On the next day, November 25th, in the afternoon, aged seventy-four years, four months, and eight days, the gentle spirit of the Doctor passed away, and Mr. Parker wrote again to the same person: “At length the fatal news is come. The spirit of the good man, my dear master, took its flight from the body to worlds unseen and joys unknown yesterday in the afternoon, without a struggle or a groan. My Lady Abney and Mrs. Abney are supported as well as we can reasonably expect. It is a house of mourning and tears, for I have told you before now that we all attended upon him and served him from a principle of love and esteem. May God forgive us all, that we have improved no more by him, while we enjoyed him!” “May I be excused,” says his biographer, “if I take the liberty of adding that I saw the corpse of this excellent man in his coffin, and observed nothing more than death in its aspect. The countenance appeared quite placid, like a person fallen into a gentle sleep, or such as the spirit might be supposed to leave behind it upon its willing departure to the celestial happiness. How justly might I have said at the moment I beheld his dead earth, as he does in an epitaph upon a pious young man, who was removed from our world after a lingering and painful illness: “So sleep the saints, and cease to groan, When sin and death have done their worst: Christ has a glory like His own Which waits to clothe their waking dust!” And this was the manner in which “this silver cord was loosed, and this golden bowl broken.” They buried him, of course, in Bunhill Fields; thither already had been borne the bodies of many of those who had been his fellow-students, and his most familiar friends; and thither were to follow him at last many of those friends who were for a few brief years to survive him. It was the _Campo Santo_ of Nonconformity, the spot consecrated by the memories of the martyrs and confessors of civil and religious liberty, and their tombs then were fresh. Their graves and their memories were green and verdant. Amidst the wilderness of indiscriminate tombs it is now scarcely possible to decipher localities, dust has mingled with dust, yet it would be scarcely possible to visit anywhere a spot where almost every mound recalled venerable remains or in the course of years became haunted by such tender and animating memories. Bunhill Fields does not possess the attractive and splendid tombs of _Père la Chaise_ or Munich, of Greenwood or Kensall Green, but it may be with perfect certainty affirmed that none of these places possess such a congregation of sainted sleepers, and such consecrated dust.