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July 29, after taking leave of the brethren in Boston and Eden, I went to Concord, and held one meeting; thence to China and preached once; the next day, I visited Centerville, little realizing the deep sorrows that awaited me. Being told a letter inthe Post Office waited my arrival, the recollection of my impression six weeks before at brother Johnson's, in Pike, caused me to tremble, and remark, that I believed my mother was no more.

With an agitated step, I hastened to the office. The letter was presented, and a black seal confirmed my fears. I paused to prepare for heavy tidings then opened the letter, and saw the name subscribed vas my father's. After naming the reception of my last letter, he wrote thus: "You write, "Dear father and mother;" but, O my son, it has become my painful duty to inform you, that your mother is no more with us. A sudden attack of the quick consumption confined her on the 16th of May, 1821, and she departed this life on the 29th of the same month.". That which I had feared, now came upon me. could read no further; the tender ties were rent asunder. I retired, that my heart might bleed its anguish. When the first impulse of grief had a little subsided, I read my letter, and with subsequent information, gathered the following particulars.

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My parents, after the burning of their dwelling, prepared a neighbouring cottage for their abode, into which they gathered a few things, till a house my father had purchased, should be removed to the place they had selected. Shortly after, my mother, having no candles, seated herself in the door of the cottage one evening, to repair garments for the family by moon-light. The next morning, she found she had taken cold, and said to my father: "I am ill, and I shall die. Our cottage is uncomfortable, and I will go to one of the neighbour's and there end my days." But he, supposing their late affliction had cast a gloom over her mind, and that ill health had discouraged her, hoped she would soon recover, and be restored to her usual cheerfulness. She went to the house of Mr. W., apparently without serious symp

toms of a course of sickness; and said, "I am not well, and have come to your house to be sick and die." Mr. W., surprised at the remark, kindly replied, "You are welcome to my house; but I trust you mistake in expecting death." The same day she took her bed, and seemingly closed her eyes upon the world. Though not yet attacked violently, she said, she should no more arise. My father proposed to call a physician. She replied, "It will do no good; but if it will afford you any satisfaction I am willing. Mr. M. a skilful physician attended, and at first did not consider her case alarming; but soon her destiny appeared to be unalterably fixed.

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My brother Friend, while sitting by her, said; "I cannot bear the thought that you should now die and leave us." She calmly replied; "My son, nearly forty-five years have I spent in this world of tribulation. We commenced in comfortable circumstances, with fair prospects of the future; but once have been stripped of all,-twice our dwelling has been consumed. Life has been a continued series of disappointments, and now I am nearly through all my sorrows. The Lord is about to take me to himself; and O, my child, how can you wish me to stay here any longer. My brother, bursting into tears, could say no more; but retired in secret to vent his grief. Rosanna, an only daughter, of the age of seven; and the youngest, a son of five years, having heard her say she should die, went several times each to her bed, weeping and saying, "Mamma, I don't want you should die. Always, before this, when confined by sickness, or expecting the approach of death, she had expressed much affection for her children, and concern for their welfare; but now, it seemed that a view of death, and discovery of eternity, had banished anxiety and absorbed natural affection. Though she had always been a tender mother, now the only reply to her innocent babes was, "Go away." Being frequently asked if she did not wish to see David, her repeated answer was, "No." Once, in reply to the same question, she said: "You may think it strange that I say no; but it is because he is engaged in the cause

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of Christ, which I do not wish him to leave to visit me. I am going home; he will soon finish his work and follow me.

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On the morning of the 28th of May, her physician, after giving some directions concerning her medicine, said he must leave, but would call again the next day. She replied, "You need not come; for it will be useless: if you come to-morrow, you will find me a corpse. At one o'clock, P. M., she became speechless, and the pains of death began. Several times, my father desired her to press his hand, if she felt confident of her acceptance with God. This she continued to do as often as requested, until her strength so failed, that she could only stretch her hand a little. Her distress was very great; but at the hour of four, the next morning, her Saviour called-she left her pain and anguish-and exchanged this world of sorrow, this vale of tears, I trust, for a world of glory and immortal bliss.

