a trance; he had been wandering a good deal, but all his words even then were of things pure and holy.  His eyes met mine, and I saw the consciousness gradually coming back into them.  “They never stop singing there, sir, do they?”—­for his thoughts were with the angels in heaven.  Then, after a short time, the last terrible struggle, and then he fell asleep.  And remember, all this in the midst of that most agonizing, it may be, of all forms of death.  At 4 A.M. he was hardly conscious, not fully conscious:  there were same fearful spasms:  we fanned him and bathed his head and occasionally got a drop or two of weak brandy or wine and water down.  Then came the last struggle.  Oh! how I thanked God when his head at length fell back, or rather his whole body, for it was without joint, on my arm:  long drawn sighs with still sadder contraction of feature succeeded, and while I said the Commendatory Prayer, he passed away.

’The same day we anchored in Port Patteson, and buried him in a quiet spot near the place where the Primate and I first landed years ago.  It seems a consecration of the place that the body of that dear child should be resting there.

’Some six years ago, when Mrs. Selwyn stopped at Norfolk Island she singled him out as the boy of special promise.  For two or three years he had been with me, and my affection flowed out naturally to him.  God had tried him by the two sicknesses at Kohimarama and at Mota, and by his whole family returning to Pitcairn.  I saw that he had left all for this work.  He had become most useful, and oh! how we shall miss him!

’But about five days after this (August 22) Edwin’s jaws began to stiffen.  For nine or ten days there was suspense, so hard to bear.  Some symptoms were not so bad, it did not assume so acute a form.  I thought he ought to be carried through it.  He was older, about twenty-one, six feet high, a strong handsome young man, the pride of Norfolk Island, the destined helper and successor (had God so willed) of his father, the present Clergyman.  The same faith, the same patience, the same endurance of suffering.

’On Friday, September 2, I administered the Holy Communion to him and Pearce.  He could scarce swallow the tiniest crumb.  He was often delirious, yet not one word but spoke of things holy and pure, almost continually in prayer.  He was in the place where Fisher had died, the best part of the cabin for an invalid.  Sunday came:  he could take no nourishment, stomach and back in much pain:  a succession of violent spasms at about 10.30 A.M., but his body never became quite rigid.  The death struggle at 1 A.M.  September 5, was very terrible.  Three of us could scarcely hold him.  Then he sank back on my arm, and his spirit passed away as I commended his soul to God.  Then all motionless.  After some minutes, I said the first prayer in the Burial Service, then performed the last offices, then had a solemn talk with Pearce, and knelt down, I know not how long.