home, and the dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it." It was in reference to this peaceful spot that the following impromptu was written, simple in its unvarnished delineation of the scene:-

"Here rest the ashes of departed Friends,
Each sacred charge a grassy mound defends.
No sculptured tomb-no graven stone is seen
To tell the living what the dead have been!
They needed not the glare of human praise
To deck their monuments for public gaze.
Blank is the page! but what had better shown
That they renounced all merit of their own?
They knew themselves to be but sinful dust,
And in a Saviour's merits put their trust.
In Him they sleep till the last trump shall sound,
And break the slumbers of their peaceful ground.
But thou that lookest on their
graves, deem not
Their memories cancelled and their names forgot!
Full many a heart, as long as life shall last,
With love unfeigned shall treasure up the past;
And many an eye still glistens with a tear

For Friends whose kindred dust lies buried here !"*

Since these lines were written, modest headstones have been erected, but without spoiling the pure sentiment here conveyed. As I cast a look around

* The writer (the late Dr. Oke, of Southampton) was the author of several well-known medical works, and a man of active benevolence through a long and useful life. He was educated at a Friends' school at Compton, in Dorsetshire; and, though a consistent member of the Church of England, the early impressions there received were never erased, and he ever felt a warm sympathy in the welfare of the Society of Friends. In the annals of that school, carried on uninterruptedly by Jonah Thompson and his son Thomas over a period of fifty-five years (from 1759 to 1814), and containing about 500 names, we recognize many well-known Friends long honoured for their Christian zeal and their philanthropic labours. Who can measure the influence which a good Friends' school may exert upon our future history, or upon the happiness of multitudes beyond our pale ?-Ed.

upon the simple records of "name, age, and date,' and recognized thus the last resting-place of not a few once dear to me, and honoured of the Church, my eyes suffused with tears. "These all died in faith," were the cheering words echoed within my heart, and the soughing of the wind through the firs above broke upon my ear, swelling into sweet soft melody unto Him who "giveth songs in the night," and before whom I now silently bowed my head and worshipped.

But turning to where a pensive willow spread its fresh-budding branches around the "graves of a household," I beheld one mound upon which no grass was to be seen. "Three days ago," said my informant, in reply to my question, "there stood around the open grave of the Friend who lies beneath it, the Mayor of Southampton, with the late Sheriff, and one or two Justices of the Peace. They attended with many of the townspeople, in order to shew their respect for the Quaker who is there buried." The words at once carried me back again to my former reverie, which the sweet repose of this little graveyard had wellnigh banished. banished. Strange indeed (I ejaculated) are the scenes enacted upon this earth when brought face to face without the intervening element of time! Two centuries ago the Mayor and Justices of Southampton ordered to be flogged and dragged at the cart's tail up through the long High Street and Above Bar, as far as the avenue before us, an honest Friend, well known and of good repute; they did it, not because he had committed any crime, but solely because he was a Quaker, and went to the town gaol to visit the suffering men and women who lay incarcerated there on account of their non-attendance at the national worship. Now, the same officials come voluntarily along the same highway, stop at the same spot, and stand before

the grave of a fellow-professor of the ill-used Ambrose, listening to the preaching and the prayer of other members of this sect, whom their predecessors gloried in despoiling; and, to crown all, the mayor himself is a "Hebrew of the Hebrews," whom his predecessors in office would unquestionably have now doubly fined-first, for not attending the national worship; secondly, for attending a Quaker gathering. Thus (thought I) are the ways of Providence vindicated, even "the wrath of man shall praise him." The unlimited brutality with which the early Friends were treated worked its own cure; -through their stripes and imprisonments, through their suffering lives and cruel deaths, do we now dwell at ease, reaping the fruits of their labours and of their constancy under trial. Through their struggles has the field of toleration been mainly won for us. Thankfulness to them, and gratitude to God, who had so overruled the past for our benefit, covered my spirit as I left the quiet restingplace of this once afflicted people, and returned to my quarters in the town, a wiser and sadder, and yet withal a happier man.

SPECTATOR.

BUNYAN'S FAREWELL TO HIS BLIND CHILD ON HER LEAVING BEDFORD GAOL IN THE EVENING.

"It is evening; he finishes his work to be taken home by his dear blind child. He reads a portion of scripture, and clasping her small hand in his, kneels on the cold stone floor, and pours out his soul to God; then, with a parting kiss, dismisses her to her mother."—Cheever.

Now go, my child,-the parting hour

Is all too swiftly come;

The quiet evening closes in,

And thou must hasten home.

Ay! now the darkness and the light
Are not alike to thee;

The darkness steals thee from thy rest,
Against thy father's knee.

And when the first star twinkles through

My prison-bars from high,

We kneel upon the cold stone floor,

My little child and I.

And with thy dear hands clasped in mine,
So tiny and so fair;

With prison walls around us both,

I hear thy evening prayer.

Now it is ended-and the star

Warns me to say farewell;

I may not keep thee longer here
Within my lonely cell.

And thou must carry home the work,
Thy father's hand hath wrought;
Each thread I wove grew beautiful
With some home-pictured thought.

Child, pass thy little hand across
Thy mother's brow to-night,
And tell me if the lines grow deep,
Or tears bedim her sight?

And notice if her voice be sad,
And if her steps be slow;
(Although their soft low echoings
Are cheery here below.)

Child, thou hast made my prison-house
So bright for many an hour!
Now haste thee to thy mother's arms,
My little prison-flower!

For she is watching for thee, dear!
I see her standing there;

The ruddy glow of firelight
Gleams on my empty chair.

And I shall meet you all to-night,
Before God's mercy-seat;
When, kneeling midst her little ones,
She prays at Jesus' feet.

I would that I could join you all,
As sinks the setting sun,
To pray as we were wont to do ;—
But God's good will be done!

Oh! when the light of heaven shall burst,

My Mary, on thy sight;

And hand in hand, we wander on,

In rapturous delight,

How sweet and fond the memory
Of these long hours will be,
Which I have spent in prison cell,
My darling child, with thee!

Thou wilt remember all the gloom
Of this long darksome night,
Only to make thy Saviour's home
More gloriously bright.

For each dark hour, my Mary, here,
That God to thee hath given,

Are treasured up bright ages, there,
Thy heritage in heaven.

But, hark! I hear the gaoler's step;
Yon star is growing bright:

God bless thee, and thou shalt be blest!
Good night, my child, good night!

M. H. C.