M. de Lescure, dying of the wounds he had received at the battle of Chollet, awaited with his usual serenity the advent of his last hour. “Open the windows,” said he to his wife, who was watching by his bedside, “is it clear?” “Yes,” she said, “the sun is shining.” “I have, then,” replied the dying general, “a veil before my eyes.” A veil that no man could raise. Chateaubriand, in describing the last hours of his sister, Madame de Beaumont—the Lucile of his “Memoires d’outre-tombe”—incidentally relates that “she begged of me to open the window.... A ray of sunshine rested upon her bed, and seemed to rejoice her spirit.” The same circumstance is related of the dying Emperor Alexander. So it is of Dr. Channing. Karl Ludwig Sand, on the scaffold, begged that the bandage over his eyes might be so placed that he could, until his last moment, see the light. And it was so. Turner’s biographer tells us that almost at the very hour of the old painter’s death, his landlady wheeled his chair to the window, that he might see the sunshine he had loved so much, mantling the river, and glowing on the sails of the passing boats. “The old painter died with the winter-morning sun shining upon his face, as he was lying in his bed. The attendant drew up the window-blind, and the morning sun shone on the dying artist—the sun he had so often beheld with such love and such veneration,” and painted, at sundry times and in divers manners, with such force. Rousseau’s wish, when in a dying state, to be carried into the open air, that he might have “a parting look at the glorious orb of day,” is referred to by one of the many biographers of Robert Burns, in recording that poet’s remark one beautiful evening, when the sun was shining brightly through the casement. The hand of death was then upon him, and a young friend rose to let down the window-blinds, fearing the light might be too much for him. Burns thanked her, with a look of great benignity, but prayed her to let the sun shine on: “he will not shine long for me.” Tender and true is the pathos in one of Mrs. Richard Trench’s letters, touching the death of her endeared child, Bessy, where we read: “The last phrase she uttered, except those expressive of her latest wants and pain, was a desire the window-curtain might be withdrawn, that she might look at the stars.” Sunlight or starlight, it is light we cherish, and that cherishes us. Light from the first, light to the last. Happy, if the light we cherish is the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day. Another set of variations on the same theme will form the section next ensuing. _WISHED-FOR DAY._ ACTS xxvii. 29.