fine mountains and pleasant places of Wales. Sometimes he thinks himself
better. He quits London (forever) in the early part of September, and on
the 23d of that month he writes to his wife that he is "surely better, for
_his pulse has come to be under 100_." He passes by Cader Idris, and
Snowdon--by Bedgelert to Bangor, "a place of repose;" but gets wet whilst
viewing the Menai Bridge, and had "a fevered night;" yet he is able to
droop on to Liverpool. Thence (the love of his native land drawing him on)
he goes northwards, instead of to the south. He reaches Glasgow, where "he
thinks of organizing a church;" although Dr. Darling "decidedly says that
he cannot humanly live over the winter." Yet he still goes on with his
holy task; he writes "pastoral letters," and preaches, and prays, and
offers kind advice. His friends, from Kirkcaldy and elsewhere, come to see
him, where, "for a few weeks still, he is visible, about Glasgow. In the
sunshine--in a lonely street, his gaunt, gigantic figure rises feebly
against the light." At last he lies down on "the bed from which he is
never to rise;" his mind wanders, and his articulation becomes indistinct;
but he is occasionally understood, and is heard murmuring (in Hebrew)
parts of the 23d Psalm, "The Lord is my Shepherd: He leadeth me beside the
still waters." And thus gradually sinking, at the close of a gloomy Sunday
night in December, he dies.

Mr. Thomas Carlyle, his friend (the friend of his youth), has written an
eloquent epitaph upon him; not partial, for they differed in opinion--but
eloquent, and very touching. I read it over once or twice in every year.
Edward Irving's last words, according to his statement, were, "In life and
in death I am the Lord's." Carlyle then adds, "But for Irving, I had never
known what the communion of man with man means. He was the freest,
brotherliest, bravest human soul mine ever came in contact with; the best
man I have ever (after trial enough) found in this world, or now hope to
find."