broken down by unaccustomed hardship, and the last stroke of affliction had, as it were, put the finish to the matter. A slow fever brought her down in a few days to a very skeleton, and there seemed but little hope of her ultimate recovery.

William Oliphant, (for that was her husband's name,) watched day and night by the bedside of his dear Amy: and never left it, except to attend the funeral of his little William. This event took place five days after his death: and affecting was the scene at the grave! The little blue coffin was lowered into it: the father in speechless woe stood at the head; his eyes fixed on the narrow chest that held the remains of his beloved son: while the little boys of the village, collected from curiosity, stood round with childish sorrow depicted on their countenances, as they alternately looked upon the blue coffin and the agonized father.

The solemn words, "Earth to earth, and dust to dust," accompanied by the rattling upon the coffin lid, sunk deep into his heart; and when the service was concluded, and the last spadeful of earth had covered up the narrow tenement from his eyes for ever, he turned round, and with hurried steps retraced his way to the dwelling of the good man. Louis, his now only remaining son, met him at the door, and conducted him straight to the room where his mother lay. The good man was there, conversing with his Amy. Though the hand of death seemed upon her, yet it brought with it none of its fears: for Amy had remembered her Saviour in the day of her prosperity, and he now forsook her not in the dark season of adversity. "William," said she to her husband, as he entered the room, "do you think you can spare me too?" "If it be the Lord's will, Amy:" he answered, "I can do all things, through Christ which strengtheneth me;" but, oh! Amy, must it be? My heart is very, very sad." "I feel," she added, "that I must soon lie down beside my pretty baby and then shall we both rejoice together in glory. Live, then, for the sake of my sweet Louis; and when the grass has grown green upon my grave, weep for me no more, but turn your whole thoughts to him, and bring him up in the fear of his God. I have nothing else delightful now, and what more can he desire, when the last foe shall come upon him? And now, empty world," said she, casting her eyes upwards, "I have settled all with thee now, come, dear Jesus, come quickly." She seemed to gaze stedfastly upon some unseen object; and so vehe. 2D. SERIES, NO. 21.-VOL. II.

:

ment was the desire that sparkled in her eyes, that all involuntarily turned theirs upwards, to see the same: they looked on her again; but her eyes had closedfor eternity had dawned upon them!

It was a clear summer's evening, when the pure spirit took wing: an hour afterwards, Mr. Oliphant entered the parlour where the good man had retired, with his little Louis holding upon his hand, and begged that he would take charge of him for a short time, while he walked out in the cool air, to tranquillize his feelings. He consented to do so; and the bereaved man retired. The sweet boy had scarcely been in the room one minute, ere he burst into an agony of tears. "Where is mamma?" said he, "is she gone for ever, like little Billy?" "No, my love, you will see her again," said the good man, "if you love God: and she is rejoicing now, where little Billy is; she will never be hungry or thirsty again; nothing can vex her now, Louis." "When shall I go to her, then?" asked the child, drying up his tears, "When you die, if you love God," answered the other. "Then I'll die now," said the boy, with an impetuosity in his manner which the good man had not before marked. He renewed his grief; nor did he cease, till, overcome with the fatigues of the day, and the depth of his sorrow, he fell asleep. The good man placed him gently in bed, and anxiously watched for the return of his father.

He kept not his appointment: and his benefactor passed a sleepless night, dreading lest some accident had befallen him; and as soon as the grey light of morning enabled him to see his way, he arose, and left the house in search of him. Several neighbours and servants were despatched in different directions, and it was ascertained on inquiry, that he took the path across the river to the meadows beyond, and was not seen again to return. They all hastened that way; but when they came to the bridge, the truth became quite plain. One of the planks that spanned the smooth deep flood was gone, and with it part of the slender railing. The river was dragged, but in vain; and after several hours' anxiety and search, all hope was given up.

