It was the privilege of Miss Roscoe, when labouring under her mental depression, to find in Mrs. Stevens a friend eminently qualified not only to impart the sympathies of friendship, but to administer the consolations of religion. As she had passed through the same tumultuous and darkened scene, she knew how to guide the footsteps of another; and having "tasted that the Lord is gracious," and felt the moral efficacy of his death, she could speak on these sacred themes with a peculiar force of impression. Her skill in introducing religious subjects in conversation was great, and her news were clear and comprehensive. She minutely studied the peculiarities of the human character; observed the times, and seasons, and forms of its development; and while she rarely left an individual or a company without dropping some appropriate remark, she never obtruded her sentiments so as to make them unwelcome.

As Mrs. Stevens was walking one evening to her favourite retreat for meditation, she saw Miss Roscoe approaching, and after exchanging the customary salutations, the conversation turned on the subject of religion and a future state.

"My mind," said Mrs. Stevens, "has been dwelling with more than ordinary delight on the immortality of the soul. Immortality is the grand prerogative of man. He lives amidst the decay of his nature, survives his own dissolution, and lives for ever."

"How few," replied Miss Roscoe, "are impressed by this grand subject. Here and there I meet with an individual who is alive to the powers of the world to come; but the vast majority move onwards to the tomb, as though that receptacle of death was to terminate their existence. To me immortality is alternately a pleasing, and an awful theme of meditation. There are seasons when it is invested with a radiant brightness, which almost entrances my soul, and I am eager to join the general assembly of the redeemed; but at other seasons my mind recoils from the thought of dying, and I ask, in terror—

"That the subject of immortality, preceded by dying, should present the varying aspect of delight and of terror, is not surprising. Some are in bondage all their life through fear of death, and others are occasionally in a state of great alarm; but this proceeds either from the incorrectness of their views of the economy of revealed truth, or the weakness of their faith. They look for some degree of moral perfection in themselves, to which they never attain, rather than to Jesus Christ, in whom they are accepted as complete; or they hesitate to place an implicit dependence on his power and willingness to save them, lest they should be guilty of an act of presumption. But as the gospel is a revelation of grace to sinners, and as we are invited in the most encouraging language to receive it, we ought not to hesitate, or deem it presumptuous to do so. I remember hearing our venerable minister once conclude a sermon with this striking remark: 'Are you willing to be saved?' After a short pause, he added, 'Then Jesus Christ is willing to save you. You and the Saviour are both of one mind, and who can separate you?'"

"But I fear," said Miss Roscoe, "that I have not yet felt that deep contrition for sin which is essential to genuine repentance, and which must precede the exercise of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. I recently read a sermon, in which the author says, that 'the sorrow which is connected with true repentance is not only sincere, but deep and pungent. It not only enters into the heart, but it penetrates into its inmost recesses, and there lives and reigns. It not only causes the tear to flow, and the breast to heave with the bitter emotions of anguish, but it is compared to the most acute sorrow which can pierce the human bosom; to the sorrow which chills the heart of a parent as he mourns the loss of a son, of an only son, of a first-born!' I know I have felt abased and humbled when reviewing my past life; and silently adore the long-suffering of God in bearing with me; but I am yet a stranger to that acute and overwhelming agony of soul which, in the estimation of this writer, is essential to genuine repentance."

"If, my dear, you have felt sorrow for sin, you need not be distressed because you have not felt it in its most intense and agonizing degrees. True repentance does not always burst forth in bitter lamentations and weeping, leaving the victim of its infliction an exile from all the comforts of life and all the promises of mercy—doomed, in his own apprehension, to a more awful banishment at the day of final decision; but it is often the silent tear, and the noiseless sigh—the self-loathing of the soul over its defects—which become daily more and more apparent, accompanied by an humble and implicit dependence on the death and mediation of Jesus Christ for pardon and endless life. The author from whose beautiful sermon you have quoted a passage, remarks towards the latter end of it, that 'heartfelt sorrow for sin is not opposed to happiness. The tears of penitence are not tears of unmingled bitterness. There is a joy connected with them which is as satisfying and exalting as it is purifying and humbling. God himself has pronounced the sorrow of the poor in spirit, blessed; and he has not blessed it in vain. His people taste its sweetness. Their happiest hours are those which are spent in the exercise of penitence and faith; and while these graces are in lively exercise, they may look on the inhabitants of heaven without envy, even though they may long to participate of their still more elevated enjoyments.'"

