More interesting by far is the question whether the dying Christian has, before he crosses the boundary of worlds, experience of such "powers of the world to come as are perceived by none but the dying. Often, like St. Augustin, such have requested, after their farewell words, to be no more disturbed, as if they were intent on something of indescribable earnestness. They have folded their hands, and fixed their gaze, and a calm smile, or an ecstatic joy, or a deep, deep intensity of contemplative adoration, has settled upon their features. So, Gellert died in silent prayer. Such scenes will be in the remembrance of many by whom they have been watched, and who felt as if they saw while one was passing in at the porch of the celestial temple.

Others, as they drew nearer to the end, have uttered their astonishment and joy at the new consciousness which was dawning. "Light breaks in !" exclaimed the pious Blumhardt of Basle, a little before he expired, "Light breaks in! Hallelujah!" Mrs. East, with "a look of dazzling and indescribable lustre," said at midnight, "He made the stars also," sank into sleep, and never awoke again. Melancthon requested not to be interrupted; when asked if he wanted any thing, said, "Nothing else but heaven;" and begged them "not to disturb his delightful repose." Rivet said, “I am come to the eve of a great and eternal day; I have learned more divinity in ten days than in fifty years before." Doctor Maclaine said, "I can now contemplate clearly the grand scene to which I am going: it appears to my mind very magnificent and very awful; there is no cloud in the prospect." Doddridge said, "Such delightful and transporting views of the heavenly world as my Father is now indulging me with, no

words can express." Hooker fell into a kind of rapturous reverie, meditating on angels, their number, order and harmony. The countenance of Sargent, the biographer of Martyn, kindled into holy fervor; he spoke of "glory, glory," and of "that bright light," and, when asked, "what light?" answered, "the light of the Sun of righteousness.'

With many, however, there has been a distinct denial of sensations beyond the sphere of common joy in the Holy Ghost. When Doctor Bedell was asked if he saw Jesus, he was already speechless, but answered significantly by pointing to his heart and to heaven, as if he had said, "there only." "I have no rapturous joys," said Rowland Hill, "but peace, a good hope through grace—all through grace." Ecolampadius, laying his hand upon his heart, as the rising sun broke in at the casement, said, "There is light enough here."

But others have seemed to themselves to feel and perceive much more. Nicholas Ferrar assured his friends that he had seen a heavenly entertainment. The Countess of Carbery had fears, but "passed into a kind of trance," and then "cried out aloud, Glory be to God on high! now I am sure I shall be saved." That excellent person, Lady Elizabeth Hastings, a little before she died, cried out, with sparkling eyes and an elevated voice, "Lord, what is it that I see? Oh, the greatness of the glory that is revealed in me! that is before me!" The accomplished Olympia Morata, an exile for her faith, said, as she sank in death, smiling with inexpressible sweetness, "I distinctly behold a place filled with ineffable light;" and her last words were, "I am perfectly happy." Doctor Bateman, a little before he died, said, with the sensations of a Christian physician, "I can hardly distinguish whether

this is languor or drowsiness which has come over me; but it is a very agreeable feeling;" and died, crying, "What glory! the angels are waiting for me! Lord Jesus, receive my soul! Farewell!"

Gregory the Great tells that his aunt, in her agony, called out to make room for the Lord Jesus, whom she saw coming towards her; and so died. In just the same manner, Doctor Nelson relates, how a pious lady of St. Louis, after a strong spasm, that was strong enough to have been the last, said to her pastor in a faint whisper, "I was in sight of home, and I saw my Saviour!" Such instances, more or less striking, are innumerable, and something of this nature has perhaps fallen within the knowledge of almost every observer. We must not be bold in speaking of what none but the dying can have seen and felt; but certainly there is enough to persuade us, that many of those who, with clear minds and organs unoppressed, approach the shadowy barrier between two worlds, do breathe some airs from that which is beyond; have a solemn, joyous experience till then, in that degree, quite unknown; and perceive, as if within a curtain, the motions of forms, whose outlines and features they cannot discern.

LVII.

Last Words of Dying Christians.

cross.

"With lifted eyes,

And aspect luminous, as with the light
Of heaven's opening gate, he strove to join
His voice with theirs, and breathe out all he felt;
But in the effort feeble nature sank

Exhausted; and, while every voice was hushed,
His fluttering spirit, struggling to get free,

Rose like the sky-lark singing up to heaven."
WILCOX.

THE boundary is now reached; the soul is ready to We stand, and gaze eagerly, to watch the very last of those signs which the faithful leave behind; the utmost link between their pilgrimage here and the world of angels. Their last, last words, though perhaps less significant than many earlier sayings, are yet treasured with a peculiar sense of sacredness. But when they have been uttered with the consciousness that they were the last, they must indeed have a mighty attraction for those who know that they are to pass by the same spot, and who long to pass in the same hope or triumph.

No other words, probably, have been so often heard from that spot, as those, or nearly those, with which our Lord commended His spirit to His Father, and with which the first martyr called on the Lord Jesus to receive his spirit. These were the last words, substantially, of Basil, of Luther, of Tasso, of Edward the Sixth and Lady Jane Grey, of Latimer and Ridley, of

Cranmer and Hooper, of Herbert, of Martin Boos; and it might almost be said that they had become an established form, where the approach of the moment of departure could be perfectly recognised. An established form, indeed, of commending the spirit into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Saviour," is said at many bedsides; and, like Beza, many have died during such a prayer, or, like Bishop Bull, have only survived to breathe a single or a repeated Amen. Another closing cry of devout hearts has been, as with Bishop Abbot, in the words of St. John, "Come, Lord Jesus; come quickly.' "Depart, my soul, depart," said the ascetic Hilarion, "why this delay? Dost thou fear death, after almost seventy years spent in the service of Jesus Christ ?" Two Protestant martyrs, Esch and Voes, sang Te Deum in the midst of the flames; it is told of Huss and of Jerome of Prague, that they died singing hymns in the fire; and more than one pious minister of Germany has expired on a deathbed in the act of singing. The last words of many are simple expressions of readiness, or testimonies of peace, or affectionate farewells, or ejaculations of prayer. "Peace! peace! victory! victory! faith and patience hold out!" were amongst those of Payson. With the single exclamation, "My God! my God!" the spirit of Gustavus Adolphus passed from the storm of battle into the world of rest. The last words of Doctor Sharp, Archbishop of York, were from one of the divine poems of Herbert. Those of Sir Edward Coke were, "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done!" Doctor Hammond exclaimed, "O joyful day!" and never spoke again. So said Cardinal Baronius, "Now is the hour of triumph and of joy," and drew his feet together, and placed his hands upon his