she said, in a low whisper,—“it is true: I feel the comfort of it. ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.’ I am so—so weary,—when will this be over.” She then sunk into silence: for some time it was difficult to say whether life was extinct or not; at last she sighed, and her spirit departed in peace. This affecting scene lasted six hours after the violent symptoms of the disease commenced. Returned home and endeavoured to answer some kind notes from enquiring friends. I could not write, owing to the excited state of my feelings; but, thankful to a merciful Providence for preservation, I retired early, hoping to be refreshed by rest. I was awakened from a sound sleep by a loud knocking at my door. It was half past twelve at night, when my servant informed me that a person had arrived from Plympton, entreating me to go instantly to Mary Taylor, a parishioner of Plympton St. Mary, who was in the last stage of cholera, and was particularly anxious to see me before she died. I was a little refreshed by sleep; but still so unwell, my servant intimated that it might be in time, if I went in the morning. The morning might be too late! The idea of her having expressed an earnest desire to see me—in her dying moments too—something, perhaps, required or to communicate, which might tend to relieve her mind, and soothe the pillow of death. I could not have rested, if I had delayed to go. Before one o’clock, I was at the house. Mary Taylor had given up her own comfortable room to Susan, from the kindest and most considerate feeling; and, that she might be kept as quiet as possible, had removed to the dwelling of her parents, which was, indeed, a miserable place for a sick person. Below sat her father, by a small remnant of a fire, his face between his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, not caring to speak. He told me Elizabeth Job was with Mary, and that Mr. L. had been there in the evening, but not since—that he was very unwell when he went away. I heard the poor creature moaning—went up to her. The chamber where she lay was on the landing-place, without a door or partition—no ceiling—open to the roof. A common bedstead, without hangings or curtains, an old-fashioned oak chest, and a broken chair, composed the whole of the furniture. In a corner of the same room, covered with various old clothes, lay her husband, who was also ill. A rushlight, flickering in a current of air from the roof, only added to the wretchedness of the scene. The moment I approached the bedside, poor Mary held out her hand to me, and burst into an agony of tears. “I am going, sir,—I know I shall die. I wished so much to see you once more. I feared it would be too much for you to come; but I do not expect to see the morning. I do not wish to live; but my poor dear little helpless infant—what will become of her when she has lost her mother!” After some conversation, she became more tranquil, and