Dr. Gibson, stood by, he
lifted up his hands as if in the attitude of pronouncing the blessing,
and then sank down. Not a groan or a sigh, but only a quiver of the
lip, and his soul was at rest.

As he was subject to frequent sickness, it was not till within some
days of his death that serious alarm was generally felt, and hence the
stroke came with awful suddenness upon us all. That same afternoon,
while preparing for Sabbath duties, the tidings reached me. I hastened
down, though scarce knowing why I went. His people were that evening
met together in the church, and such a scene of sorrow has not often
been witnessed in Scotland. It was like the weeping for King Josiah.
Hundreds were there; the lower part of the church was full: and none
among them seemed able to contain their sorrow. Every heart seemed
bursting with grief, so that the weeping and the cries could be heard
afar off. The Lord had most severely wounded the people whom He had
before so peculiarly favored; and now, by this awful stroke of his
hand, was fixing deeper in their souls all that his servant had spoken
in the days of his peculiar ministry.

Wherever the news of his departure came, every Christian countenance
was darkened with sadness. Perhaps, never was the death of one, whose
whole occupation had been preaching the everlasting gospel, more felt
by all the saints of God in Scotland. Not a few also of our
Presbyterian brethren in Ireland felt the blow to the very heart. He
himself used to say, "Live so as to be missed;" and none that saw the
tears that were shed over his death would have doubted that his own
life had been what he recommended to others. He had not completed
more than twenty-nine years when God took him.

On the day of his burial, business was quite suspended in the parish.
The streets, and every window, from the house to the grave, were
crowded with those who felt that a prince in Israel had fallen; and
many a careless man felt a secret awe creep over his hardened soul as
he cast his eye on the solemn spectacle.

His tomb may be seen on the pathway at the north-west corner of St.
Peter's burying-ground. He has gone to the "mountain of myrrh and the
hill of frankincense, till the day break and the shadows flee away."
His work was finished! His heavenly Father had not another plant for
him to water, nor another vine for him to train; and the Saviour who
so loved him was waiting to greet him with his own welcome: "Well
done, good