ment which shall be past upon it, most truly described by the poet, when he exclaims,

"What is all righteousness that men devise?
What but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne."

While engaged in the interesting exercises of his academical course, and in the prosecution of his plans of usefulness, he was called to sustain a painful trial in the death of his youngest brother. Nothing of this kind had before occurred within his knowledge, in the family. He was suddenly summoned to Perth; and after spending a few days by the dying bed of his brother, and endeavouring to interest his mind in religion, he returned to St. Andrew's, as the nature of the complaint left it very uncertain how long his brother might continue. On being informed of his death, he wrote to his father and mother as follows:

"St. Andrew's, January 17, 1825.

My dear parents,

It is a remark which I have somewhere heard, that God tries to bring us to himself by mercies i but if this has not the effect he makes use of trials. Like the affectionate father of rebellious and disobedient children,-he tries to win us by

love; and it is only our own obstinate perseverance in our own ways which forces him to use the rod. It is true that our very afflictions are signs of God's love towards us; for "whom he loveth he chasteneth."

But it is equally true that they are signs of his displeasure. We, as a family, have long been favoured with every blessing; and it becomes us to ask, if we have been as grateful and as obedient as became the children of so

many mercies. A serious review of the past, will make us wonder that our Father has been so long-suffering; that he has withheld his chastening hand so long. It becomes us, then, to repent of our unthankful and repining disposition, and to humble ourselves under the mighty hand of God.

It is a joyful thing that, in the time of affliction, God does not hide his face from us, nor remove us far from him. But it is the But it is the very end of all our trials to bring us to himself; by drying up our channels of happiness, to lead us to the spring from whence those channels were supplied; by breaking the cisterns which we have hewed out for ourselves, to lead us to the fountain of living waters.

I think I may say, "It has been good for me to be afflicted;" it has driven me to the Bible, and to a throne of grace, as the only consolations; and never did the truths of the gospel appear more precious. My christian friends here have been very attentive to me, and seem to have sympathized with me in earnest.

This is certainly a warning to each of us, to be also ready; a solemn exhortation to be active in the cause of Christ; and whatever our hand finds to do, to do it with all our might: knowing that there is no knowledge nor device in the grave whither we are fast hastening.

I am anxious to know what impression this solemn event has made on the minds of my yet remaining brother and sister. Death can sometimes affect the soul which has been unmoved by the most solemn admonitions, and the most impressive eloquence. I am very sorry that it is out of my power at present to write to them.

The ways of God are very mysterious. Had I been here during the Christmas holidays, I could, in all probability, have got a situation which would have enabled me to support myself, and even, in a year or two, to have given you some assistance. It was a situation as tutor in a very pious family in England. I had been recommended as a fit person for the place; but as it had to be occupied immediately it was given to another, who is there by this time. From all the accounts I got of it, it seemed to be a place where I could have been very happy; and I could not help feeling disappointed. But it is a happiness to think that it is a gracious Father that overrules all things; and that he does all things well.

Your very affectionate son.

P. S. Give me a more full account of the

latter part of my poor brother's illness."

Shortly after this he wrote me a long letter, partly on the same subject, and partly giving me an account of various affairs then transacting in St. Andrew's, which he knew would interest me.

"St. Andrew's, February 18, 1825.

My dear sir,

I am really quite ashamed that I have not sent you a letter long before now. I intended writing by Dr. R, when I sent up the catalogue of your library; but it occurred to me that at such an early period of your new settlement, when you must have been so much occupied with the bustle and the confusion attending such an event, it would have been altogether out of place for me to trouble you with a letter. It is now a month or two since my father informed me in one of his letters, that he had heard from you, and that you had kindly expressed a wish that I would write to you from St. Andrew's. I really have no proper excuse for delaying so long; suffice it to say that this is not the first time I have sat down to address you; and that I might fill my sheet to no purpose, in telling how often I have taken up the pen, and what circumstances have hitherto prevented me from finishing my letter. You have, in all probability, heard before now, that death has at last entered our family, and has snatched away the youngest and healthiest of us all. Poor Henry had thought himself dying from the first day he took to his bed, and had expressed a great

desire that I should be sent for. My father accordingly sent for me; and on my arrival at home, I found my brother in a state of very great agony, and quite unable to converse with me. I was anxious to speak to him about that world whither he was evidently fast hastening; but so excruciating was his pain, that he could not listen. I can remember when I asked him, after he had been violently crying out from the pain in his head, what was the cause of all his suffering, how expressively he answered, that it was sin. And at another time, on asking him if he was afraid to die, he told me, no. But these short answers were all I could obtain from him; the painful nature of his distress did not permit longer conversation. After staying at home about a week, I found that I was waiting for a change which might yet be far distant; and that I was losing my own time without being able to render any service to

my

brother. I therefore resolved to return; but I think I shall never forget the bitterness of that parting. I felt far more then, than when I heard afterwards, that my brother was gone. Henry begged of me not to go away, and my mother with tears entreated me to remain; but I thought it my duty to leave them; and in the issue it has proved much better that I did so; for my brother lingered for weeks after. I cannot say whether I was more depressed or relieved by the letter which brought the tidings of his death. I rejoiced to think that his body was freed from very exquisite suffering; but with regard to his soul all was