which it is du

afts which rear their

mutile abysses of the

aim to get

not-know would do me little time

est caverns and burning lives, and stately forests quently adorned; the many

of every size and form, from the

which traverse its surface; the t fishes, from the enormous wale shrimp, which "play" in the mighty tribes, which spart in the

vast mass of the surrounding age, se closes the earth and all its as swaddling band." The inevity of bing with which our terrestrial habitation f spires, with every other asili, tom conceptions of that Power by which our globe, and all that it contains, were brought into existen

To pomp and pageantry in nought allied
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford died
Noble he was, contemning all things men
His truth unquestioned and his soul ser
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded nodig:
Truth, simple truth, was written in his e
Yet while the serious thought his oil app
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness:
To bliss domestic he his heart re
And, with the firmest, had the femin

ingly and yet. mbling with wly and with

never begunpresent enjoyhat, after-my -was to saveso as not tow-there canto begin with

hausted by her ew minutes and nother room to whom I found ented a part of d some months take care of the red all his wife's ss continued his is dying wife. If d it.

e Welshwoman, ell she was very y, and had fine and sit with me try to make me eventy years old,

"I do not know-what that-preparation-means. And it is too late now for me to do anything-about it. -I am too far-gone."

"No, madam, you are not. God is infinitely merciful; and you may be saved. Have you been praying to him to save you?"

to me.

"I never prayed. Indeed, sir,-I never thought— of religion, till I was-sick, and the old lady talkedBut I cannot-understand her. I have never -read the Bible.-I never was inside-of a churchin my life. Nobody-ever asked me to go, or told me-I ought to. I did not think-of religion. I just lived to enjoy—myself—as well-as I could. My aunt -who took me when my mother-died, never went -to church, and never said anything-to me about religion. So I lived-as she-allowed me to, from the time I was three years old.—I had property-enough for anything-I wanted-then; and after I left-school -about four years ago, I had nothing-to do—but to go to parties and dances-and attend to-my dress, and read-till-I was married.-Since that-we have had trouble. My husband-I suppose-did not understand things-in our country-very well. He mortgaged my house, and in a little while-it was soldand we were-obliged to leave it, and come here." "What did you read?" said I.

"Oh, I read novels, the most of the time-sometimes -I read other books, but not much, except-some history and biography."

"Did you never read the Bible?"

"No, sir."

"Have you got a Bible."

"No, sir. The old lady-has got one-which she brings to me; but I am too weak-to read it. It is a large book; and I-shall not live-long enough to read it."

"You need not read it," said I.-"But now suffer me to talk to you plainly. You are very sick. You may not live long. Will you give your attention to religion

as well as you can in your weak state, and aim to get ready to die?"

"I would, sir-if I had time. But I do not-know anything at all-about religion—and it would do me -no good-to try now, when I have-so little timeleft."

"You have time enough left." "Do you think so,—sir ?” "I know you have, madam."

She turned her eyes upon me, imploringly and yet despondingly; and with a voice trembling with emotion, she said to me, speaking slowly and with difficulty:

66

Sir, I cannot believe that.-I have never begun— to learn religion.-I lived only for my-present enjoyment-till I was married; and since that, after-my husband-failed-all I have thought of-was to save— some little of my property-if I could, so as not to— be a burden to other people.-And now-there cannot be time-enough left-for me to begin with religion-and go-all the way through."

"There is time enough," said I.

Perceiving that she was already exhausted by her efforts to speak, I told her to rest for a few minutes and I would see her again. I went into another room to see "the old lady" (as she called her), whom I found to be a pious Welshwoman, who had rented a part of her house to the sick woman's husband some months before, and who now devoted herself to take care of the poor sufferer. The tenant had squandered all his wife's property, and now during her sickness continued his dissipation, paying little attention to his dying wife. If he ever had a heart, rum had destroyed it.

"She is a good creature," said the Welshwoman, "all but religion. When she was well she was very kind to me. Though she was a lady, and had fine clothes, she was not ashamed to come and sit with me an hour at a time, and talk to me and try to make me happy; for I am a poor, lone widow, seventy years old,

and all my children are dead: and when I told her how it was with me, that I had nothing to live upon but the rent I got for the rooms of my house, and she found out (I did not tell of it) that her husband did not pay the rent any longer, she sold her rings and some of her clothes and brought me the money, poor thing, and told me to take it. I did not know, at first, that she sold her rings and her clothes to get it, and when I asked her how she got it, and she told me, I said to her I would not have it, it would burn my fingers if I took it, and the rust of it would eat my flesh as it were fire, and be a canker in my heart, and be a swift witness against me in the day of the great God, our Saviour. So I gave it back to her, but she would not take it: she laid it down there "-(pointing to it with her finger)— on the mantelpiece,—it is five weeks yesterday,—and there it has been ever since. I cannot touch it. I never will touch it, unless I am forced to take it to buy her a coffin. Christ Jesus would not have taken the price of a lady's rings and clothes in such a case, and it is not for the like of me to do it. Poor thing! she will soon die, and then she will want rings and clothes no longer! Oh, sir, if I could only think she would wear robes of glory in heaven I would not weep so. But I am afraid it is all too late for her now! Religion is a hard business for a poor, sick sinner! And her husband would not go for you, week before last, nor last week. He never went till this morning, when I told him, as I was a living woman, he never should enter the house tonight, he should sleep in the street, if he did not bring you here before the clock struck twelve. I want you to pray for her. There is no telling what God may do. May be he will send suddenly. But I cannot tell her the way. I have tried. I tried hard; but, poor thing, she said she could not understand me. And then I could do nothing but come to my own room and weep for her, and go to prayer, and then weep again. I am glad you have come. And now don't leave her till you have prayed and got a blessing,-if it is not too late."

I have seldom heard eloquence surpassing that of "the old lady." Some of her expressions were singular, but they seemed to have in them the majesty and tenderness of both nature and religion.

I borrowed the "old lady's" Bible, and returned to the sick woman's room. Seating myself by the side of her bed, I told her I did not wish her to talk, for it wearied her. But I wanted she should listen to me without saying a word, only if she did not understand me she might say so, and I would explain myself.

"Can I understand ?" said she (with a look of mingled earnestness and despair).

"Certainly you can. Religion is all simple and easy if one desires to know it; and if you do not understand me, it is my fault, not yours.

"And now, my dear child, listen to me a little while. I will not be long. But first allow me to pray with you for a single minute."

After prayer I took the Bible, and told her it was God's word, given to us to teach us the way to eternal life and happiness beyond the grave—that it taught all I knew, or needed to know about salvation-that though it was a large book and contained many things which might be profitable to her under other circumstances, yet all that she needed to think of just now was embraced in a few ideas, which were easy to be understood, and I wanted her to listen to them and try to understand them.

"I will-sir," said she, "as well-as I can." "Hear what God says then," said I.

"The first thing is that we are sinners." I explained sin. I explained the law which it transgressed, how it is holy, just, and good; and we have broken it because we have not loved the Lord our God with all our heart, and our neighbour as ourselves.

"No, I have-never loved-him," said she.

I dwelt upon our sin as guilt and alienation from God; explained how sinners are worldly, proud, selfish, and read the texts as proofs and explanations—" by the