fancied I saw, that he was frequently obliged to close them, and press out the tears that flowed to them from the fountain of sorrow.

I passed him unperceived, with respect for his devotional feelings, and sympathy with his afflictions. I knew him well: he was a labourer of the neighbouring hamlet, intelligent and respectable in his sphere of life. Often, on the sabbath evening, had I met with him in the same path, walking with his wife and his children; two little boys that plucked the wild flowers as they went along, and an infant girl that yet nestled in its mother's bosom. He was devotedly attached to his family, and I considered him one of the happiest men in existence; for his wife appeared altogether worthy of the respect he paid her, and his children were as beautiful and promising as a parent's heart could have wished. He and I often entered into conversation, and I was not only pleased, but frequently astonished by his remarks, for his lips were unrestrained by the reserve of polished life, and all his most curious conceptions, and all his deepest feelings, were in a moment laid open and naked before you in all their singularity and beauty. He had read a good deal, but he had thought more than he had read; and,

in consequence, there was originality in his mind, and enthusiasm in his heart. He was quite contented with his laborious occupation; for, as he said, his toils seemed light and pleasant when he considered that they were undergone for the comfort of his wife and children. The anticipation of an early death did not even appal him; for in that case, as he observed, there was a God in heaven who would prove a 66 a father to the fatherless, and a husband to the widow."

The dictates of philosophy are weak in comparison with the power of this religious trust it is the rock under whose shadow the weary find repose-the rock whose summit is brightened by sunshine, while the valley from which it rises is shrouded in clouds and darkness. My friend, the poor labourer, clung to it in his severe domestic trials. A malignant fever, like the storm that blasts the blossoms of spring, entered the hamlet, and, in the space of two months, swept off more than a third of the children. There was scarcely a cottage that had not numbered one of its little inmates with the dead. It has been said, with what degree of truth I know not, that the loss of children is the heaviest trial by which the human heart can be visited; because, as it is averred, the attachment of the parent to the

child is stronger than that of the child to the parent. I might, however, argue against the received opinion, by saying, that the place of a parent, when once empty, can never again be filled; whereas the bosom that has given its nursling to the grave may yet have the happiness to nourish another, and the parental heart may half forget its withered scion until it finds it blooming in heaven but all I intend to say on the subject at present is, that my poor friend lost both his little boys, whose funerals were only divided by three melancholy days; and that on the sabbath evening when I saw him praying in the lonely wood, his infant girl —his only remaining child—was every moment expected to breathe its last!

Having reached the end of the solitary foot-path, I returned homewards, and still found the afflicted man in the attitude of prayer; perhaps unconscious, amid the strife of his spirit, of the time that had passed over him while employed in this act of devotion. As soon as I descried him, a female came running along the path, and informed him that the child was dead. He arose with a trembling frame, and a face that bore the fearful look of despair. This was but for a moment; he soon became firm and calm, and exclaimed, in a subdued tone, "The

Lord's will be done." It was enough-it was a balm for his wounded soul, a cordial to his fainting heart. He then followed the steps of the female, who had disappeared, to the "house of mourning," to condole with the childless mother, whose heart had mingled its feelings with his from the days of early youth-whose heart to his had been doubly bound by the tendrils that sprung from their mutual love-whose heart now demanded the support of his, the support which his would amply receive from her's in return. Happy souls! happy even under all your calamities! For if there be pleasure-if there be consolation-if there be happiness on earth-they are nowhere to be so certainly found as in the unbounded confidence, and deeply-rooted attachment, of two congenial hearts. Deeply affected by what I had seen, I prayed that I might have the power, in all the afflictions that might await me, to say, with the poor peasant-"The Lord's will be done."

We have copied the above from an interesting narrative published in Ireland; but the writer, though disposed to recognize the superiority of "religious trust" over mere philosophy in the hour of trial, does not appear to have discovered the ground on

which that trust is founded. We tell him, and we tell our young readers, that the only ground on which unwavering trust in trial and peril can rest, is the mercy of God in Christ. This is an everlasting rock. God is our Father in Christ Jesus. In the name of Jesus we may approach him, and with filial reverence call him "Our Father." And as a father he will watch over us in the hour of personal suffering, and sustain us in seasons of relative bereavement. Happy they who can call on God the Father, and trust in his mercy and grace, through Jesus Christ.

THE CAMEL.

"Patient of thirst and toil!

Son of the desert!"

THE camel is lankey and lean, shrivelled and bony, with no useless matter in its conformation; having flesh and bone enough for heavy burdens, and long and patient endurance of them, whilst passing over regions that furnish sufferings, insupportable to any other creature, and under circumstances where privation, almost to destitution, must be borne for days and weeks together.

We should look in vain for features of elegance and beauty in the camel; the very