"Such a repentance I am conscious I have felt. I would not return to my former course of life, even if it were compatible with a religious profession; for I have lived a life of vanity, minding earthly things; my intellectual studies were pursued to gratify pride, which coveted the honour which comes from man; the claims of God, on the homage and supreme affections of the heart, I have neglected; the Redeemer I have neither loved nor honoured; I have spurned from my presence those religious principles which require a separation from the world, and have uniformly acted as though the realities of an unseen world were a mere fanciful creation; but now the delusion has vanished away, and I see with an unveiled face the supreme importance of those truths and sources of enjoyment which in the days of my ignorance were concealed from me; and if I have any regret, it is not because I have discovered the illusion so soon, but because I did not discover it sooner."

"It is recorded of one of the Roman emperors," said Mrs. Stevens, that he wept when he saw the statue of Alexander the Great, because Alexander had conquered the world at a period of life when he had gained no victory. And if you, my dear, have been later than some others in making your spiritual discoveries, and in gaining your spiritual conquests, I hope you will now distinguish yourself by a decision more firm, and a zeal more ardent, and redeem, for the honour of the Saviour, the time you have withheld from his service; and by carrying the principles of your faith to the highest possible attainments, you will compel others to see the effects which the grace of God produces in the human character."

On passing within sight of a cottage standing on a slight elevation, Miss Roscoe said, "That, I believe, is Mrs. Labron's, and I greatly admire it, it is such a beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture, my favourite style of building, and its shrubbery and gardens are laid out and planted with so much taste."

"Yes, my dear, there is great external beauty, but within there is a sad spectacle of domestic sorrow and moral disfigurement. Her eldest daughter is rapidly fading away from life, under the withering influence of that disease which proves fatal to thousands; and I am informed that, to divert her attention from dying, she spends the greater part of her time either in reading novels or playing at cards; and though a minister of Jesus Christ, who has a slight intimacy with the family, expostulated with her on the impropriety of devoting herself to such amusements at such an eventful crisis, yet it made no impression on her; and her mother said, with an air of apathetic indifference, that as she was passionately fond of novels and cards, she thought it would be an act of cruelty to withhold them from her; adding that she had taken the sacrament, and made her peace with God! and that the physician particularly requested that no one be permitted to speak to her on religious subjects."

"This is appalling, truly awful; and yet how many modern Christians would give it the sanction of their decided approval. The physician requesting that no one may be permitted to speak to her on religious subjects! Oh, how cruel! What is this but interdicting the visit of mercy, and dooming a sinner to pass into the eternal world unprepared to die? I remember, at an early stage of my late affliction, the medical attendant urged upon my parents the necessity of keeping the Bible out of my reach, and they complied with his request; and that holy book, which reveals life and immortality, was kept out of my sight. Can you account for this most astonishing part of their conduct?"

"I can tell you the reason which they assign for it. They, I have no doubt, will say that the mind of a dying patient ought to be kept in a state of great composure; and concluding that religion will agitate and alarm, they forbid all reference to it."

"Poor creatures, how ignorant must they be of the nature and tendency of pure religious truth! If a person be renewed in the spirit of his mind, and if he feels the love of God shed abroad in his heart, there is no subject which will have such a delightful effect as the immediate prospect of entering heaven. I lately sat beside the bed of a dying Christian, who, not long before her departure, after praying in the language of Stephen, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,' repeated the following lines with an emphasis and melody of voice which still sounds in my ear:—

And if a person be ignorant of the scheme of salvation which is revealed in the Scripture, there is no subject which ought to be pressed more upon his attention. If he have but a short time to live, no portion of that time ought to be lost. To-day he is here—to-morrow in eternity. For the physician to interpose, to keep him in a state of ignorance, is an act of cruelty which no language can adequately describe; and, notwithstanding the frivolous reasons which he may assign for his conduct, it is an act for which he will stand responsible at the last day."

