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expressing, by her raised eyes, and arms folded across her breast, how thankful she was to see at last the pastor beloved in joy, and trusted in trouble.

A few words sufficed to say who was the stranger; and the dying man, blessing me by name, held out to me his cold, shrivelled hand, in token of recognition. I took my seat at a small distance from the bed-side, and left a closer station for those who were more dear. The pastor sat down near his elder's head; and by the bed, leaning on it with gentle hands, stood that matron, his daughter-in-law-a figure that would have sainted a higher dwelling, and whose native beauty was now more touching in its grief. “If the storm do not abate,” said the sick man,

after pause, “it will be hard for my friends to carry me over the drifts to the kirk-yard.” This sudden allusion to the grave, struck, as with a bar of ice, the heart of the loving boy; and with a long, deep sigh, he fell down, with his face like ashes, on the bed; while the old man's palsied right hand had just strength enough to lay itself upon his head. “God has been gracious to me, a sinner,” said the dying

“During thirty years that I have been an elder in your kirk, never have I missed sitting there one Sabbath. When the mother of my children was taken from me-it was on a Tucsday she died, and on Saturday she was buried --we stood together. On the Sabbath after

my let down into the narrow house made for all living, I joined in the public worship of God. She commanded me to do so the night before she went away. I could not join in the psalm that Sabbath, for her voice was not in the throng. Her grave was covered up, and grass and flowers grew there.”

The old man then addressed himself to his grand-child: “Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy infancy, and me in my old age; but Jamie, forget not thou thy father, nor thy mother; for that, thou knowest and feelest, is the commandment of God.”

The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had gradually stolen closer and closer unto the loving old man,

man.

Alice was

and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her hand. “Oh, if my husband knew but of this, he would never, never desert his dying father!" And I now knew that the elder was praying, on his death-bed, for a disobedient and wicked son.

At this affecting time, the minister took the family Bible on his knees, and said, “Let us sing, to the praise and glory of God, part of the fifteenth Psalm ;" and he read, with a tremulous and broken voice, those beautiful verses—

“Within Thy tabernacle, Lord,

Who shall abide with thee?
And in thy high and holy hill

Who shall a dweller be?

“The man that walketh uprightly,

And worketh righteousness,
And as he thinketh in his heart,

So doth he truth express.”

Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was opened, and a tall, fine-looking man entered, but with a lowering and dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck by the melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair, and looked with a ghastly face towards his father's death-bed. When the psalm ceased, the elder said, with a solemn voice, “My son, thou art come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May the remembrance of what will happen in this room, before the morning again shine over the Hazel-glen, win thee from the error of thy ways? Thou art here to witness the mercy of thy God, and thy Saviour, whom thou hast forgotten.”

The young man, with much effort, advanced to the bedside, and at last found voice to say, “Father, I am not without the affections of nature, and I hurried home the moment I heard that the minister had been seen riding towards our house. I hope that you will yet recover; and, if I have ever made you unhappy, I ask your forgiveness; for, though I may not think as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. Father, I may have been unkind, but I am not cruel. I ask your forgiveness.”

“Come near to me, William ; kneel down by the bed-side, and let

my hand feel the head of my beloved son, for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-born, and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside her whose sweet face, thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my soul-ay, too much the pride; for there was not in all the parish such a man, such a son as my own William. If thy heart has since been changed, God may inspire it again with right thoughts. I have sorely wept for thee-ay, William, when there was none near me, even as David wept for Absalom-for thee, my son! my son!”

A long deep groan was the only reply; but the whole body of the kneeling man was convulsed, and it was easy to see his contrition, his remorse, and his despair. The pastor said, with a sterner voice and austerer countenance than were natural to him, “Know you whose hand is now lying on your rebellious head? But what signifies the word father to him who has denied God, the Father of us all ?” “Oh, press him not too hardly!" said his weeping wife, coming forward from a dark corner of the room, where she had tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame. “Spare, oh, spare my husband!—he has ever been kind to me;" and with that she knelt down beside him, with her long, soft, white arms mournfully and affectionately laid across his neck. “Go thou, likewise, my sweet little Jamie," said the elder, “go, even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father and thy mother; so that I may bless you all at once, and with one yearning prayer.” The child did as the solemn voice commanded, and knelt down, somewhat timidly, by his father's side; nor did the unhappy man decline encircling with his arm the child, too much neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, in spite of the deadening and debasing influence of infidelity.

“ Put the word of God into the hands of my son, and let him read aloud to his dying father the 25th, 26th, and 27th verses of tho 11th chapter of the Gospel according to St. John." The pastor went up to the kneelers, and with a voice of pity, condolence, and pardon, said, “There was a time when none, William, could read the Scriptures better than couldst thou. Can it be that the son of my friend hath forgotten the lessons of his youth?" He had not forgotten them, there was no need for the repentant sinner to lift up lis eyes

from the bed-side. The sacred stream of the gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he read, “ Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this? She saith unto him, Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.”

" That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man triumphantly; “nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast read, and thy father will die happy!” “I do believe, and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in heaven." The elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired with a new life. His faded eyes kindled, his pale cheeks glowed, his palsied hands seemed to wax strong, and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its primé. bands, O God, I commit my spirit”-and so saying, he gently sunk back on his pillow;- I thought I heard a sigh. There was then a long, deep silence; and the father, the mother, and the child, rose from their knees. The eyes of us all were turned towards the white, placid face of the figure, now stretched in everlasting rest; and without lamentations, save the silent lamentations of the resigned soul, we stood around the death-bcd of the elder.

JOHN WILSON,

“ Into thy

CATO ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

It must be so—Pláto, thou réason’st well !
E'lse whence this pleasing hòpe, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality ?
Or whence this secret dreàd, and inward hórror,
Of falling into nòught? Why shrinks the soul
Bàck on herself, and stårtles at destruction ?
'Tis the Divinity' that stirs within us:
'Tis Heaven itself, that points out-an hercáfter,
And intimates-Eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pléasing, dreadful thought !
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and chánges' must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me,

shadows, clouds, and dárkness, rèst upon it. Hère will I hold. "If there's a Power above us (And that there is, all Nature crics aloud Through all her works), He must delight in virtue; And that which Hé delights in, must be hàppy. But whén? or whère? This world-was made for Caèsar. I'm weary of conjéctures--this must end them.

[Laying his hand on his suori. Thús! I am doùbly armed. My death and life, My bàne and antidote, are both before me. This—in a mòment, brings me to an end; But thís-infórms mel I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dágger, and defies its point. The stárs shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and náture sink in years; But thoúl shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unbürtamidst the war of elements, The wréck of matter, and the crash of worlds !

ADDISON.

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