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said, "Oh, then, let him go;" and immediately said to Mrs. Fisk, “We must pray for her," immediately closing his eyes as if to engage in silent prayer. Thus, in his own deepest agony, he had sympathy to bestow on others, and was ready to part with assistance even which he needed for himself.

In the same spirit he manifested the most lively gratitude for even slight favours, and at the same time evinced the greatest uneasiness at giving trouble. This he expressed to those friends who, from time to time, came to watch with him. To one he would say, "Have you left your own dear homes?" to another, "your own sweet little flock?" to a third, "your comfortable bed?" to a fourth, "Have you chosen the chamber of suffering to wait on me-poor unworthy me?" and at one time, when a friend attempted to support him in an easier posture, he said, "It will not afford relief enough to compensate you for your fatigue. I am sure I do not know what I am spared for, unless to furnish an opportunity of showing the patience of my friends. Sure never man had such friends." At another time he observed, "O that I could die in an obscure corner, rather than give such trouble to my friends!" Indeed, throughout his sickness he made innumerable observations of the same nature, showing his gratitude, his care for others, and his oblivion of self.

We have already observed that our patient sufferer, owing to his difficulty in respiration, was unable to lie but an hour or two in twenty-four, and that but for very brief periods. He sat in his chair, supported by pillows, which needed to be differently placed every few minutes, to change his posi tion and give him relief. His pain and weariness were unutterable. This fact gave rise to some painfully interesting remarks. Thus, at one time, after he had lain on the bed a few moments, he said, "I can find no rest-tried the bed, but my body is sore all over. I cannot lie on it. What must a man do when he can neither lie nor sit? O weary, weary me! When shall I find rest-rest in the grave?" Again, after a fruitless effort to lie down, he said, "I have always thought I should have a lingering sickness, but an

PATIENCE.-SELF-POSSESSION.

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easy death. I would like to have my bed my dying pillow; but Saviour died on the cross.' my He then repeated the

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"How bitter that cup,"

"Did Jesus thus suffer, and shall I repine?"

At another time, when nature seemed exhausted and life was fast ebbing out, as he was lifted from the bed to his chair, he sighed forth, "From the chair to the throne !"

During the entire period of his unparalleled sufferings, his PATIENCE was wonderful. No expression of dissatisfaction escaped him, nor any appearance of peevishness or irrita tion, even under the greatest distress, nor when disappointed of expected relief. Thus, on one occasion, after many ineffectual attempts to ease his pain and weariness by changing his position, at length looking up, with one of his sweet smiles, he said, "We will try to make it do. I hope you will not think me impatient because I want moving so often." At another time he remarked, "I hope I am not impatient; I groan and sigh a great deal; and I have, perhaps, been in the habit of it all my life" (no one else thought so); "but I hope it is not impatience; and I think it is not. It is only one of Nature's own methods of expressing her agony; and I do not know but she finds relief in that way."

After a season of intense anguish, he said, "All this and not death? I thought I was almost home; but if the Lord bid me suffer, I would say, 'Thy will be done!' I would have no will but his. Oh, it is sweet to sink into the will of God, and feel that all is well!"

It was admirable to observe how, while consciousness remained, Dr. Fisk maintained his individuality. He was himself throughout; only each grace, each virtue, shining, if possible, with increased radiance. For thus

"The unrobing spirit cast Diviner glories to the last."

This was partly seen in his observations to the great variety of persons who visited him in the chamber of death. He had no stereotyped phrases, which retain their form when their original import is evaporated. He uttered his own

unpremeditated thoughts and feelings, addressing each one with admirable judgment and adaptation, and wonderful variety. Thus, to an aged physician, who called as a friend to see him, he remarked, "You see, sir, this poor, suffering body, fast wasting away: yes, it will soon see corruption. But the kernel must decay, that the germe may come forth in immortal beauty. The Saviour's love has purchased it for sinful man!" And to a gentleman, with whom he had been often engaged in transacting business for the University, he remarked, as he held out his feeble hand to greet him on his entrance, "You see me here, sir, hovering between two worlds:" "And fit for either," was the expressive answer.

