carriages, and the sad stillness with which every movement was marked was typical of that grave to which each was hastening. The only thing which broke the silence was the howl of the faithful dog, uttering his wild lament for the loss of his mistress. There is something exquisitely touching in the affectionate gratitude of the dog. Such was the case on the present occasion. Many a cotter, while the tear trickled down his cheek, exclaimed," Poor Dash! She was a good lady!"

The procession moved on towards the antique church, until met by the venerable minister of the parish: he was a man of letters, gravity, kindness and years; and though differing in some points of doctrine with the deceased, they had ever cherished towards each other an intimacy, more than the mere fleeting friendship of the world can afford-the friendship of the faithful. They looked on each other as travelling to the same heaven, though by a different tract. It was evident that, in consigning to the grave this friend, he was performing more than an ordinary duty. His voice faltered, and the tear of sorrow glistened for a moment in his dimming eye, then bedewed his furrowed cheek. "I am the Resurrection and the Life," &c. was in the sonorous tone of age borne on the gentle zephyrs of evening to every ear. Never did the word of God appear so singularly grand and consolatory as at this moment, consigning to the tomb the remains of one endearedof one who had "died in Jesus," with the assurance of God, that she should rise, and with her all the finally just.

Had the Christian religion no other charm than that of cheering the dark passage to the tomb with the prospect of a bright and glorified resurrection, it would be enough to commend it to the attention of the sons of philosophy, as well as to the more simple children of nature.

At the grave's mouth the mourners gathered, the crowds prest on every hand, the man of God proceeded with his dignified ritual, until "dust to dust," &c., accompanied by the fall of the earth on the coffin, fell upon the ear. At that moment, a faint shriek broke from its prison house. It was from the distressed Marie, who was unable longer to repress her agonized feelings. She was borne or rather torn from the spot, which was soon left to its accustomed stillness and awe.

In a few days, Marie left the abode, which had ever been the residence of peace and happiness, which had now however become the habitation of every painful emotion. It was on a fine October morning, when the remnant of the family, standing on the rustic bridge, took a last glimpse of all that was dear to them. There is something indescribably painful in such an act. The past connects itself with the future, the chequered scenes of which appear in formidable array.

Who does not remember the deep feelings of sorrow which arose in his mind when he separated himself from his father's house, to enter upon the busy scenes and conflicts of life? Yet in such a case the idea of returning, and enjoying the society of early friends, deprives the grief of much of its poignancy; but in the instance of Marie, no such fond hope could hover o'er the future; hence her sorrow was proportionably greater. As she cast her eye around, she spoke not a word, she shed not a tear, until she had feasted her vision with retracing spots familiarized by the advice, smiles, and kindness of her mother and friends. Then turning to the sleeping place of the dead, she burst into tears, and exclaimed, " O Father, be thou the guide of my youth."

The carriage was ready, she hurried to it, and soon it bore her, amid the tears and blessings of the simple villagers, to visit other and less congenial scenes than those on which she had just gazed.

Her destination was the metropolis, at which, when she arrived, her religious principles were put to a severe test; for she was introduced

to the family of a relative not only distinguished for gaiety, but likewise pre-eminent for kindness and polished manners. Sin never appears so deceptive as when the otherwise amiable, give it their countenance : under such protection, it is especially so to the young and ingenuous mind. Such a mind was that of Marie; when the theatre and the ball were first proposed, she staggered, but she did not forget the throne of grace; she likewise solicited the advice of the minister under these, to her novel and trying, circumstances. In his letter he advised a stern and unbending adher_ ence to religious principle as the only safeguard to the soul, quoting, as illus trious examples, Joseph, Daniel, and Paul, and urging her, if at all consistent with the rules of courtesy, to remove from the scene of temptation. With this advice she felt it her duty to comply. By the kind arrangements of Providence she was enabled to take up her abode for a time with a relative who professed the gospel, and whose life was a living epistle known and read of men. Under the tutorage of so excellent a guide, Marie endeavoured to rise above her sorrow by engaging in acts of Christian benevolence. Her own trials had peculiarly fitted her to visit the abodes of bereavement and affliction; added to which, a slight knowledge of medicine enabled her at once to attend to the physical and mental ailments of the objects of her solicitude. She became, if possible, more beloved in her present than in her former sphere of usefulness, for to all her natural amiability of disposition religion had now added its additional charm. Instead of the laugh of giddy mirth, the faint smile arising from inward joy played on her cheek; and in addition to judicious temporal advice she added the higher consolations of "the fraternity of love."

