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accompanied by a few friends, I visited the lowly abode of the dying believer, to administer this token of her faith and instrument of her consolation. Her wasted form was supported by pillows on the low bed. Her wan cheek was flushed slightly with the excitement of expectation, and her eye lighted up with a peculiar and animated lustre. Her trembling daughter stood over her, and the silent company gazed with sympathy and admiration, till the holy service commenced; and then I trust that all hearts were absorbed in the act of devotion. It was a poor hovel, and a passenger might have cast upon it a look of compassion and disgust, at the wretchedness which must inhabit it. But the scene that was transacting within, where faith and patience were serenely waiting the summons of death, and religious friendship was kneeling around the couch as an altar, and presenting supplications in the name of Him who died for man, —this was a scene at which it was a privilege to be present, and which more than changed the cottage to a palace. The whole soul of the dying Christian seemed collected in her countenance. It seized upon and responded to every expression of faith, penitence, gratitude, and hope. And when the service was closed, and she sunk back exhausted, we gazed upon it as it had been the face of an angel. She said with a faint smile, "Now I can depart in peace;" and before the smile had faded from her cheek, death set its seal there forever.
HOW TO SPEND HOLY TIME.
ONE can hardly picture to himself a more grateful scene than is presented by the close of Saturday afternoon in the country. Every thing seems to indicate satisfaction at approaching repose. The laborers, as they return to their homes, bearing the implements of toil, and attended by their cattle, carry, in their very movements, signs of pleasure that their toils are ended. The weary oxen, as they step sluggishly along, appear conscious of their weekly respite; and the softening light of the west sympathizes with the feelings of the sentient creation. As one looks upon such a rural scene at the close of a bright summer's day, while the increasing stillness intimates that it begins to draw toward the first day of the week, he may well be reminded of Southey's beautiful description of the "holy night,”
"When all created things know and adore
The Power that made them; insects, beasts, and birds,
Yea, earth and ocean, and the infinite heaven
With all its worlds. * * * The prayer
Flows from the righteous with intenser love,
* Thalaba, IX.