With a heavy heart, musing on this mysteriously afflictive providence, the good man returned to his home, and gazed on the sleeping orphan boy. He awoke; and throwing his arms round the neck of his protector, inquired for his father. "God is your father now, my poor dear child," said he, returning the embrace of the sweet boy, "your father is gone to meet mamma and little Billy, and you must go too, when God

pleases." The child looked frightened, and seemed not to understand him, but called vehemently on his father, till, weary with past weeping and present anxiety, he fainted away. A short time, however, restored him, and his grief gradually became more moderate. The remains of poor Anny were privately interred, lest a renewal of his woe should prove too much for the attenuated frame of Louis; nor did he again recur to the circumstance, till about a month after wards, when the good man took him with a basket of flowers to strew upon her grave.

The little orphan was dressed in a suit of deep mourning; and when thus attired, there was an unspeakable something in his manners, which shewed that his education had not been neglected so much as might have been expected from a common soldier in India. They were returning from this sadly sweet duty, when a poor man, who was in the habit of working on the banks of the river, came up to the good man, and put a pocket-book into his hand, which he said his dog had discovered among the reeds in the river, that morning. Louis instantly recognized it as his father's; and, this seeming to confirm the idea that he had been drowned, from that time, all doubt of his fate vanished.

When the case was opened, it was found to contain but few things; in one of the inner pockets, and uninjured by the water, were found several little papers, each containing a lock of hair, severally inscribed with the names of his father, mother, and three brothers: on the former of these was written in an elegant hand, "Shall I ever see them again?" In another pocket was found a paper, containing so many interesting allusions to the early years of Mr. Oliphant, that the good man treasured it up, as a document that might be of the utmost importance to his orphan charge. Its contents were as follows:

"Shall I ever see you again, beloved parents, dear home, and kindred ties, that have clung to this aching heart, like ivy to the elm? How often have I cursed the day, when, in a fit of anger, I left affluence and honour, and burst all the cords of love, to roam an outcast from the world, over its ungrateful soil! Can I forget the tender love of my parents, the fraternal affection of my brothers, the joys of my lovely home, the stately mansion, wild park, glassy lake, and dark blue mountains? No; when I forget these, may my callous heart cease to beat! May my right hand forget its cunning! Are you gone for ever? Shall I never return to you? Oh! no: I left you without cause, and now I can never revisit you.

It

was, I remember, my nineteenth birth-day, on the day preceding that on which I left my home, and that was the last happy one I spent. Often do I grieve to think what my early follies must cost my sweet Louis, and then I determine to return home, and throw myself upon the mercy of my aged father: but now I have not the means, and, if I had, could I expect forgiveness? Oh! Sophia !-the memory of the loves of our childhood cuts me to the very core of my heart! Did I leave all that I loved, and esteemed, and thee too, and for mean hopes of revenge, that have long been blighted? Hast thou, my beloved, grieved in secret for thy William, lost to thee for ever? And have I, wretch that I am, caused thee pain? Oh! perish, stubborn heart, and let me bury for ever these vain regrets in my bosom! Father of mercies, unto Thee do I commit my only dear son! keep him in the hollow of thy hand, and raise him up, that he may adorn the name of a Christian, when I sleep in death: Into thy hands I commit all that is dear to me; keep them all in mercy against the great day. And now in mine own behalf:-I have sinned, Father, against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. Yet the prodigal found acceptance with thee: turn thou, therefore, O God, look down, behold and visit this heart of mine; give it that peace which the world cannot give; and lead me at last to thy presence, where there is fulness of joy, through the mediation of my blessed Saviour:

Amen."

This interesting document was dated about a year previous, at Calcutta, and bore the signature of William Oliphant.

In searching farther into the pocket-book, the good man found a picture of Louis, taken when he was five years old, and by its side, another small manuscript, which, on opening, proved to be a piece of poetry in the same elegant hand. It was dated at sea, and appeared to have been written about a month after his flight from Scotland. It was as follows:

"Where shall the wretched find
Ease from his sorrow;
Slow on the weary mind

Rises the morrow.
Joy, like a falling star,
Gleams in the river;
Then sinks in the darkness,
To perish for ever.