Another little circumstance touched my heart. The dollar that I sent back after the house was burned, was used toward purchasing her grave apparel. 0, how distant was the thought, when I received that dollar from my mother, and returned it, that this would be its application!

CHAPTER V.

Particulars of my labours, and other occurrences, from July, 1821, to November following.

ELDER KENDALL kindly gave me the use of a horse to visit our bereaved family. On the morning of August 2, 1821, I proceeded on the journey, which was 130 miles and on the evening of the fourth, arrived at my father's dwelling. But, O how gloomy! that met my sight was marked with change. The house I left was gone, and another erected on other ground. The mantle of night had cast its shade around: I knocked at the door, but all was silent as

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the house of death. Receiving no answer, I entered, and found my younger brother sleeping by the fire. Upon awaking him, he burst into tears, and exclaimed," O, David! is this you? mamma is dead!" After informing me, that my father and eldest brother had gone a few miles from home, he conducted me to the chamber, where the two youngest children were in bed. Awaking from sleep, Rosanna threw her arms around my neck, and with much grief cried, "Mamma is dead.' Jeremiah also told me the same, as though the tidings were new. This was a heart-touching scene. Soon my father and brother returned; but Ō how empty and solitary the house appeared! Death seemed engraven on the walls, and on all things around. Together we bowed before the Lord, when a remembrance of the solemn scene on the morning of our separation, caused my heart a bitter pang. Our number was less than at that time,-that voice, which then so fervently implored the mercies of Heaven at the family altar, we heard not. Alas! it was silent and mute in death. Memory, faithful to its office, brought to mind the excellent counsel and emphatical warnings, my dear mother had given me, accompanied by the painful assurance that they could never again be repeated. The next morning was the Sabbath. I arose early, and viewed in solemn silence the surrounding scenery. The ruins of the old house brought the recollection of departed years; but another spot met my eye. It was where I last beheld the form of my departed mother. O, how dreary and desolate all creation appeared! With bitterness I said, "all below is vanity.

We repaired to the house of worship. The empty seat in the carriage, and the vacant place in the house of God, told us, in silent language, that death had bereaved us; and pointed to the dark confines of the tomb. After the morning service, in company with my father and family, I walked to the "congregation of the dead;" there I gazed on the mound, beneath which rested the body of my mother, and watered it with my tears. But my heart was not without consolation; I rejoiced in the midst of sorrow; for I

thought, "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord." Here she rests in peace. No more the toils of life, the afflictions and woes of this land of pain and death, assail her. She rests in the bosom of that Saviour, who on earth was so dear to her, and whose cause was so precious to her heart. Though I deeply felt and mourned my loss, yet, while I knew it was her eternal gain, for her, I could rejoice. In a little time, I shall finish my work and follow her. After wandering a little longer in the earth, warning sinners and weeping over them, I shall rest from my labours, and rejoin her to sing praises to God and the Lamb for ever. Bidding adieu to her peaceful grave, I endeavoured in the afternoon, with feelings of great solemnity, to point sinners to the Saviour.

After a stay of four days in Junius, duty called for my departure. Bidding my father and brothers farewell, on the 9th of August, they went to their labour, and my little sister sat alone in the house. Just as I was ready to leave, she burst into tears, and said, "O, David, don't leave me. It is very lonesome here since mamma died." It seemed as though my heart would break. I tried to console her, and quiet her grief, telling her, it was for poor sinners that I left her; they were going down to death, and the Lord had made it my duty to warn them. This was a trying hour; but committing her to the care of Heaven, I proceeded to Wayne, where the Benton quarterly meeting was to be holden, on the 11th and 12th of the month. The meeting was highly favoured from the presence of the Lord. Four were hopefully converted; wanderers confessed their backslidings; and several went to their homes inquiring the way to Zion.

Monday, after riding forty miles to Bristol, to attend an appointment previously left with a landlady for circulation, I found she had not given it notice. She said, she believed me an impostor, and had not expected my return. But, notwithstanding I had returned according to agreement, she was then unwilling I should preach in her house. Being destitute of money, much fatigued, and faint with hunger, having ate nothing during the day's journey, I requested

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