Sudden death.

dispensations were ordered in mercy-they were intended by a merciful Heaven to sanctify and save. Affliction is good for me. So deeply am I convinced of this, that I look with suspicion and fear upon every anticipated prospect of earthly happiness. Yes, sorrow is the better path for me while I remain in this sinful world; and when I leave it, I trust, through the boundless mercy of a crucified Redeemer, to participate in the unending joys of heaven."

These last words were uttered with such an unearthly accent, that her friend turned to look at her. An ashy paleness suddenly came over her countenance. It was the paleness of death! A blood vessel had been suddenly ruptured; and in a few fleeting moments she was in eternity, furnishing another melancholy proof, that "in the midst of life we are in death."

It was over the graves of this family that I stood and meditated long upon the instability and emptiness of earth, contrasting its perishing vanities with the enduring realities of heaven, which are the purchase of Christ, and will be the inheritance of his people. Reader, may divine grace make thee one of those people, and bring both thee and the writer of these pages at last "unto the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem," to join "the general assembly and church of the first-born which are written in heaven."

ONE WHOSE RECORD IS ON HIGH.

CHAPTER I.

DISCOURSE

BY THE WAY.

"Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard!
And that deep soul of gentleness and power,
Have we not felt its breath in every word,

Wont from thy lips, as Hermon's dew, to shower!
Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd,
Of heaven they were, and thither are return'd."

MRS. HEMANS.

SEVERAL years since it was my privilege to travel a few days in company with a clerical friend, whose conversation not only beguiled the way of its tediousness, but imparted much material for thought, and left impressions of scenes and incidents that time will probably never efface. We travelled in our own private carriage, which was a onehorse vehicle, and designed to accommodate merely two persons. Thus we had no one to disturb or interrupt our conversation as we passed along the road, with the blue sky stretching over our heads, and the broad earth with all its variegated scenes spreading out before us. We moved on at a pace just rapid enough to produce that intellectual excitement which is favourable to conversation-that brisk circulation of ideas, which does not exhaust, but rather refreshes the mind, and awakens a succession of pleasurable emotions. Every thing around us seemed to conspire

A country scene in Autumn.

to give interest to the scene. It was late in autumn, though the weather still continued fine, and the roads excellent. The day to which I particularly refer, we were passing through a very rough and rocky country. The lands that lay directly on the road seemed to be covered with a second growth of wood, which for many miles gave to our route the appearance of a journey through the wilderness. This young forest, however, was frequently broken by intervening spaces of cultivated land, where the proofs of a hard and rocky soil were brought out distinctly to view.

The frost had changed the colour of the foliage, and imparted to it every variety of hue. The leaves had just begun to fall, and strew the ground with the relics of their faded glory. All nature seemed sedate and sober, and yet cheerful. The air was clear and invigorating, and yet bland and balmy. The sky was not darkened with a single cloud, and the sun was moving on with its wonted majesty, pouring over earth and heaven floods of glowing brilliancy. It was one of autumn's finest, sweetest, loveliest days. My friend and fellow traveller felt the pervading influence of the surrounding scene, and I encouraged him to give utterance to the glowing thoughts and burning emotions that had been kindled up within. Some incidental circumstance, by the power of association, brought to his recollection the memory of one who seemed to have shared largely his affections, and whom he emphatically described as ONE WHOSE RECORD IS ON HIGH. The sketch that follows, lineating some traits in his character, will be merely the rehearsal of the remarks of my friend. The reader, thérefore, must regard this clerical friend as speaking in his own person in all that follows, and the author as merely performing the part of an amanuensis.

de

There is a melancholy, yet sweet and holy satisfaction arising from a visit to the grave of a dear friend. Often have I stole away from the habitations of the living, and

The power of association.

gone and sat down alone on the grave of my mother, and communed with that silent dust, that was once moulded into symmetry, a living, breathing form, animated with looks of kindness and love, and the dwelling place of an immortal mind. And as I have sat there, and thought of the dust that slept beneath those sods, how have all the scenes of the past come up before me ! No portrait of that dear countenance and loved form, however accurate, could have called up to my mind more numerous associations connected with childhood's sunny hour, than did that silent, grasscovered grave on which I sat. In my visits to that hallowed spot, over which bends the stooping top of a large weeping willow, often have I thought of those lines of the affectionate Cowper, and repeated them there with my hand upon my heart, as I stood over that dear grave.

In my heart........" the record fair,

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestow'd,

By thine own hand, till fresh they shone, and glow'd;

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age."

I have adverted to this fact, the power which the mere vicinity of the slumbering dust of those we love has to call up past recollections, to remark, that feelings not unlike these are awakened when we enter a dwelling, and sit down in a room, where we have often met a dear friend, now no more. How at such a moment does the recollec

A lovely village.

tion of all that passed there, come up in vivid pictures before the mind! We seem to see again the eye that sparkled with intelligence-the countenance that was radiant with benevolence, and animated with glowing thought, and the whole assemblage of objects that then clustered around us, but have since passed away. We seem to hear again the tones of that voice, and the various thrilling notes of that conversation to which we once listened with so much profit and delight. Memory, aided by the power of such associations, enables us to live over the past—and to receive instruction from voices long since silent in the grave.

A few years since I passed through a sweet village, in reference to which I might have adopted the language of Goldsmith, and said,

"Loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm."-

At the time to which I refer, there was no spot in that village, that in my view possessed such a charm, as the rectory-the loved habitation in which he dwelt of whom I have said-HIS RECORD IS ON HIGH. I knew before I entered this dwelling that it was no longer inhabited by the family I had been accustomed to meet there. Still I desired to sit once more in that parlour-to walk once more across the floor of that study-to look out once more from that window upon the silvery lake, and the village green. As I entered the house, every thing reminded me of the change that had taken place. Although the countenances of those who met me were bright and cheerful, and expressive of a kind and cordial reception, I felt sad; for I