The war-rousing beacon shines
Far on the mountain;
The hot panting quarry pines
For the cool fountain:

But to me, bonny Scotland seems
Lovelier far,

Than soft-falling waters,

Or glittering star.

Billows roll over me,

Fierce in their motion;
Dark waters cover me,
Deeper than ocean.
Bear me, ye tossing waves,
Back on your breast;
Waft me, ye storms,

To the haven of rest.

When shall the morning light Cease to bring sorrow? When on the weary night

Rises no morrow. Speed, tardy moments, then, Fleet as the wind, Sorrow is with you,

But peace is behind!

There were two other papers; the certificate of his marriage, and a memorandum of Louis's baptism. The good man deposited them all in their places, and locked the pocket-book, as he considered that some time or other, they might be of great consequence to Louis.

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It appeared from the lines transcribed above, that William Oliphant's native place was Scotland; and that he was of a respectable family; which led the good man to hope that Louis might be restored to them; and accordingly he used every method which was available, for their discovery; but it was for a long time unsuccessful.

In the mean while, Louis Oliphant developed more and more of his character, as his familiarity with his protector increased: he was about eight years old; tall for his age; his glossy black hair curled slightly, and parted upon an open high forehead, beneath which shone a pair of eyes of the same colour as his hair; on common occasions these had rather a languishing air than otherwise; but when excited, they could flash like the stricken flint, or shine like the sparkling diamond. With this description, a physiognomist would be content: for to persons accustomed to study the workings of the face of childhood, it is as easy to read the character in the countenance, as if drawn in black and white before them. His temper was generous and ardent; affectionate by nature, and gentle as the lamb; yet when roused, fierce as the lion. Endowed with intellectual powers of more than ordinary strength, their cultivation had not been neglected by the anxious parent. It was plain, that his father, even in his lowest circumstances, had never relinquished his claim to the character of a gentleman; and having inculcated the same notions on the mind of his son, it needed no effort on the part of the latter to put on that courtesy which marks the gentleman, and it was this degree of polish that made his appearance so prepossessing, when in the garb of the lowest poverty.

Under the superintendence of the good man, the education of Louis proceeded

more rapidly than had been customary : and he had inculcated many good lessons upon the mind of his little pupil, and had laid many plans of future good, when one afternoon a carriage drove up to the door of the house, and a middle-aged gentleman alighted. He announced himself by the name of Oliphant: and it appeared that he was now the only remaining uncle of Louis; his father, mother, and two brothers having all died: William Oliphant had been the second son; while James, the present proprietor of the estates, was the fourth and in consequence he held them only in trust for his brother and his heirs : but interested as he was in leaving the whole matter in silence, immediately on receiving the intelligence of his nephew's retreat, he set off, with the intention of carrying him back, and putting him in full possession, when he came of age, of his paternal estates.

After having amply explained all the circumstances of the case, and received in return a full account of the wanderings of his brother, he begged to be allowed to see his nephew. The bell was rung: but it was some time before he made his appearance, and when he did, a dead linnet in his hand, and his eyes brimming with tears, disclosed the cause of his delay. He had just discovered the death of his favourite. As he entered the room, Mr. Oliphant eyed him with a look of piercing interest, and turned deadly pale. He pressed his hand against his forehead, and exclaimed, "Oh! my dear lost brother, it is thy very image !" He recovered himself in a few minutes, and clasped the dear child to his breast.

"It is now," "said he," thirty years ago, that my brother entered the room with tears in his eyes, to tell me that my beloved sister was fled to glory: and he was so like you, my sweet Louis, that the circumstance and all its feelings seemed to revive again."

