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and costly furniture of the rich ? No, they only mock
" Edward, this is profane, it is mocking religion."
"Religion ! what is it? a creed, a thing for the rich man-it is nought to the poor."
Shame, shame, but this does not come from your heart, that heart is only soured, not sealed against conviction, Edward, you have appealed to man, you have yet to appeal to heaven!”
" To heaven, would you have me pray—for I have prayed, and all have forsaken, all shunned me, but—but you."
“ I am your wife-a true wife never forsakes her husband, no, not even in his hours of crime and guilt, but you are not guilty, you, Edward, are only unfortunate." " And would you have me pray ?"
Prayer is the key to unlock the gates of heaven.” “Say you so-do you believe in the efficacy of prayer ?" Yes, for listen what the Psalmist says:
Call upon me in the day of trouble. »
" Think you—think you, that he would hear a sinful man's prayer ?"'*
“ The good have no need to pray."
“My sins were disobedience, and ingratitude, disobedience to a parent, and ingratitude to those whom I should have loved and respected. You have reformed me, but, but-I have not prayed since a father's curse followed me from the home of my youth. Do you think, dear wife, that the Lord would hear us, in this our hour of misery ?"
“I cried unto the Lord with my voice and he heard me out of the Holy hill.”
* Matt. vii. 7.
for me you
“ Anna, let us kneel together—my offence was not sinful, I could not marry her.” “And you wedded me against a father's wishes, and it is
suffer.” “No, no-kneel beside me, and let us “call upon him in the day of trouble.' "
They knelt down and long, deep, and fervent was that prayer. Hark! a knock-a voice. The door was opened and
“On Thee they wait, on Thee depend.”
Again we conduct the reader to the chamber of the sick man. His pale sunken cheek, and wandering eye told the gazer that but a few short moments yet remained of his wretched existence.
“ Richard,” he muttered, “where have you been for the last twenty-four hours? Am I to die alone? Richard, did that letter
sase ?" Yes, sir, it did."
Then, why don't he come? - I thought he was dead. Well-well, I turned him out of my house--the home of his childhood — a spot most dear, as it ever should be, to youth ; I turned him away from all the associations of his boyhood --I-I— Yes! I drove him from his mother's grave—and I, I cursed him—him, my boy! Shut the window, Richard ; the pale light of the setting surf is too pure to shine upon my expiring rays. Shut it out; let me go out of the world in darkness and gloom-it is fit I should and yet, Richard, come nearer. I have prayed—aye, Sarah advised me to prayer—I did—and I felt relieved— I prayed
for my boy-all seemed to have been granted me, except that — and I have dreamt too — Richard, you saw him, did you, my poor heart-broken, sinless boy, whose father cursed him ?"
66 I did see him, sir."
Richard, give me me your hand; that accounts for your long absence. Well, what did you say ? Speak, Richard—"
** I told him how you suffered, and how sick you were.” 6 Well-"
“ He, sir, had been praying — praying beside his young and beautiful wife. Just as I entered the room, they rose up from their knees, and tears were trickling down their cheeks."
“ Poor souls--poor souls--and all this is my work. So they will not come--well--well !"
“ You wrong him, sir--he will come—she will come.”
“ Will come, my much wronged boy, my heir—my 0–Richard, this is joy-joy—I will live, Richard-yes, I will live-a few hours longer-joy will give me strength-"
“Be calm, sir-he is—". “Speak, Richard" “ Here.”
“ Father—" exclaimed Edward, rushing in—"pardonpardon !"
“Pardon! you ask that from me? No, Edward; it is for the son to pardon the father. Oh! my child, I have suffered for my cruel and unnatural conduct! The pale image of your mother has haunted me nightly; and though no voice uttered the bitter words of the past, yet were those looks, presented to me in dreams, daggers to my soul; and then again, I have seen you in frightful poverty struggling, an outcast and a wanderer. Heavenly Father, how have I offended thee!"
“Oh! my dear father, do not talk thus; all is forgottenall forgiven! Let us pray, my father-I prayed last nightI know now, that prayer is the angel of mercy !"
“And I prayed last night—and my heart was relieved. Now I am content-kneel, my boy--and let us ask forgiveness of Him who alone has the power to grant it.”
The son knelt down by the bedside of his dying father, and in a prayer which came up from the silent, though pure sources of the heart, he called upon that being whose outstretched arms reach the furthermost corners of the earth, for aid and comfort to a repentant sinner. The eyes of the dying man brightened up: a son —an ill-used son—was praying for him. That appeal to the throne of mercy, offered up in the lone chamber, had its effect; the eyes of the parent became still : they wandered and rolled no more in a sea of fear and of doubt; all was calm—a smile passed over his pallid features—he grasped the hand of his boy, and uttered feebly the words : “ Bless you ! bless you !" Thus a good man's prayer will from the deepest dungeons of grief climb to heaven's height, and bring a blessing down.
“ Bless you, my child; bless you! I leave you richrich; use it well—use it, my son, like a Christian. You are married—Heaven bless your bride. Ah! what angel is that? Nearer, my daughter-indeed, Edward, she is beautiful. Can you, daughter, forgive me?"
“Oh! sir, speak not of forgiveness—we are all happy now-prayer has made us so." “ True: in prayer there is hope. Richard, open
that window, let the light of the setting sun shine on me now I could not bear it before—it was too pure, too holy. Ah! how refreshing is that breeze! See the long streaks of light pouring down yon mountain ; my life will pass away with
them—we will go down into the darkness of the gether. Farewell, my children—your hands—the light goes out-1-1-"
" Father! dear father!"
The old man essayed to speak-but the words died with him-life and light went out together. All was dark.
"DARK DAYS OF PHILADELPHIA."
A TALE OF THE YELLOW FEVER OF 1793.
THE PAST-AN EPISODE.
The past! The very word conjures up a buried world, cities, towns and villages, lakes and rivers, old schoolhouses, old churches, old graveyards, familiar forms, and tales of blood and strife. Grave-yards-mouldering tombsthese tell tales of the past, point us back to dates, and, although their pencilled marks are dimmed with age, still, like the old Mortality of Walter Scott's creation, the grayheaded sexton revives them by a word. Breathe but the past, and the charnel houses yield up their inmates--they step out upon the greensward and point their skeleton fingers to each and every page in their histories. Touch the tomb of the murderer, the man of unrepented crimes, uncancelled deeds, and they glide past you in a sea of blood !