As I was returning from a solitary walk, I accidentally met the ladies, and on reaching the end of the grove through which we were passing, we seated ourselves on a garden chair, which stood under a very fine beech tree, from whence we had a distinct view of the rectory and its church, and also of Mr. Stevens' unobtrusive chapel.

"These Dissenting chapels," I remarked, "are what may be called ecclesiastic retreats; spiritual places of refuge for the gospel when it is driven out of the church."

"They are spiritual Bethels," Miss Roscoe replied, "where God unexpectedly visits his chosen ones with the manifestation of His unseen but not unfelt presence; often astonishing and delighting them; constraining them to exclaim, in the language of the venerable patriarch, 'Surely the Lord is in this place.'"

"Yes," said Mrs. Stevens, "and sometimes in these chapels He conveys the grace of life to the spiritually dead. This reminds me of what I should have told you before, but it escaped my memory. You know that we have seen Mrs. Pickford at our chapel several times lately, and last Sabbath evening, when she was passing my pew after the close of the service, I spoke to her, expressing the pleasure I felt on seeing her there; and inquired after the welfare of Mr. Pickford and the family. She then very modestly, for she appears to be an amiable woman, referred to the benefit which had resulted from your visit, and asked me to remind you of your promise to visit them again."

"I intend to see Mrs. Pickford in the course of the week. I know, Madam, that you are partial to yon modest-looking chapel, but still, though its internal glory may be greater than that of the church, yet it does not form such an imposing object in a piece of scenery."

"I admit that; but it often calls up, in a pious mind, an order of richer and more hallowed associations, and awakens a more sublime and elevating class of feeling. There is a church, with its Liturgy and its white-robed priest, yet from it the gospel is cast out; but it has taken refuge in what you call our modest-looking chapel, where it proves to be the power of God to salvation."

"I have been accustomed," said Miss Roscoe, "to attend that church from my childhood; the gentleman who does duty in it is a learned, polite, and amiable man; we have often spent many pleasant evenings together; he excels in music, and has a fine poetic taste; but I regret to add, he has a strong aversion to evangelical truth. He came to see me just as I was recovering from my late affliction, and when I made some reference to the influence which reading the Bible had over my mind, he said, 'I hope you will be on your guard, for you are now in great danger of becoming too religious. The mania has affected many amongst us, but I hope you have virtue enough to resist it.' He is rather lofty in his spirit, though very familiar when among the poor. His ideas of the dignity and excellence of human nature are diametrically opposed to the scriptural representation; and he asserted in the last discourse I heard him deliver, that the charge of a universal corruption having taken place among the members of the human family, was a gross libel on our virtue. 'There are a few imperfect,' he said, 'yet they have virtue enough left to atone for their defects; but the great bulk of mankind are as perfect as their Creator ever intended they should be.' He then adverted to the evangelical doctrines of faith, and salvation by grace through the imputed righteousness of Jesus Christ, which he denounced as corruptions of Christianity, and warned the people against them, as being more pernicious to the peace and good order of society than the principles of open infidelity. On being asked by my father how I liked the discourse, I replied, 'Not at all, as Mr. Cole not only opposed the Scriptures, but the Articles of his own church;' and I then quoted the eleventh Article, which put an end to our conversation. I have not heard him since; for I think it wrong to sanction by my presence a style of preaching which is subversive of the entire scheme of salvation."

"It must be painful," I observed, "to be driven from the church by the introduction of erroneous doctrines; but it must be more painful to a conscientious mind to sit and hear them. Where do you now attend?"

"Alas! Sir, like the captives of Babylon, I am denied the privilege of worshipping in the temple, and, like them, I sit and weep over the desolation of Zion. But He who was a little sanctuary to them in the season of their captivity, visits me within the retirement of the closet, by the special manifestations of his holy presence. I asked permission the other Sabbath to go and hear the venerable Mr. Ingleby, but I was refused. Oh! this pierced me to the heart."