Towards the close of his illness, Dr. Fisk gradually approached a state of lethargy or coma, from which, at times, it was somewhat difficult to arouse him. But even then, when brought to sensibility, he manifested his usual characteristics; and even in his wanderings his accustomed mental tendencies were clearly discerned. His remarks were often, apparently, detached from some intellectual process, like shining particles broken off from a diamond. Thus, at one time he said, "It has saved us from many absurdities;" at another, "We do not undertake to correct popular expressions." At one time he seemed to be preaching a sermon; at another time, arranging a class, when, apparently, after several ineffectual attempts to regulate them, he said, in the mildest manner, "Well, if you will not do it, I cannot help it; I cannot explain myself better." At another time he called for a paper: "One with Hebrew letters, adapted to this case." Yet, when roused from these reveries, he was alive to the name of the Saviour, and to the voice of piety and devotion.

Throughout his illness, the dying saint had been distin guished no less for COOLNESS and SELF-POSSESSION, than for the loftiness and power of Christian faith. He watched the progress of his own symptoms; from his skill in pathology, he knew how to interpret his feelings, and remarked upon them with the coolness of a spectator. In consequence of a partial paralysis of the nerves connected with the organs of respiration, he could not breathe but by a voluntary exer

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tion. Observing this, he said, "I cannot endure long. Difficulty of breathing prevents sleep. Breathing is voluntary, and requires effort. When I lay in a doze and forget myself, I cease to breathe, and then it wakes me." At another time, on opening the door to give him air, he said, "It is of no use. There is air enough, but I cannot inhale. There is a want of energy in the respiratory nerves. They have no power. I was perfectly sensible of it yesterday, and all the physicians agree in that."

February 14th, as his regular physician, Dr. Miner, was examining his pulse, he faintly said, "Why do you examine the pulse without prescribing? Is it low?" "Yes, sir, very low." "Is it fluttering?" "Not yet, sir." "Not yet?" he replied, faintly; and then sighed out, "The hour of release is at hand."

On the 19th, as one came into the room, he said, "I am going very fast-filling up with water-feet and hands swelling more;" at the same time rubbing his hands together. At another time, as he extended his dying hand to greet a friend who had been sent for, he said, "I believe I am going;" and soon after broke out in a distinct though interrupted articulation,

"There is my house and portion fair,

My treasure and my friends are there;'

some of them, at least, and the rest are on their way." And on being asked if he still believed in the doctrines which he had preached, he answered, "I do. They are God's truths, and will bear the light of eternity. I should be glad to be favoured with more ecstatic joy. As I draw near the celestial world, it seems desirable to have a bright view of its glories." To the Rev. Heman Bangs, who came to see him in his last moments, and said that he had "dreamed of seeing him in his sick chamber, and that the room seemed filled with coruscations of glory," he replied, "I have not those coruscations of glory-those bright visions of the heavenly world, but I have a fixed peace."

Thus he continued, gradually sinking into unconsciousness, from which it became increasingly difficult to arouse him; nevertheless, when aroused, his mind seemed perfectly clear. On the 20th, when articulation was rapidly failing

him, a friend said to him, "You suffer a great deal of distress, sir, from fatigue and exhaustion; but it must be over soon and how sweet is rest to a weary man. There is a place where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'" He responded distinctly, "Bless God

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for that!" And on the 21st, when he was still farther sunk into coma, the same friend coming into the room, said, "I have come to see you again, sir; do you know me?" Pressing his hand, he said in a whisper, "Yes; glorious hope!" After this, when Mrs. Fisk took his hand and inquired if he knew her, he returned the pressure, saying, "Yes, love, yes." These, we believe, were the last words he uttered. He lingered on our mortal shores until the next day, when, about ten o'clock in the forenoon, his redeemed and now disenthralled spirit took its flight to its kindred skies, to mingle with the Church of the first-born, and join the anthems of the celestial choir. Thus the anniversary of the day that gave a hero and a patriot to the world, is the anniversary of the day that gave another sanctified spirit to Paradise. Let the names of Washington and Fisk, both great in their respective departments, blend in future unison. Their happy spirits have long since greeted each other in the plains of the brighter world above.

As the body lay in the coffin, arrayed in the habiliments of the grave, its appearance was singularly lovely. Every trace of its past agonies had disappeared. The brow was perfectly unwrinkled, and his own peculiar smile seemed to be playing about the mouth. The anticipations of the spirit appeared to have left their influence on its former dwellingplace; for

"Living light had touched the brow of death."

As Dr. Fisk's illness had created a deep sensation in the public mind, so his death drew together a vast concourse of mourners. They came from far and near. Although the weather was very unfavourable, yet the large church in which the services were held could not accommodate the people. The funeral address, delivered by the Rev. Dr. Means, of Emory College, Georgia, was appropriate and eloquent, leaving few dry eyes in the congregation. The performance by the choir of those beautiful pieces,

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