It would require more than the pencil of painter, poet, or historian, to describe the scene which followed. The pleasure that beamed in the uncle's eyes, at having found his nephew, softened down by "pale grief and pleasing pain,"-the one for the loss of his brother, and the other in the memory of the sorrows of former days; the joy of the good man in witnessing the transports of others, and yet the sorrow which he felt in being called to part with a companion so dear and interesting: and both these far surpassed by the more intense emotions of Louis, who felt that in accompanying his relation, whom in the ardency of his feelings he already loved, he must take leave of

his benefactor, who was dearer to him than he could express and both these feelings intermingling with sacred grief for the memory of his father-all struck with so rude a hand the tender chords in his breast, that it went nigh to break them. He gazed on one, and then on the other, and, turning his eyes again upon his favourite linnet, ran out of the room.

The sorrows of youth, it has been remarked, are soon over; but this is by no means correct in every instance: for there are times when the memory of past joys is interwoven with the affections so closely, that, in tearing them away, it leaves a rent which time heals but slowly. Many changes are rung upon the buoyancy of the spirits of childhood, and the elasticity of the mind of youth. That buoyancy may vanish, and that elasticity be destroyed by sickness of heart; but a home deserted, or a mother lost, will not be forgotten till time has softened the pain down into melancholy pleasure.

"Is that P. ," said Louis to his uncle, as they came in view of a large stone mansion in the valley, having a broad sheet of water before it, and skirted by large trees on the back and sides. "It is," answered the other, "and over those brakes have I many a time bounded with your beloved father, till the setting sun warned us back to our loved home. The last time that I was with him, the day before his final departure, he led me to the top of that wooded knoll to the left, and pointing to the sun, just on the verge of the horizon, "There sets," said he, "the sun of my happiness. It is going;- it is gone: it is all over now, James; and when it rises again, it will tell a new tale; but, oh! shall I ever see you again?"-He turned round, and walked slowly towards the house, and I saw him no more. The next morning, he set off, unseen of us all, and neverre turned again. Louis listened with tears to the anecdotes of his uncle, and looked with rather a timid eye upon the scenes which he pointed out to him. The carriage now drove through the park-gates, and a few minutes brought them to the house-door. The servants crowded out to see their new young master; and one very old woman, supported on a stick, as soon as she caught a sight of him, fainted, and fell into the arms of one of the by-standers. It was the faithful nurse of his father.

father: but for six years he had never seen him.

One afternoon a post-chaise turned the top of the hill, and slowly descended the road that passed by the hall: Louis and his uncle were in a boat upon the lake; but on its turning up the avenue that led to the door of the house, they soon landed, and the former reached it at the same time

as the vehicle. It contained the good

man.

The next morning he walked out with his adopted son, to see and hear all that the Lord had done for him. "Have you been happy, Louis, since you left me," he inquired. "For the first five years," he answered, "I was very happy: but about nine months ago, a circumstance occurred, which has often caused me hours of anguish.

I was walking along this road, by myself, when I met a blind man, of very venerable aspect: as I passed, he turned towards me, and rolling his sightless eyeballs, as though straining them to catch a glimpse of me, he inquired if my name was Louis Oliphant?-I answered that it was: and he immediately added, "Then, young gentleman, I have a message for you." He stood still; and, with an expression of the deepest awe, yet in a tone of majesty, uttered the following words; I fancy I hear them now; and long will they reverberate in my ears.

"Flee from the wrath to come. Hell from beneath is moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming: destruction rides forward on the wings of the wind: the gulf of Tophet is before thee, and Almighty vengeance is behind. By all thy sins, open and secret, I charge thee, Louis Oliphant, prepare to meet thy God. Flee-for the day of vengeance is at hand;-flee, for the tempest rolleth on;-even now the heavens are departing, and the mountains shake: where, oh! where wilt thou hide thee in the day of his anger? Flee from the wrath to come !"

A dizziness came over me, and my brain reeled: how long it was before I came to my senses, I know not: I found myself upon the greensward, and the stranger was just disappearing over the hill-top yonder. I had not the heart to follow him; for I felt frightened and sick but we have never been able to discover him. He was totally unknown to any of the peasantry; nor was he seen by any one but myself. But since that time I have never prayed to my heavenly Father, without a feeling of dread and terror: he is my Judge, and one that cannot pass by iniquity: oh! how shall I

stand before him in the day of his fierce anger?"