While engaged in these acts of evangelical charity, her mind was led to reflect on a subject of the highest import, viz. a public profession of her attachment to Jesus Christ. After a correspondence with her former minister, as well as with her present religious instructor-after much anxious solicitude and prayer, she determined to enter the pale of the "communion of saints.' She thus cast in her lot with the people of God, and gave the best evidence of the sincerity of her profession by an act of decision, expressly demanded by Christ, "Do this in remembrance of me." The parents of Marie had been from principle attracted to that section of the Christian church designated Baptist, and, never having given such evidence of piety as they deemed essential to her baptism, she had never obtained that initiation into the Christian profession. Her mind from early feeling and education had a natural bias toward the reception of this rite by immersion; added to which, her good guide was connected with Christians. of that persuasion. Under such circumstances she determined to enter “the watery tomb," and "be buried with Christ in Baptism."

66

The night was fixed for this important act. There is something very solemn and interesting in the introduction of a young Christian into the flock of Christ; a variety of feelings are called into exercise-joy, fear, hope, love, all combine with prayer. Such were the feelings excited in the breasts of many, when one so young and beautiful, and on whose cheek pale consumption, joined with sorrow, sat playing its destroying gambols, descended to the narrow sea, which was the emblem of her separation from a guilty world; while as she rose from its troubled waters, she appeared as a being of another world," about to arise to dwell with God and his saints, in the im mortalities of the just. Let us now leave her to that retirement which she sought after an act so solemn, and retire ourselves from that world of strife and affliction with which we are daily called to contend. In the secresy of the closet, let us ask, Have I been bereaved of a parent, a child, or a friend? If so, has it elicited from me those confessions of guilty negligence, that contrition of soul, that adherence to religious principles, that decision for Christ, which marked the conduct of the orphan Marie ?

There is a melancholy pleasure in visiting the dormitory of the dead. Perhaps the feeling which it induces is the most suitable that can occupy the mind of a rational and immortal being destined for eternity. To walk among the tombs of those who but a few years or months past had mingled their converse with yours, joined in your pleasures, and sympathized in your trials; or to tread upon the grave of an enemy, to gaze on the green sward that covers the remains of a child, or the ashes of a partner or pa rent;-such a work is fraught with instruction often more searching than the appeals of the living voice. The silence, which is only broken by the breeze rustling through the elm grove, or whistling through the belfry of the church, seems to say, "The wise, the proud, the reverend head, must lie as low as these." Such was the scene which Pastor often delighted to contemplate, that his mind might be fully impressed with his own mortality, and hence better adapted to stand between the living and dead, in his sacred ministrations. While engaged in this solemn employ, on a fine autumnal evening, the attention of Pastor was arrested by a sight of singular interest. The tomb of our departed friend was situated by the side of an elm grove, which encircled the cemetery. It was a green sward tomb, enclosed with a neat iron palisade: the cottagers, out of respect to her memory, had attended with scrupulous care to the little mound: they had planted at the foot a small white and red rose, and at the head a myrtle bush, while around the railing, some wild plant had entwined its tendrils, giving to the whole a neatness seldom equalled. The simple inscription on the tombstone, adding an air of piety to the whole," The memory of the just is blessed," appeared to exhibit in death the living excellencies of the deceased, simplicity and peace.

The shades of evening were just shedding their dark hues on the scene, when Pastor perceived a female figure approaching the tomb in a meditative mood. In the glimmer of twilight he was only able to discern that she was in mournful costume: still he more than suspected that it must be Marie; yet the distance to which she had removed, the time of day, and his not being aware of her intention to visit the scenes of youth, all conspired to negative the supposition. It might be a delusion, however the figure approached until it reached the tomb; then kneeling by its side, and gently turning the tendrils of the jessamine, read "the name endeared," and gazed intensely on the neatness and elegance, with which rustic kindness had adorned the sleeping place of her parent.

She clasped her hands, and lifted up her eyes to heaven in the attitude of prayer, while her faltering voice gave at intervals expression to feelings of sorrow, mingled with resignation, and thanksgiving with supplication. As she arose, Pastor approached;-her pale features for an instant were suffused with blushes, under a consciousness that she had been seen in her act of filial piety. She soon, however, recovered her calm deportment and self-command, when Pastor expressed his pleasureable surprise at seeing her once more, and especially with fortitude sufficient to engage in such an act as the one in which she had been employed.

"I have long desired to pay this visit, but my health would not admit. I fear," she replied, "that you will condemn that act as an act of idolatry." "No," said the Pastor, "that which has received the sanction of the great High Priest of our profession' can never be condemned by his servants. He commended the practice in one who went to the grave to weep, and he wept and prayed there himself; and I could not but think, while you were kneeling at the tomb, that if Jesus did take cognizance of one act of piety more than another, it must be the sight of a pious child bending over the grave of her parent, and offering up her thanksgiving and prayers."

Feeling," said Marie, "prompted me to the act, yet conscience was not willing to comply, fearful lest that which in itself was harmless might be resolved into sin, by an immoderate indulgence in sorrow, as those without hope.'

