are like those of approaching sleep after deep weariness, but far stronger. At the same time, a cold sweat is often perceptible on the face and limbs; and the substance of the flesh is sunken and bloodless. There is, perhaps, an uneasy motion; the hands seem striving to pick small objects; the grasp is firm; the teeth fixed; the lower lip trembles; the body is stretched out; the extremities are cold. The senses, one by one, are enfeebled, perhaps extinguished. First, the sight fails: spots and flakes appear before the eye, and the finger strives sometimes to remove these from the covering of the bed; the countenances of friends are but imperfectly distinguished; the candle, held closely, shines as if through a thick mist; darkness comes on. Hearing endures longest; and often the voice of affection and the melody of a hymn are sweet to the last. Sometimes the ear fails not till long after the power of utterance has ceased; so that a pressure of the hand answers the affectionate question to which the tongue strives in vain to reply.

It is said, that the hair has suddenly become gray in the last struggle. This struggle, however, is generally past before the actual arrival of death. Very often there is no such struggle; but life, lingering faintly at its citadel, wanes till it imperceptibly goes out. At other times, the very departure of the spirit is in the midst of extreme agony. But, perhaps, more commonly, a season of considerable suffering attends the gradual disruption of the ties between the body and the spirit, but closes when the issue is decided, and leaves an interval of comparative rest for a few moments before the end. It is while the vital system still resists, that suffering is prolonged. When all has yielded, there is comparatively little appearance of deep distress;

but rather languor, faintness, the absence of sensation, and a mere tremulous lingering of the breath of life.

While consciousness remains, it often seems to the dying, that the outer and the lower parts are becoming lifeless before the inner and the upper. The fluids, driven to the surface, instead of becoming blood, and running inward, appear as cold sweat upon the skin. Warmth departs with motion and sensation. From some observations, however, it is said to appear, that life lingers in the gangliar nerves after it has forsaken the brain and the senses. But the draughts poured into the throat are no longer conveyed into the stomach, and the digestive organs, far from dissolving the food and medicines, are themselves dissolved by these. There are even instances in which the decay of the substance of the limbs has preceded the act of death.

Many persons, in their utmost weakness, have fallen asleep, and died without waking. The watching attendant has been unable to notice the moment of dissolution. John Newton says that he watched his dying wife some hours, with a candle in his hand, and when he was sure she had breathed her last, which could not at once be determined, she went away so easily, knelt down, and thanked the Lord for her dismission. So it was with the poet Werner. Many have fainted gently and gradually, and without the slightest token of suffering. But, very frequently, respiration, after the pulse has ceased to be felt, continues for a little while, becomes feebler and feebler, seems at an end, returns again, and perhaps again; and, when consciousness is past, still suggests the thought of distress. It is thus that the tenderest friends, standing by, become more than willing that the last breath should be over. When it is

apparently over, they linger for a few moments, and are often surprised and pained by a convulsive movement of the features, as the muscles are for the last time involuntarily contracted; then to repose for ever.

T

The frequent remark is undoubtedly true, that the bodily suffering of the last hour, much as it appals, is not really to be compared with what has been endured again and again by many a sick man in the previous illness. Bacon observes, that "the most vital parts are not the quickest of sense." It is the ordinance of the Creator, that pain should attend the disorganization of the corporeal system. The more perfect the strength of the system, the more keenly alive must it be to this pain; and thus, the most painful deaths are probably those where, notwithstanding some mighty local disease, some of the vital organs have remained in vigorous operation. But the pain is by no means in the act of dying. A French soldier in Egypt, sinking under heat and thirst, said to Larrey in his last moments, "I feel myself in a state of inexpressible happiness. It is but accidental, that death and strong pain are sometimes associated; for, in most diseases, the chief disorganization has been previously accomplished; the sensibilities have been diminished, and a general languidness has come over the tired sufferer. Apart from those pains which may occur long before, death may be and often is absolutely without anguish. He who has ever fainted away, has probably felt all which is commonly felt in the mere act of sinking into the arms of death. Had he died when he fainted, it would have been no more. Those who have been recovered after drowning, have described the sensation, immediately before they became insensible, as far from being painful; and yet, had they never been restored, no other bodily suffering would have fol

lowed.

Whatever throws us for the time into a state of· complete unconsciousness, is equivalent to the mere process of death, apart from all previous decay. It is probably the same with that of the insensibility produced by chloroform; the same with that of severe epilepsy; the same with that of faintness; and essentially the same with that of sinking into profound slumber.

XXXI

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Apparent Death.

"Why pause the mourners? who forbids their weeping?
Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed?
Set down the bier! he is not dead, but sleeping!
Young man, arise!' He spake, and was obeyed.”

HEBER.

THE heart may have ceased to beat; the respiration may have entirely ceased; the frame may be stiff and cold; no sign of life may remain; and hours and days may pass; and still the body may not be dead. Men have recovered from such a state, and issued from the shroud, the coffin, and even the tomb. The instances are very few; and the tales by which fancy magnifies the terrors of the grave have very little support from actual evidence, or from probability. In some European cities, a room, adjacent to some cemetery, has been expressly provided for security, whenever any doubt of the reality of the decease remains; and a cord attached to a bell has been so placed that the least motion of the muscles would give the alarm; but these measures have resulted in no revival. Those who were believed to be dead have, however, in every age, been known to awake; and these are amongst the most remarkable facts within human knowledge. A French author has collected fifty-two cases of persons buried alive by mistake; four of premature dissection; three of recovery after seeming death; and seventy-two of death too soon reported; but the distinction between the third and