The good man turned his eyes to heaven, and said, "I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes. My son, my Louis," he added, "the key of heaven is not a list of good works, but a look of faith. That faith works by love: and love, when it is perfect, casteth out all fear. Think not of the heinousness of your sins, but of Him who washed them all away: think not of the horrors of hell, but remember the loveliness of heaven: think not of an avenging God, but view him as reconciled to you through His Son, and again your Father in heaven: and, lastly, pray for his love shed abroad in your breast: and then there will be no more room for fears.-"Thou God of all grace," added he, again turning to heaven, "look down, visit and dwell in his heart: cast out all his fears renew all his joys: make him to mount up on the wings of the eagles: be Thou his refuge, and put underneath him thine everlasting arms: and finally, when he shall have been faithful unto death, do thou bestow upon him the crown of life, for his Saviour's sake."

"Is all peace, Louis?" said he, after they had walked for some time in silence. "Oh! yes," he answered, "all is peace, perfect peace, now." "Amen," said the other.

Is there any one among my readers inclined to scoff at this? to call Louis a brain-sick enthusiast? one who laughs at religion, trifles at his Maker's frowns, and stifles his conscience, hoping that "all will be well in the end?" In the name of the living God, I say unto him, Consider your ways. Is all well? Are you as ready as you can wish? Have you indeed a lease of life, and afterwards a passport to heaven ? Or after all else has failed, does "God is merciful' set all to rights?" Oh! I beseech you, by all your hopes, here and for ever, lay not that flattering unction to your soul! God is indeed a God of "long-suffering and of great mercy;" but he is One who will by no means clear the guilty." Who can save you? None but Christ-none but Christ-the hope of this brain-sick enthusiast must be yours, or hell must be your portion for ever.

One word to the waverers. The time is short: use then the world, as not abusing it, for the fashion of it passeth away. It is no time to trifle. The die is falling; and life or death hangs upon its issue. Is this a thing to jeer at? Is this enthusiasm?

If so, it is enthusiasm to seek to save our life and they only are truly wise who quietly sit down, and lose it!

Three years after this, it pleased the Lord to stretch Louis upon a sick bed. At first there was no danger, but several relapses, and a high degree of fever, reduced him very low, so that the medical attendant began to entertain some fears of the result. Louis earnestly requested that the good man might be apprized of his illness; his wish was complied with, and in four days he was by the bed-side of his adopted child. He gazed upon him for a few minutes with indescribable emotion, and then said, "You will soon see them all again, Louis !" "Yes, dear sir," answered he; “and where they are gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. I am bound upon my last journey, and that is my journey home.-Home, sweet home,— where there are pleasures for evermore.' "I think, my dear son," said the good man, "your time here is short: are you sure that all is right? Have you no other trust than Christ?" "Oh! no," he returned, his voice faltering as he spoke, "where can a sinner look for hope, but to him? He in whom I have believed, will not leave me in the day of my death, but assuredly carry me through the black flowing river."

"

Four days more, and the sand of life had ceased to run. That day week he was buried in the village kirk-yard. All his own tenantry, and the poor of his parish, followed him to his grave: and "they were real mourners."-He lies buried about six feet to the south of the kirk of Pis his memory yet perished; the villagers still point out the resting-place of the "blessed Mr. Oliphant."

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The good man returned home a few days after the funeral: perhaps the reader may wish to know his name; but I will not repeat it for angels have borne it in their songs to heaven, and my unworthy hand shall never bring it back to earth again. It is several years since he entered into his rest but "the good man" will not be forgotten, till time has swept away another generation from the face of the earth.

It was about a week after the funeral of Louis Oliphant, that an old man, evidently more broken, however, by the weight of cares than of years, entered the village, and with slow step moved towards the kirkyard. He entered it: a young man, who had just been paying a visit to the grave of his deceased parent, was returning, when he met him, and, with the respect due from youth to age, wished him a good