"But why did your father deny a request so reasonable?"

"He would not have done it if he had not been influenced by others; for such is the strength of his attachment for me, and such his devotedness to my happiness, that he has heretofore deemed no sacrifice too great, nor any indulgence too expensive to promote my comfort. But the Rev. Mr. Cole and some lay gentlemen have urged him to interpose his authority, to save me from what they call the delirium of religion. They tell him that his honour, his peace, and his influence, are all in jeopardy; and that if I am permitted to go on in my present course, nothing but inevitable ruin awaits me. By such stratagems they have induced him to act a part which I know is repugnant to the generous feelings of his nature; because he told me, at an early stage of my hallowed impressions, that if I found peace in religion, he would not presume to interfere."

"This trial," said Mrs. Stevens, "is not joyous, but grievous; nevertheless, it will yield the peaceable fruit of righteousness. Though it comes through a medium which invests it with a peculiar poignancy, and may throw a gloomy shade over all your hopes of future comfort, yet the Redeemer says, 'My grace shall be sufficient for thee, my strength shall be made perfect in thy weakness.' You have only to act wisely, and with decision; keep your conscience void of offence towards God and man; demonstrate, by the meekness of your disposition, and your efforts to please, that your religion is not the religion of fancy or of passion, but of principle; and then you will rise above the visible agents who are employed in conducting the machinery of Providence, to meditate on Him who sits behind the cloud that conceals Him from our sight, working all things after the counsel of His own will."

"I have known," I remarked, "some young Christians commence their religious profession under auspicious influences. They have been hailed by pious parents and pious friends with acclamations of joy; the spring-time of their spiritual existence has been free from the rude blasts of persecution; and they have advanced from stage to stage, with unobstructed and undiverted steps. I have known others rocked in the whirlwind, and cradled in the storm. They have had to contend with the principalities and powers of evil in their high places. They have been despised and rejected; and the reproaches of men have fallen upon them. But I generally find that opposition at the commencement of a religious profession has a beneficial rather than an injurious tendency. It forces its principles deeper into the mind. It consolidates them. It gives to them an energy which ultimately rises superior to resistance; a healthful vigour, which they rarely attain to when nourished by the fostering hand of parental solicitude; and it brings them forth into such visible and powerful manifestations, that even the enemies of our common faith are compelled to feel

'How awful goodness is!'"

"Yes, Sir," observed Mrs. Stevens, "and we should remember that those who oppose religion, when it takes possession of an individual mind, and exerts its influence over the visible actions of the life, often do it ignorantly. If they knew that they were attempting to resist the work of God in the new creation of the human soul, they would cease their opposition. But they do not. They have no conception of such a thing. They ridicule it as visionary; and if a person offer to prove, by sober arguments taken from the Scriptures, or from the Articles of our church, that such a new creation of the soul is a reality, and that it will develope itself precisely in that exterior form which they see exhibited in the conduct of those whom they oppose, yet they will refuse to hear. Their unfairness to meet the arguments in support of the reality of the thing, I grant, is very censurable; but it must be attributed to that judicial moral blindness which is one of the consequences of our apostasy from God, and which calls for the exercise of our forbearance and our tenderest pity. Hence, when we are reviled for our religion, we should not revile again; when we suffer, we should forbear to reproach; and commit our cause to Him who judgeth righteously."

In the course of the week I availed myself of the opportunity, during the absence of my esteemed friends from the villa, to go and take tea at Farmer Pickford's; and I was very much gratified by my visit. During the evening he made several references to his wife's attendance at the chapel; and at length he spoke out, by saying, "Mr. Stevens, I think, is about one of the best of us: he is very charitable to the poor, and so is his wife; and he is always willing to do any body a good turn when he can; and my wife says he is a capital preacher, but I can't think so."

"Have you ever heard him preach?"

