The next day some one mentioned in his presence, that the native Christians were greatly opposed to the voyage, and that many other persons had a similar feeling with regard to it I thought he seemed troubled; and after the visitor had withdrawn, I inquired if he still felt as when he conversed with me the night previous.  He replied, “Oh yes; that was no evanescent feeling.  It has been with me, to a greater or less extent, for years, and will be with me, I trust, to the end.  I am ready to go to-day—­if it should be the will of God, this very hour; but I am not anxious to die—­at least when I am not beside myself with pain.”

“Then why are you so desirous to go to sea?  I should think it would be a matter of indifference to you.”  “No,” he answered quietly, “my judgment tells me it would be wrong not to go—­the doctor says criminal.  I shall certainly die here—­if I go away, I may possibly recover.  There is no question with regard to duty in such a case; and I do not like to see any hesitation, even though it springs from affection.”

He several times spoke of a burial at sea, and always as though the prospect were agreeable.  It brought, he said, a sense of freedom and expansion and seemed far pleasanter than the confined, dark, narrow grave, to which he had committed so many that he loved.  And he added, that although his burial-place was a matter of no real importance, yet he believed it was not in human nature to be altogether without a choice.

I have already given you an account of the embarkation, of my visits to him while the vessel remained in the river, and of our last sad, silent parting; and Mr. Ranney has finished the picture.  You will find in this closing part, some dark shadows, that will give you pain; but you must remember that his present felicity is enhanced by those very sufferings, and we should regret nothing that serves to brighten his crown in glory.  I ought also to add, that I have gained pleasanter impressions in conversation with Mr. R. than from his written account; but it would be difficult to convey them to you; and, as he whom they concern was accustomed to say of similar things, “you will learn it all in heaven.”

During the last hour of your sainted brother’s life, Mr. Ranney bent over him and held his hand; while poor Pinapah stood at a little distance weeping bitterly.  The table had been spread in the cuddy, as usual, and the officers did not know what was passing in the cabin, till summoned to dinner.  Then they gathered about the door, and watched the closing scene with solemn reverence.  Now—­thanks to a merciful God! his pains had left him, not a momentary spasm disturbed his placid face, nor did the contraction of a muscle denote the least degree of suffering; the agony of death was passed, and his wearied spirit was turning to its rest in the bosom of his Saviour.  From time to time, he pressed the hand in which his own was resting, his clasp losing in force at each successive pressure; while his shortened breath (though there was no struggle, no gasping, as if it came and went with difficulty) gradually grew softer and fainter, until it died upon the air—­and he was gone.  Mr. Ranney closed the eyes, and composed the passive limbs,—­the ship’s officers stole softly from the door, and the neglected meal was left upon the board untasted.