"Have you any fear?"

"No, none at all; and, what is wonderful, I have no pain, either," passing his hand over his head.

She repeated.

"I shall be satisfied, when I awake, in thy likeness.'"

"How wonderful," he answered, "that a creature can approach the Creator so as to awake in his likeness! Oh, glorious, glorious God!" "I rejoice with you, father."

"I know you rejoice as a pious woman, but you cannot enter into my experience now."

"Father, did you see Jesus?"

"All was swallowed up in God himself."

Dr. Beecher's last indication of life on the day of his death was a mute response to his wife, repeating:

"Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to thy bosom fly."

"The stream is calmest when it nears the tide,

And flowers are sweetest at the eventide,

And birds most musical at close of day,

And saints divinest when they pass away."

It was so with Frances Ridley Havergal, whose beautiful poem on the "Reality" of religion we give in this volume. In sweet submission in her last hours, she said: "God's will is delicious; he makes no mistakes." When informed that she was seriously ill, she said, "I thought so; but, if I am going, it is too good to be true."

Bidding one of her doctors good-bye, she asked, "Do you really think I am going?" "Yes." "To-day?" "Probably." And she replied, "Beautiful, too good to be truc," and, looking up with a smile, continued, "Splendid to be so near the gates of heaven.” At length the moment of departure arrived. There was a rush of convulsive sickness, then nestling down into pillows, she folded her hands upon her breast, saying, "There, now, it is all over! Blessed rest!" Her countenance now became radiant with the glory breaking upon her soul, and for some minutes it seemed, to those who watched her, that she had met and was conversing with the King

in his glory. She tried to sing, but after one sweet high note, "He," her voice failed, and she was gone-satisfied, glorified with the Lord.

"So she took * * *

The one grand step beyond the stars of God,
Into the splendor, shadowless and broad,
Into the everlasting joy and light;

The zenith of the earthly life was come."

"How hard it is to

The same was true of Philip J. Jenks. die," observed an attendant to him, just before he expired. “Oh, no," he replied, "easy dying, blessed dying, glorious dying." Looking up at the clock, he said, “I have experienced more happiness in dying two hours this day than in my whole life. It is worth living for, it is worth a whole life to have such an end as this. I have long desired that I might glorify God in my death; but oh, I never thought that such a poor worm as I, could come to such a glorious death.”

It would be difficult to account for the Christian's resignation and peace in death on any other theory than God's sustaining grace. The Christian has just as much to live for as the sinner. To him the world is just as beautiful, friendship just as dear, and life just as precious. Nor is his instinctive fear of death less strong. "The pains, the groans, the dying strife," have just as great a tendency to fright his approaching soul away. It is only because he is sure of the port that he shrinks not from the darkness of the passage; because rest is at hand that he murmurs not under the burden of suffering; because immortality is just before him that he laments not the surrender of the mortal. He feels that every care will soon cease, every desire be fulfilled, every grace perfected. Though he loses visible sight of earthly friends, he will behold the King in his beauty, and see Jesus as he is. The world is passing away-it recedes-it disappears, but he has hold of a better and more enduring substance. The outward man is perishing, but the inward man is gloriously renewed. He is dying, yet behold he lives and not only has life, but has it more abundantly.

"One gentle sigh their fetters breaks;

We scarce can say, They're gone!

Before the willing spirit takes

Her mansion near the throne."

History informs us that the calm resignation and forgiving spirit of the early Christians in death often resulted in the conversion of their persecutors. This was what led to the familiar remark that the blood of the martyrs was the seed of the Churches. Perhaps our Saviour had this in view when he foretold the crucifixion of Peter: "When thou wast young, thou girdest thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldst but when thou art old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldst not. This spake he, signifying by what death he should glorify God." The Christian's death glorifies God.

"His God sustains him in his final hour.
His final hour brings glory to his God."

Nor is it necessary to the usefulness of the Christian's death that there be a high degree of ecstasy and rapture. Patience under suffering, humbleness of mind, concern for the well-being and comfort of others, and an evidence of peaceful surrender of all that is held dear to God's disposal, are often potent for good. How often a death strikes us where we see complete victory over the world; when the individual is willing to depart in middle life, in full strength, and in the midst of plenty! Under such circumstances death is heroic.