"No, Sir, I must have an Oxford or Cambridge man. To speak my mind, Mr. Ingleby is the preacher for me. I never went into his church before you took lunch with us, but what you said then inclined me to go. Why, I would rather hear one of his sarmunts, than I would a score of Parson Cole's. He sends what he says home here," laying his hand on his heart; "but I can get a comfortable nap when Parson Cole is holding forth. We all go to church now on a Sunday morning, and I seem to like it; and the youngsters like it, and so do the sarvants. It helps to keep us in a bit better order. And wife often tells me she was never so happy in all her life as she is now; and that makes me feel a bit more comfortable, as I like to see smiling faces in my homestead."

I listened with some emotions of surprise and delight while he was running on in his tale of reformation, and, after a little hesitation, I ventured to propose reading a chapter of the Bible, and going to prayer.

"Ay, that's right, Sir. That puts me in mind of what I heard my uncle say, the last time he slept here, and he was as staunch a Churchman as ever sung a psalm tune: 'Prayer and provender are two good things; one is good for man, and t'other for beast:' though, I must say, we ant had much prayer here; worse luck."

I read the second chapter of Ephesians, making a few comments on it, and then we knelt before the throne of grace; and when this domestic service was over, I received the hearty hand-shake, and set out to retrace my steps to Fairmount, which I reached just in time to lead the devotions of the family; when, having committed ourselves to the protecting care of our heavenly Father, we retired to rest.

A VILLAGE FUNERAL.

Death spares neither age nor rank, talent nor piety. The king of terrors sways the sceptre of absolute authority over all the living; none can elude his grasp, nor resist his power. What a scene is presented where he has achieved a conquest! The sparkling eye become dim, the instructive lips sealed in perpetual silence; the ear deaf alike to the voice of friendship and the song of mirth; and the tabernacle of bliss changed into the house of mourning. The preparations necessary for the interment keep the mind in a state of constant agitation; but when these are all adjusted, and the ministers of death enter to bear away the dear departed to the distant tomb, then the sobs, and tears, and groans of agonized survivors, proclaim the greatness of the irreparable desolation.

It was on a still summer evening, as we sat conversing together on the immortality of the soul, and on the blessedness of the righteous in the heavenly world, that we received intelligence of the approaching dissolution of Mrs. Allen. Mrs. Stevens expressed a desire to see her once more before her decease; and having accepted my offer to accompany her, we hastened to her lonely dwelling.

"Here I am, hourly expecting a change. Disease has nearly consumed my body; but as my outward man perisheth, blessed be God my inward man is renewed day by day. I have passed through deep waters since I saw you, but they have not been permitted to overflow me; for when the enemy came in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord lifted up a standard against him. The contest is nearly over, the prize of my high calling is in view, and Jesus, my beloved Saviour, will soon, very soon, present me faultless before the presence of the Divine glory with exceeding joy."

"I am happy," said Mrs. Stevens, "to find you in such a calm ecstasy in anticipation of the coming crisis. You have borne a living testimony to the truth of religion, and now you can bear a dying testimony to its excellence."

"My living testimony has been but feeble; it has not been so decided as it ought to have been; I dare not think of it but with regret and self-loathing. I have been an unprofitable servant, but I look for redemption and for acceptance to Jesus the Mediator, whose blood cleanseth from all sin."

"But it must give you some degree of satisfaction to look back and see the fruits of your religion, though the fruit may not have been so rich nor so fine as you could wish."

"It gives me pleasure to know that I have been kept from falling, and that I shall soon be permitted to bow down in the presence of my Lord, and offer to Him some expression of my ardent gratitude for his great goodness to me; but I can derive no satisfaction from a review of my own conduct. I am a sinner saved by grace."

"You are now," I observed, "near the end of your course, and I suppose you would not willingly recommence your pilgrimage on earth."

"I would, Sir, cheerfully, if my Lord were to command me, but not otherwise. I long to be with him. To give up my dear husband and child occasioned a hard struggle, but I have been enabled to do it; and now I am going home, and my Father is waiting to receive me."

