I have sat on a tombstone in the grey of the morning, ere yet the rising sun had gilded the weathercock on the spire: I have mused on the shadowy side of the chancel in mid-day: I have peeped at the marble knights on the old monuments in the church, through the windows, when the glittering glass seemed on fire with the beams of the setting sun; and I have silently paced along the narrow path from the little white gate towards the belfry, at the midnight hour, when my footfall was the only sound that met my ear: and in all these seasons have felt an awful interest, a strange delight. I know not whether I make myself intelligible: that which yields pleasure to one, often gives pain to another; but if you are fond of a churchyard, you will understand me. The grave is an awful thing to us all, especially when we cannot look beyond it; but when we can, its gloom is soon lighted up with glory.

The inscriptions that are scattered about on the different tombstones, appear to be clothed with more meaning and power than in other place we read the same text with unconcern in the Scriptures, that strikes our hearts with sudden emotion when pondering on it over the grave. Never shall I forget once in a churchyard coming up to an old grave-stone, at a time when my

heart was almost fainting within me, about an undertaking I had in hand. The words that were written there seemed as if they had been just graven by the hand of the High and Holy One, and sent down from heaven to catch the eye, and strengthen the heart of Old Humphrey. They were from the first chapter of the book of Joshua, and acted as a cordial to my mind:-"Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest."

I love to read the epitaphs of older and better men than myself, who have passed before me along the thorny path-way of this world's pilgrimage, who have finished their course with joy, and found the end to be eternal life; for often in such seasons I find, before I am aware, that my tongue has begun to speak the desires of my heart:-"Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."

Have you never sat under the hollow yew-tree in a churchyard; nor stood leaning against the old time-worn sun-dial; nor mused on the new brier-bound grave? If you have never done these things, I am afraid that my words will pass by you like "the idle wind that you regard not." Sometimes the dead are sadly bespattered with

praise, and this is to be regretted; for if God, in his mercy, has taught us any thing of our own hearts, we know that our sinful nature has nothing to boast of; and if he has taught us in addition any thing of his grace, we shall be ready "Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name be the glory."

to say,

It seems out of character to write words of flattery over the resting-place of sinful dust and ashes but let us not be severe, let us make allowances; sorrow has more affection than judgment, and we all set a high value on the friends we have lost.

Many a beautiful epitaph have I read, as well as many an absurd one, both in verse and in prose; but it has ever appeared to me, that texts from the Scriptures are the most suitable inscriptions for the monuments of the dead. If there be any thing in the character of a fellow-sinner, whose dust has been laid in the grave, likely to do good by way of example, it may be well to record it in a simple manner; but I like to see a text on a tombstone; and though I have read inscribed there a hundred times over, "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord," Rev. xiv. 13, yet the words affect my mind more profitably, and send me away with a deeper and more abiding sense of the realities of an eternal world, than

the finest inscription on the fairest monument in Westminster Abbey,

I once read, on a tablet, raised over the remains of a faithful minister of the gospel, a glorious epitaph. It described the man to the life, and the sanctified effect of his labours, in the following words, taken from the eleventh chapter of the Acts of the Apostles :-" He was a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost, and of faith: and much people was added unto the Lord."

Enough now has been said about epitaphs; for perhaps you may not be so fond of churchyards and tombstones as I am; however this may be, we shall each of us do well to put up the prayer, "Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is; that I may know how frail I am. Behold, thou hast made my days as a handbreadth, and mine age is as nothing before thee: verily every man at his best state is altogether vanity," Psa. xxxix. 4, 5.

ON QUIET CHRISTIANS.

OH, how I love a quiet Christian! There must be men of energy and ardour; men zealous enough to undertake and carry on what more timid and retired spirits are unequal to, but there is something very pleasant and wondrously influential in a quiet Christian.

Do you ever meet with disciples of Christ of this kind, who make no bustle about their profession, but set it forth in their daily walk and behaviour? Men, whose very appearance is a text, and whose lives are profitable sermons. My old friend Nathaniel is one of this kind; you never find him making a speech at a public meeting, nor hurrying along, neck or nothing, to attend a popular preacher. You never see his name at the head of a subscription list, nor hear his voice in a controversy. These things are out of his way; and yet if I were called upon to point out a truly God-fearing man, a devoted servant of Christ, I would put my hand on his shoulder,