assured by his physicians that any agitation in those around him might cause his instant death.

During all these days and nights of weariness and agony, he never uttered a word of complaint. Twice I heard him pray, "Lord, give me patience and submission to the end." When partially relieved, as he sometimes was for an hour or more, he attended to letters of business connected with the different benevolent societies with which he had long been associated, dictating replies of advice or encouragement. He literally died with the harness on, being interested to the last in the great enterprises of the day, and also in the minutest envents connected with the family.

He made all the arrangements for his funeral, and gave directions about his private business as if he were going on a journey. I held the paper while he wrote a few lines to his son-in-law, who was to preach his funeral sermon, expressing his wish that all extravagant eulogy should be avoided. In connection with this wish, he had prepared a simple epitaph to be inscribed on his tombstone, and which was left among the directions in his will.

On the Sunday before his death, his sufferings, for want of breath, were very acute, and he was also afflicted with a severe pain in his eyes. Sometimes he pressed his hands upon them as if he could scarcely endure the distress; yet he bore it without a murmur. I had been applying a poultice to see if that would afford him relief, when he said, softly, -

"Harriette, I don't like to have you spend your Sabbath in the care of me; it takes too much time from your religious duties."

Just at night, we drew him from the front room into his own chamber and toward the window, where he could see the gorgeous sunset; and there, at his request, I sang to him a few verses from his favorite hymns, -

and,

With his eyes most of the time closed, he thus listened to the last song he ever heard until the sound of the anthem of the blessed broke upon his ear.

When asked, on Wednesday night, Aug. 23, what special request should be made for him in prayer, he replied, "None but the prayer of the publican expresses my wants."

The next morning he fainted and was laid upon the bed, where, for the first time during his sickness, he remained through the day. After this he was somewhat relieved in his breathing, though the water was still oozing from every pore of his poor, swollen limbs.

"You are almost home," said one of those who stood by his bed.

"Blessed home!" he softly murmered.

When asked by another, whether in view of death and eternity there was any change in his views, he responded, feebly, -

"No change." But presently, looking up with a smile, he added, "Yes, there is a change; those truths appear to me more truthful, more precious, more weighty than ever."

At half past seven he suddenly revived, said he felt thirsty and would like some coffee. This beverage, which he had not taken once during his illness, was speedily brought to him.

"It is good!" he said, sipping from the cup held to his lips.

This reviving was, however, only like the flash of a flickering candle before the light expires. At half past eight, when his sight had gone, he asked, feebly, -

"Are you all here?" and with scarecely a struggle, calmly resigned his soul to God.

It was my peculiar privilege to be with my father and to hold him by the hand in the hour of his conflict and his victory. My step-mother, my husband, and four step-sons were also kneeling around his bed when he thus fell sweetly asleep in Jesus.

In closing my imperfect account of my beloved father's life, I cannot do better than to quote the words of one of his pupils, Rev. George W. Blagden, D.D., delivered at the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the seminary:-

"I conceive that amid the many whom we have all known and loved on earth, and whom we hope to see and greet among the redeemed there, who shall meet around the throne, the glorified form of him whom I have spoken so unworthily shall be beheld by all of us, near unto the throne; and as he bows in his humility, as all unworthy of the blessings bestowed upon him by grace, Jesus the Master shall say, graciously but emphatically, unto him, 'Thou shalt walk with me in white, for thou art worthy.' "