In a tenement near his friend Sylvester’s, in Charterhouse Square, Baxter spent his last days; and when disabled from preaching in his friend’s meeting-house, he preached in his own dwelling, almost dying in the exercise of his favourite employment. “It would doubtless,” it is said, “have been his joy to have been transfigured on the Mount.” “He talked in the pulpit,” as one reports, “with great freedom about another world, like one who had been there, and was come as a sort of express from thence to make report concerning it.” His busy pen was employed as long as he could grasp it with his fingers, in writing something for the benefit of his fellow-men. At last growing infirmities confined him to his chamber, and then to his bed. There his vigorous mind “abode rational, strong in faith and hope, arguing itself into, and preserving itself in, that patience, hope, and joy, through grace.” With unaffected humility he spoke of himself as a sinner worthy of being condemned for the best duty he ever did, whose hopes were all “from the free mercy of God in Christ.” Reminded of the good which his works had produced, he replied, “I was but a pen in God’s hands, and what praise is due to a pen?” When extremity of pain constrained him to pray for release, he would check himself with the words, “It is not fit for me to prescribe;--_when Thou wilt, what Thou wilt, and how Thou wilt_!” “Oh! how unsearchable are His ways, and His paths past finding out; the reaches of His providence we cannot fathom! Do not think the worse of religion for what you see me suffer.” He had assurance of future happiness, and great peace and joy in believing, only lamenting that because of pain he could not express all he felt. Still he spoke of heaven, and quoting the Apostle’s description of the celestial Church, remarked, that it deserved a thousand thousand thoughts. With characteristic width of sympathy, he spent many of his last hours in praying for a distracted world, and a divided Church. Physical pain, his old companion, continued to the last. “I have pain,” he said, “there is no arguing against sense; but I have peace--I have peace.” The catalogue of his diseases is enough to excite pity in the most inhuman, and our sensibilities are positively tortured by the pathetic descriptions he gives of himself. They illustrate the beautifulness of his oft-quoted answer to the question, How he did?--“_Almost well._” “On Monday, about five in the evening,” says Sylvester, “Death sent his harbinger to summon him away. A great trembling and coldness awakened nature, and extorted strong cries, which continued for some time;” at length he ceased, waiting in patient expectation for his change. The gentle cry in the ear of his housekeeper, “Death, death!” betokened full consciousness at the last moment, and turning to thank a friend for his visit, he exclaimed, “The Lord teach you to die.” About four o’clock on the morning of