We committed her departing spirit to the Lord Jesus, and prayed for her husband and her child; then returned to Fairmount, where the news of her decease reached us within the space of an hour. After we left she had spoken but seldom, lying with her eyes closed, but, from the occasional motion of her lips, it was evident that she was much engaged in prayer. At length she said, "I feel a change which I cannot describe—is this death?—how easy it is! The king of terrors is transformed into an angel of deliverance. I shall soon see the King, the Lord of hosts in his beauty. I am entering the valley, but there is no darkness. I see the shadow of death, but feel no sting." After a short pause, during which her spirit seemed to be gathering up its strength for the final departure, she embraced her husband and her child for the last time; and, having solemnly commended them to God, she reclined her head on the pillow, and expired. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints, and their decease is often precious in the sight of men. Yes, their composure when bidding farewell to their endeared relatives, and their joyful anticipations when in the act of passing into the unseen world, often produce such a powerful effect on the spectators of their exit, that many who contemn their religious principles, have retired from the solemn scene, saying, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his."

Mrs. Allen's long affliction had so impoverished her husband, that he was not able to meet the expenses of her funeral; but such was the esteem in which her character was held, that a subscription for the purpose was immediately raised. I had often seen the city funeral, where the simplicity of nature is sacrificed to pompous show. The mourning coaches, the hearse decorated with plumes, and drawn by horses clothed in black, the hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief—these may, by their sombrous appearance, throw a momentary gloom over the spirits, but rarely, if ever, produce a deep moral impression on the heart. I had now to witness, in a village funeral, a very different scene.

The ancient custom of burying the dead in the evening, which still lingers in some parts of the country, prevailed in this village. I left Fairmount, in company with Mr. Stevens and Mr. Lewellin, about five o'clock, the eighth day after her decease; and we were both astonished and pleased by seeing Farmer Pickford on the road before us. When we came up with him I saluted him.

"What, Farmer, are you going to the funeral?"

"Yes, Sir; my mistress wished it, as she mainly liked Mrs. Allen; and I felt a bit inclined to pay a little respect to her memory, because I once made sport of her religion; but I am now satisfied that it is of the right sort."

"It is so. It gives comfort on a bed of sickness and pain, and it fits a person to die well—to die with a full expectation of going to heaven; that is, of going home."

"It's a main good thing, and no mistake, when we are turned out of one home, to have another to go to."

"And that other home heaven, which I hope, Farmer, will be your home at last and for ever."

"The Lord grant that it may be so. I often pray a bit about it; but my prayers are but poor prayers, worse luck. I can't pray like you."

"You can pray, like the publican, 'God be merciful to me a sinner.'"

"Ay, that's the prayer for me. I can pray that prayer, and feel it too."

Almost immediately after we had reached the cottage, a neat oak coffin, bearing the name and age of the deceased, was brought out, and placed on two stools in the centre walk of the garden. A band of singers from the church choir took the lead in the procession, then the bearers of the coffin, two and two, a lad walking on each side with a stool, to afford an occasional resting; then the chief mourners—the widowed husband and his little boy; some relatives, and a few poor friends, walked behind; and many of the villagers attended as spectators. As the bier entered the vale that divides the two parishes, the singers sang the following hymn:—

The effect was solemn and impressive. As soon as the hymn was sung, the bier stood still, and the bearers rested; when the thrush and the yellow hammer, roused by the music, poured forth their melodious notes, as though anxious to prolong the song. The number of spectators increased as we advanced; all were serious, some wept; and when we turned into the lane which led up to the church, another hymn was sung, in accents more bold, but equally melodious with the former:—

The venerable rector met the procession on its entering the burial-ground, and walked before it up the pathway leading to the church, reading, as he walked, the thrilling words of inspiration: "I am the resurrection and the life." The corpse was taken into the middle aisle of the church, and placed on a raised platform; the concourse of people attending seated themselves in the different pews, and listened with devout seriousness to the appointed lessons and portions of the Scripture, which Mr. Ingleby read in very impressive tones. When he had finished, the corpse was carried forth to the place of sepulture; where, after the rest of the burial-service was performed, it was deposited till the morning of the resurrection. When Robert and his little boy looked down into the grave which had just received the remains of her they loved, they wept, and returned to their house of mourning, cast down, yet animated by a hope of a reunion in the celestial world.

