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A Narrative of the Closing Scenes of the Life of the late

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PLEASING, yet painful, is the writer's task. It is a luxury, though a melancholy one, to watch the bedside of those whom we dearly love, to administer to their wants, and to share, and thus alleviate, their sufferings. When these offices of affection can no longer be performed, there is a sad satisfaction in still bending over the lifeless frame, and following it to its last resting-place. And when both spirit and body are withdrawn, is there not a similar delight to be derived from lingering around the memory of the departed, and picturing as still present what, alas! is gone for ever?

With such feelings the author of this narrative takes up his pen, happy to be thus still associated with the dead, yet reminded, by every sentence he writes, of the irreparable loss he has sustained. What was not the deceased to him! Counsellor, Companion, Friend, Brother, Partner in his studies, his pleasures, and his cares, one in public sympathies and literary tastes, linked in love to him as were the souls of Jonathan and David, and, above all, Father, not merely to his other self, but by the tenderest, the most unwavering affection, to him also. Well may he say with the patriarch Job, "Have pity upon me, O my friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched me!"

Another weight which painfully oppresses the mind of the writer is the deeply-felt incompetence to do

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