While in the midst of this converse, the following incident occur red. "It is Miss," said a sweet little cherub of a girl, interrupting the converse-"it is Miss!" she added with greater emphasis,bounding forward with child-like simplicity and ingenuousness, "O Alfred said you would never come back, but I said you would:" then looking her in the face, she said, "Have you brought me a doll, and Alfred a drum? But you have not kissed me yet," said the little prattler, "and every one kisses Marie; you used to kiss me, and tell me you loved me. Do you now?" she said, looking up intensely with a pair of arch black eyes. Marie clasped her in her arms, and imprinted a string of kisses on her dimpled cheek. "But what, my child," said Pastor, "brought you here at this hour ?” « Oh,’' she replied, "Alfred often comes to bring flowers for the grave, and I lost Alfred; but," she said, peering around one of the trees, and pointing, "I dare say he is there." Immediately a fine little fellow came laughing, skipping towards them; he started back, however, when he saw the stranger lady, but recognizing in her Marie, forgetful of ceremony, he threw his arms around her, kissed her hand, and wept. His tears were soon dried, and he said, "O how happy shall we be, how pleased mamma will be, and papa, and David, and all the people, and Mr. Davidson-won't they, Mr. Christian?" he said to the minister. "Yes, yes, my dear boy; but we must return, for it is late, and your mamma will be alarmed."

"Happy childhood," said Marie, "how few thy cares, how short-lived thy sorrows, and how sweet thy joys; how few thy wants, and how quickly satisfied, and yet it is maturer life in miniature; a succession of sun-shine and cloud, of sorrow and joy, the former forgotten in the enjoyment of the latter, and the latter tinging the darker shades with its brighter hues, and yet who wishes to be a child again? for if a child of God, each hour we live brings us but nearer to our heavenly rest, where each shall be

"No more a stranger or a guest,

But like a child at home."

[To be continued.]

III-Chapter of Varieties.

1.-COLERIDGE'S LETTER TO HIS GOD-CHILD.

In all the great changes which have passed over the face of society, we find that the first, or the transition stage, as it is sometimes called, is marked by an unsettling of public opinion, and that the extent to which this spreads most generally determines the strength and permanency of the revolution that ensues. It is because every avenue to the public mind has been jealously barred and guarded, that Spain and Italy lag behind the rest of Europe; it is to the comparative facility of communicating with masses of people, that England owes her superiority over Hindustan. Here empire after empire has arisen and fallen to pieces, leaving society in nearly the same state as it was 1000 years ago; and if India at last begins to derive benefits from the British sway, it is not because our armies have swept over her, but because our knowledge and our religion are slowly

J

filtering into her veins. But she has yet for many a long year to look to England for all that is most valuable, and to follow humbly in the wake of those she may be destined to out-strip. For England herself seems on the eve of another great change. And now she will take Christianity to her heart, and, as a nation Christian not in name only, but in deed, show forth its blessed effects on a scale of grandeur, which the Angels will delight to look upon;-or, she will cast it from her, and drink deep of the vial of God's wrath. We think too well of our country to have any fears for the issue. When the day of combat for the good-cause arrives, she will be found in the van: but first, she may have to endure tribulation.

The public of England is indeed a public, for it includes almost every sane individual within her bounds; and great must be the results, either for good or ill, when a public, so constituted, is roused into action. It is now thoroughly stirred up, even to the dregs: the wild desire for change, like a mighty wave, sweeps over all. Truth herself, unless she appear in a new garb, is in danger of being cast aside, "like an old almanack.” Christianity, that truth of truths, is again under trial, and her enemies insultingly ask, "Can any new thing come out of Nazareth?" We answer, Nothing new, but a renewing. She is ever the same, but her followers may be renewed in the spirit of their minds. Some already, with Irving and others, rush beyond the mark: many remain behind; but the spread of revivals, of Missionary spirit and Missionary operations, the extraordinary pecuniary support given to every thing that bears the name of religion, and the increase of devoted personal piety, show that she is putting forth efforts adequate to the occasion, and taking deeper root in the minds of men. This would be attended with such evident benefits, that her very enemies anxiously desire it; and many are eager to have a system taught in every school, which they themselves, in the pride of intellect, disbelieve, or affect to disbelieve. For it is a melancholy fact, that several of our leading political and literary characters do not believe in the Christian revelation. The old scholastic quibble about reason and revelation has been again revived among the learned in France and Germany it has been carried against revelation, but the minority is large, and already the re-action has begun in England and America in its favour, by a large and daily increasing majority. The quibble, like all other quibbles, is not worth a thought; but straws show how the wind sits.

We purpose hereafter to give our readers some account of the struggle, by attempting to sketch out for them the antagonist systems of Bentham and Coleridge, which may be looked upon as virtually the extremes of the question.