I stole away from the crowd, which was pressing round the grave to take the last look of the coffin, that I might indulge my reflections in solitude. Death was the theme of my meditation. Humiliating theme! How calculated to bring down the lofty spirit of pride, to extinguish the flame of ambition, to hush the contentions of discord!

A thrilling horror came over my spirit as I anticipated my own decease. I felt attached to life, and my nature recoiled in prospect of losing it. The lengthened sickness; the parting tear; the final farewell; the unknown pains of dying; the solemn anticipations of an immediate entrance into another world; the interment of my body in the cold, damp earth; the sighs of my bereaved widow and fatherless children; all rushed in upon my fancy. Never did the communication which the Redeemer once made to the mourner of Bethany appear so beautiful as at this moment: "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live: and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die." It was the light of life and the vision of immortality bursting in upon the empire of death; elevating my soul above the desolation around me, to look for the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, "who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself."

I did not leave the church-yard till the shadows of evening reminded me of the lateness of the hour, and of my having left my friends, who were waiting for me at the rectory. When I entered the study, the venerable rector said, "I am happy, Sir, to see you once more on this side the grave; I shall be more happy to see you on the other side; but before that blessed interview can take place, two graves must be opened, and we both must pass through the dark valley of the shadow of death. My grave-yard is much richer than it was when I commenced my labours in this parish; and in walking round it, my eye catches sight of monuments which bring to my recollection some with whom I have taken sweet counsel, and who will be, I have no doubt, my crown of rejoicing in the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ at his coming. They are now resting from their labours, and I shall soon rest from mine; and then we shall appear before the throne of God together, and serve him day and night in his temple, and for ever."

"You uniformly speak," said Mr. Stevens, "with confidence of your final salvation, but every disciple of Christ cannot do so; for I have noticed, within the limited circle of my Christian fellowship, great variation of mental feeling as the hour of departure has been drawing near. Some I have seen in solemn rapture when anticipating death; a sweet calmness of spirit in others; while in many I have known hope and fear alternately prevail. And though we may possibly trace up this varying state of feeling as death approaches, to physical causes, yet should we not contemplate the sovereignty of God at this crisis, who gives what portion of consolation he pleases?"

"I think the sovereignty of God is as conspicuous in the dying chamber as in the temple of grace; yet the Scriptures lead us to believe that there is an ordained, if not a natural connection between an eminently holy life and an eminently peaceful death. Hence the apostle, after enforcing on his readers the cultivation of the graces of the Christian character, concludes by saying, 'Wherefore the rather, brethren, give diligence to make your calling and election sure: for if ye do these things, ye shall never fall: for so an entrance shall be ministered unto you abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.' I have a funeral sermon, published by the Rev. Mr. Jay, which I have read with much satisfaction, particularly the following passage: 'The confidence of the people of God generally increases as death approaches. Hence Isaiah compares their peace to a river; for as a river rolls deeper and wider as it hastens to the sea, so their peace commonly becomes more solid and more extensive as they draw near eternity. In this view the change which Dr. Goodwin experienced was remarkable. "Is this dying?" exclaimed he, a little before he expired. "Is this what, for so many years, I have been dreading? Oh! how precious does the righteousness of the Saviour now appear!—He cannot love me better than he does; and I think I cannot love him better than I do." This is not a solitary instance. How many have we ourselves seen who wept upon the mountains of Zion, but rejoiced in the valley of the shadow of death; whose harps, long before hung upon the willows, were taken down, and delightfully used in singing the Lord's song in the most strange part of all the strange land! We cannot always account for things as effects, which yet we are compelled by observation and testimony to admit as facts. But the case before us sufficiently explains itself. The love of life having, from the will of God, no longer now any purposes to answer, is suffered to die away. By drawing near the better country, we feel something of its influence, as the perfumes of Arabia the Happy are blown into the neighbouring provinces. Above all, there is now more of the simplicity of faith. During life some degree of legality attaches to all our performances. Doing continually intermingles with believing; and often, insensibly to ourselves, we are anxious to make ourselves better, to entitle us to the divine favour, or to find something in ourselves wherein to hope, if not whereof to glory before God. But all this is now over. What can the believer do when dying? What qualifications can he then acquire? What attainments can he then propose? "Let him look back upon a well-spent life." This is impossible. Every review which he takes of himself is humbling. The very sins of his holy duties would drive him to despair. One resource remains—one, only one, which is always equal to our relief—one whose consolation is only hindered from flowing in to us by the want of simplicity of mind; it is looking by faith to the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world; it is to commit implicitly the soul to him. He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.'"

