To MR. BENSLEY.

MY DEAR SIR,

Tunbridge Wells,
July 5, 1813.

As it was your desire to hear every particular respecting the last few weeks of our dear departed friend, I will, to the best of my recollection, comply with your request.

Early on Friday morning, June 11th, Mr. Huntington was taken ill in a violent and alarming manner, which continued to increase till the Sunday following, when he was pronounced to be in great danger. On the Monday he revived a little; and on the Tuesday, though too ill to leave his bed, he made up his mind to go on the following Friday to Tunbridge Wells; and, in pursuance of this resolution, left Hermes House at six in the morning, accompanied by Lady Sanderson. His weakness was so apparent that it was with difficulty he got down stairs into the carriage; and after it drove off, knowing how ill he was, for some hours afterwards Miss Sanderson and myself were expecting his return. He, however, got through the journey tolerably well, and had been at Tunbridge about ten days; during which he sometimes got a little better,

and then again relapsed, when we received a letter expressing his wish for us to join him. We accordingly set off, and (as you know) arrived there on the 29th. I shall never forget the shock I received when we entered the room. He held out his hand, and kissed us both, but we could none of us speak. From that moment I was convinced that (humanly speaking) he never could recover; as it appeared to me his end was fast approaching. If you remember, when you came into the room, you told him you were glad to see him look so comfortable. He replied, Why should I look otherwise? Death with me has lost its sting these forty years; I am no more afraid of death than I am of my night cap." When you and Mr. Over took leave of him the following morning I was convinced, by his look and manner, he was sure in his own mind he should see you no more. That day he was very ill; but in the evening appeared better, was very cheerful and comfortable, and sat up beyond his usual time, and much surprised us by declaring his intention once more to sup with us, saying, he felt an appetite. Knowing how ill he was, we judged it an unfavourable circumstance, and such in the event it proved. I shall never forget that meal; it was the last we ever partook of together. He asked a blessing in a voice weak and trembling, but in a

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manner solemn and impressive. During supper, for the first time since his illness, he mentioned his congregation. He spoke of those who had stedfastly abode by his ministry, and said that the blessing of God would ever rest upon them of others, who had felt offended because without reserve he had declared the whole counsel of God: of others, who had been carried away by every new minister that appeared amongst us, and of some others who had entirely left the Chapel: of the different characters of professors among the congregation, and of the blessings and judgments from God which would come upon them, he spoke in a strong and decided manner. He told us that heavy trials would soon come upon the church; when it would be made manifest that none could be saved but those who held fast what he had advanced. He made a clear distinction between those who, because they could not come up to his standard, or had not experienced the grand truths he advanced, felt on that account enmity to him and to his doctrine; that these would prefer a minister of shallow experience, and when they heard him describe a saint, finding they could come up to the standard, rested secure and well satisfied with their state; and some of this description he intimated he knew to be among his congregation. He then spoke in a sweet and encou

raging manner of others, who, when they heard the whole counsel of God declared, and felt how short they came, experienced sorrow on that account, and prayed earnestly to God to carry on his own work, and establish them in every necessary truth. Upon Lady Sanderson's observing she wished she could recollect all he had said relative to the church, he replied, he had much more to say, which some other time we should pen down from his lips, and after his. death publish it: but this, to our great regret, never could be done-that night was his last!He then spoke in the highest terms of grateful affection to Lady Sanderson; and, thanking her for all her kind, unremitting attentions to him, said that all it was possible to do had been done for him; spoke of the very great blessing she had been to him, and that ever since he had known her he had always found her uniformly the same-kind, faithful, and affectionate. Though I have often heard him say as much before, yet a further confirmation of it in his dying hours was as gratifying as it was strictly just and true. He then added, "In the name of my God, before my departure, I bless you all, and commit you into his hands." This benediction, pronounced in a manner so solemn and affectionate, we never can forget. He said many other things expressive of his parting with us in perfect peace and union;

and, after returning thanks, added, Now, my dears, you shall all three put me to bed this night." Upon one of us offering to call the servant, he said, "No, you will be quite sufficient; you shall see what a man I am." Seeing us much affected, he said, "I often think it will not be long before we shall all, one after the other, lay down our heads upon the same pillow.". He got into bed with less difficulty than usual, and before he laid down said, "God bless you all."

I sat up with him that night; he slept very little; was restless, and his fever very high Early in the morning I perceived a great change in him for the worse, and called Lady Sanderson, who sent for the medical gentleman that attended him, and also a very skilful physician. Cupping was recommended, and many other things tried, but without effect, for, after every remedy had been applied, he evidently got worse, and his breath grew shorter and shorter. We all stood round him, together with Mr. Morgan and Mr. Stone. He appeared to be in no pain; was calm and tranquil; and after breathing deeply three times I perceived it was all over. At about twenty minutes before nine his spirit fed. For a few moments all was silence." Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace." During the whole of the day he was evidently in mental prayer, but his voice was lost.