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drew from him, had to be wiped away by the hand of another.” Nothing, at this time, more forcibly impressed those who saw much of him than the simplicity, the directness with which he submitted him. self to the necessities of such a condition. It was the unreserved readiness of a child,—but it was also the dignity of a child of God, who can receive no degradation from his Father's hands. He endured, as coming from God, with a perfect simplicity, what without that feeling would have been humiliation worse than death.
It had been usual to lift him from one large chair to another, and wheeling it from room to room, to give as much variety and freshness to his life as his condition permitted; but at last all such change became impossible. For several days before he expired, the sense of suffering was growing dead, and he wished for no alteration of position. He was gradually perishing away. On the fourteenth of May, about two o'clock in the morning, awakening from a short sleep, he said to the friend who was watching by him at the time :
“I shall drive every one away from me: you will not give me up. I see the links in the chain of Providence that has brought me to where I am. Though there are difficulties in the course of this our life, yet in the direction of those difficulties there are circumstances that are more than compensations. I never doubted of Providence :-but I see it in my own case, more clearly than in any Treatise.—These people are to me the representatives of a merciful God; but if for the purity of the house, or the health of any one, a change is necessary, let me not be considered.”
The night after, to several members of the family collected around him, he spoke of the state of his mind in what he knew to be the presence of Death, and, aware that the power of distinct utterance was failing, added :-“When the hour shall come, let it be said once for all, my soul will be concentrated in the feeling, - My God, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.'—God to me is Jesus; and Jesus is God-of course not in the sense of Divines.”
He remained some days longer, chiefly in the state of one falling asleep, until the morning of the 20th, when he awoke up, and with a firm voice and great solemnity of manner, spoke only these words :“Now I die.” He sat as one in the attitude of expectation, and about two hours afterwards-it was as he had said.*
On Monday the twenty-fourth of May he was interred, according to the instructions of his Will, in the burial-ground attached to Renshaw-street Chapel, Liverpool, in the 66th year of his age.
• There was no apparent pain or struggle, and it was an inexpressible relief to behold, shortly after, the singular beauty and repose of features lately so worn and suffering; but there took place in the act of expiring, what we had observed in other cases after long exhaustion, but have never seen described. A sudden darkness beneath the sur. face, like the clouding of a pure liquid from within, the immediate shadow of Death, was seen passing from the forehead downwards, and leaving all clear again behind it as it moved along.
A Letter written by Dr. Channing on hearing of the death of his friend, whom he was so soon to follow, is a fitting close to these Memoirs.
To the Rev. J. H. Thom.
Boston, June 20th, 1841. My dear Sir, Your letter of May 24, just received, has given me pain, though it was expected. Your previous letter had prepared me to hear of Mr. White's departure. I ought not to feel pain at an event which has terminated such severe suffer. ings, and converted his faith into fruition. But we cannot dismiss a friend from our home, much more from the world, without some sadness. I confess I have a feeling of disappointment at this event. I have for years cherished the hope of seeing Mr. White. When I have thought of crossing the ocean, the pleasure of intercourse with him has risen to my mind, among the chief I should find in England. Perhaps there was not a man in your country whom I wanted so much to see. I felt that no mind could open to me so interesting and instructive a history. I know by experience some of the conflicts of spirit through which he passed, and I longed to put a thousand questions to him, about the processes through which he arrived at this and another conviction. I venerated the rare heroism with which he sought truth.—But he is gone, and I am to know him only in another world. The account you give me of his trust and patience has done me good. I am little moved by passionate piety in death ; but how grand is the entire submission of so calm, reflecting a man, in such deep suffering. My own trust seems to have gained strength. I rejoice that he has committed his manuscripts to you, for you understand him better than any body. I shall wait impatiently for his autobiography. I besought him again and again to leave some record of his inward history,
and I expect from it singular benefits. Not that I shall agree with him in all his speculations: I differed from him a good deal; but I do not know that I ever read anything from his pen which I did not find instructive. He understood the controversy between Romanism and Protestantism as few do. Very few of us get to the heart of this quarrel. Most Protestants fight Romanism under its own standard.I hare sometimes observed on the beach, which I am in the habit of visiting, a solemn unceasing undertone; quite distinct from the dashings of the separate successive wavesand so in certain minds, I observe a deep undertone of truth, even when they express particular views which seem to me discordant or false. I had always this feeling about Mr. White. I could not always agree with him, but I felt that he never lost his grasp of the greatest truths. I sympathize sincerely with you in your loss. How much have you lost! The daily privilege of communion with a great and good mind is a daily light shed over our path. I know something of your affliction, for in the short space of two years, God has taken from me two friends, Dr. Follen, and Dr. Tuckerman, who were knit to me in true Christian brotherhood. But we will not say we have lost such friends. They live within us in sweet and tender remembrances. They live around us in the fruits of their holy labours. They live above us, and call us in the tones of a friendship which Heaven has refined, to strengthen our union with them by sharing their progress in truth and virtue.-I shall write a line to Mrs. Rathbone, to whom I feel myself a debtor, for her kindness to our common friend. When you have leisure, I shall be glad to know more particularly what writings Mr. White left.
Very sincerely your friend,
W. E. CHANNING.]