"I am fond of visiting the sick and the dying," said Mr. Lewellin. "When with them, I feel the truth of religion. The terror which seizes on the spirit of an infidel in his last moments, and the rapture which glows in the breast of the expiring Christian, are equally impressive and instructive. I have seen the unbeliever tremble as the footsteps of death have been heard; his face has turned pale through fear, or it has been beclouded by despair. I have heard him utter the most piercing cries; send forth heavy sighs and groans—the speechless messengers of woe; I have heard him reproach himself in the strongest language for his folly and his guilt, in having passed through life an enemy to the faith of Christ; and I have seen him expire in unutterable anguish. I have also seen the believer, calm and enraptured. I have heard the music of his soul becoming more soft and enchanting as the vital spirit has languished in his frame. I have listened while he has given utterance to his holy aspirations and blissful anticipations; but I have never heard one express any regret for his attachment to the doctrines of the gospel. I have never known one willing to renounce his faith, or give up his hope, in prospect of death."

"Nor I," said Mr. Ingleby; "and this circumstance is a strong evidence in favour of the adaptation of the gospel to our moral condition. Infidelity may contemn the faith of Christ, and hold up its friends to scorn, but she is faithless; for when her disciples want her comfort in their last hours, she generally leaves them as victims whom she has fitted for destruction, that she may mingle among the gay and the dissipated, to prepare them also for the pangs of the second death."

It was late before we left the rectory, and in passing the now desolated cottage, we saw light in the room, and on knocking at the door, we gained admittance. "Well, Robert," said Mr. Stevens, "you are not yet gone to bed."

"No, Sir; if I go to bed, I don't think that I shall sleep. I thought when my wife lay so ill, and suffered so much, that I should be willing to give her up to the Lord, if he would take her; but now she is gone, I feel my loss. No man can tell what death is till it comes. I love to think of her, for she was a good wife, and a good mother; and I should like to talk to her; but now if I go into the room, I find that I am alone; and this chills my heart. My boy tries to comfort me, but, poor fellow, he wants a comforter as well as I; for he loved his mother."

"But God can support you under your trial; for he has said, 'Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.'"

"Oh, yes; he does support me, and he has given me a spirit of resignation to his holy will; but, Sir, nature can't help feeling."

"But I do not suppose you would recall her from heaven, even if you were permitted."

"Why, Sir, it gives me pleasure to think that while I am mourning here below, she is happy and at rest in heaven; but if I were permitted to recall her, I am sure I should be tempted to do it; for she always tried to make me happy. She is gone, never more to return. In looking into her drawer, since we came back home, I found these papers, which I have just been reading."

Finding they were in Mrs. Allen's writing, I afterwards borrowed them, and having transcribed a copy of one, I here insert it. It was dated three months before her decease:—

"I have just been favoured with a singular manifestation of the loving-kindness of my Saviour. He has taken away the guilt of all my sins. He has removed all my doubts. He has given me peace, and has enabled me to resign my husband and child to his care. He will soon take me to himself. As I have felt at times great depression, and may in my last moments be unable to speak of his doings, I now record in writing what will not be seen till after I have seen him. I die a guilty and worthless sinner, depending on his death for salvation; and can say that I die in full and certain hope of a joyful resurrection to eternal life.

"Sarah Allen.

"Dear Widowed Husband,—Before you see this, I shall have passed through the valley, and joined the redeemed above. While you are weeping I shall be rejoicing; yet, if the spirits of the glorified are suffered to visit their earthly friends, I will often come and hover over you and the dear motherless child. Follow me as far as I followed Christ. Farewell, till we meet in glory.—Yours, for ever."

MISS ROSCOE WITHDRAWS FROM GAY LIFE.