A remarkable example of this kind is found in the case of Rev. George H. Field of Flint, Mich. He was converted when sixteen years of age, and licensed to preach two years later. Entering the pastorate, he labored very successfully for several years, until compelled by impaired health to retire. His disease, a goiterous tumor of the throat, made rapid progress until it became evident that life was near its end. His strength, however, was not so reduced but that he could attend successfully to business and to religious duties. His last sermon, preached a few weeks before his death, was from the text; "When Christ who is our life shall appear, then shall we also appear with him in glory." Advised by his physicians that an operation was the only possible hope of extended life, he determined to submit to it. He clearly comprehended the danger, and calmly considered the probabilities of a fatal termination. To a friend he said that as in any event he

could survive but few weeks, he would take the chance of the knife. In arranging his business affairs he talked pleasantly and cheerfully. Driving out to the cemetery, he selected his own prospective resting place. Going to his pastor, Rev. E. W. Frazee, he retired with him to the study, and talked over the approaching event that was to add some years to life, or bring it to a sudden termination. He had a hope; if that should fail, another and better one beyond. The funeral services were planned. The two men wept together, and then the dying man smiled because the bitterness of death was already passed. On the morning of the last day he conducted family worship, reading the twenty-third Psalm, and in his prayer commending all to God. As he stood on the car steps to go to Detroit for the operation, he held a hand of each daughter in his, and not daring to look at either, he looked into the far-away, as into a land that was drawing near. Reaching the surgeon's room, he walked firmly to the table, and submitted to the operation. He rallied hopefully and seemed cheerful, but it was only for a moment. Realizing that his end had come, he told his wife and a brother at his side that he could not survive. Then suddenly stretching forth his hand, he said, "Good-bye," and instantly was gone. No expression of fear or regret had escaped his lips. The same cheerful acquiescence to the divine will which narrowed his life to a single thread, sustained him at the last when that thread was snapped asunder. Having yielded back to the world everything he had claimed as his own, he yielded his spirit to God, and slept in peace.

Coming down from the records of half-a-century ago is the description of a death-scene both unique and beautiful. An aged sailor who had long walked with God, lay in his hammock while the waves of death rolled over him. His captain, who was also a man of God, was often at his side, inquiring after his spiritual state. At the last his experience seemed exactly to comport with the character of his life. It is well known that there are four incidents in a sea voyage which are of great interest to the sailor. The first is when the land appears, and the cry echoes through the ship, “land ahead,” “land ahead.” The second is when they round the point, and enter the harbor. The third is when they come into

still water, all danger being past. The last is when they come to the shore and drop the anchor. This closes the scene. As the captain inquired, "Philip, where are you now?” "There is land ahead," was the reply. Here he was upon the broad ocean, with all his sails spread, and there was land ahead, the heavenly Canaan with the port of everlasting rest in full view. The captain prayed with the dying man, and left him afloat in the ocean of love. The next day he returned, and inquired, "Where are you now, Philip ?” "I am in a heavy swell," was the reply, "just rounding the point." The captain prayed again, and left his brother alone with God. The next day he returned, and inquired, “Philip, where are you now?" "I have come into still water." He prayed with him once more, and left him as before. The next day he returned, and found his friend in the last struggle of death. "Philip," he said, "do, if possible, speak to me once more. Just tell me where you are now." "Drop the anchor," replied the dying saint, and instantly went ashore. This is experimental knowledge.

"I never clasp a friendly hand,

In greeting or farewell.

But thoughts of my eternal home
Within my bosom swell.

"There when we meet with holy joy,

No thoughts of parting come,

But never ending ages still

Shall find us all at home."

So we hope, and possibly, with Mrs. Bishop Thompson, some of us are ready to sing:

CALL ME HOME.

"Call me home, the day is dying,

Cold and cheerless blows the blast,
Voices in my soul are sighing,

O'er the fair and vanished past;

Love's sweet flowers in graves are lying,
Joys sink deep beneath the foam,
Weary, sad, forsaken, sighing,

Heavenly Father, call me home.