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promise, or sweet consoling paragraph of that blessed volume, and speak of the strength and comfort it afforded to the weak in purpose or wounded in spirit. The unbelieving husband' could not fail to respect a faith that produced such fruits. He saw it exhibited in the sweet composure of his wife's feelings, the evenness of her temper, the charitableness of her heart, and more than all in the cheerful and unrepining spirit with which she met disappointment and loss. He could not but feel that there was a reality in such a religion, and sometimes, as upon the evening to which we have alluded, he would seem forced to acknowledge it.

Mr. Fleming left his house on the morning of the day after which our little narrative commenced, with a shaded brow and heavy heart. Alice watched him from the window with a feeling of piety which was followed by a fervent aspiration that the integrity of the upright' might guide him in all his intercourse with a tempting and regardless world.

Weeks passed on-the look of anxiety deepened on the countenance of Mr. Fleming, while that of Alice retained its placid calmness, or, perhaps, was more ready than usual to break into a smile. One evening, after a painful silence, he said with much feeling

"It is no use to struggle any longer-I have looked at our affairs in every point of view, and I see no way in which I can resume business-I think we must decide upon going West; do you think, Alice, that you can consent to follow the broken fortunes of your husband?"

"Do you doubt it, Walter? I have told you repeatedly, that I stood ready to go wherever you believed duty or even interest pointed."

"I know you have said it, Alice, and you have fairly counted the cost' of an exile from home and all its sweet associations; but you know not yet what it is to pay it, and I fear, when the time really approaches, even your resolute spirit will fail, and you will look back with regret to the good land you are leaving."

"I shall doubtless look back, Walter, but I trust not with murmuring spirit-I shall leave much that I love, but there is but one object that deserves the name of sacrifice. I leave a land of religious light and privileges, for one where they are unknown, or what is worse, disregarded. But I trust in time to be fully reconciled to even this deprivation, for God is everywhere, and can grant us the light of his countenance and the joy of his presence in the wilderness and solitary places as well as in the proud cathedral with its crowds of worshippers. Yes, I am ready, Walter; are you equally so?"

"Yes, 1 have brought my mind to it by a strong effort, for I see that it must be done, and the sooner the better."

Not many days after, Alice Fleming was seen with a cheerful countenance and willing step, arranging her splendid and tasteful furniture, and putting things in order for a public sale. All was soon disposed of, and a house so recently a scene of elegance and comfort was dreary and desolate. All but the chamber of its mistress-there, with the few articles she had reserved for herself, her children by her side, and her bible on her stand, sunshine and peace prevailed. Alice was happy, although she was about leaving her home, family, and long tried friends, for an unknown region, and the uncertain good-will of strangers. She was happy, because she was doing her duty.

Such is the bliss of souls serene,

When they have sworn with stedfast mien,
Counting the cost in all to espy
Their God-in all themselves deny.

What lights would all around us rise;

O, could we learn that sacrifice,

How would our hearts with wisdom talk,

Along life's dullest, dreariest walk.'

ward, not knowing whither. O, had Walter Fleming possessed the patriarch's faith, and chosen the patriarch's God as his guide, how confidently and firmly would he have walked in the footsteps of the flock.' As it was, he was doubting and anxious, and it required constant exertion on the part of Alice to raise his drooping spirits, and cheer him on his way.

Ten days found the pilgrims nearly ten hundred miles from the home of their childhood and the scenes of comfort that had encircled their wedded life. Mr. Fleming had saved from the wreck of his fortune enough to procure for his family a small lodge in the wilderness, and here they soon collected their little all.

Alice had been a communicant in the episcopal church since the age of fifteen, and within its hallowed precincts she had dedicated her children to her Saviour in holy baptism. Walter and Ellen had learned to love the church of their mother's love, and to lisp its hymns and prayers, although the one was but seven, and the other four years of age.

It was Sunday morning-the first Sabbath of the strangers in a strange land. The sun arose in unusual brilliancy, and its rich light fell gorgeously on the dark woods of Indiana, that bounded the opposite shore of the Ohio, on whose banks our pilgrims were located. The scene was solemn and grand-the waves of the noble river rolled by in gentle dignity, and, as they washed the shore, alone broke the profound stillness that reigned around.

Alice had arisen with the dawn of day, and stood at their cottage door looking abroad on the beauty of the scene-its natural eloquence spoke to her heart, and she felt that, perhaps, in this land of silence and solitude she might be brought nearer her God than she had ever yet been. "But my children, my precious little ones," she exclaimed, “how shall I teach you to yield your young affections to your God, in a region where no temple rises to his name, and his worship is unknown?" Then arose the soothing reflection that the promise was to them and their children,' and she resolved to do her part in faithfulness, and to leave the result to him, who alone could sanctify and bless her efforts.

When Alice returned to the house she found her little son, Walter, up and dressed with great care and neatness, having taken, himself, from his trunk, his bright Sunday suit, which had not been removed since his mother's hand packed it before leaving home. When seated at their simple breakfast, he said, "Mother, where are we going to church today? I looked from the top of the highest hill yesterday, as far as my eye could reach, and I could not see a single steeple, and scarcely a house of any kind : I am afraid we shall have a great way to go to church."

"There is no church, my dear Walter, near enough for us to attend, and we must worship God to-day in our own house; he will listen to our prayers and accept our services, if offered in sincerity and truth."

"Not go to church!" exclaimed little Ellen; "why, mother, we never staid at home; what shall we do all day?"

As soon as the duties of the morning were over, Alice took her children aside, and with their bibles and prayer-books went with them through the beau tiful service of our church. Their sweet childish voices made each response in its proper place, and arose in simple melody as they joined their mother in singing the sweet hymns.

Many Sabbaths were thus improved by this pious parent, until the liturgy became familiar as household words to Walter and Ellen. Other studies were not neglected, but the children received from their

In a few weeks the family were on their way west- mother systematic instruction in the various branches

to which they had attended in the excellent schools at home. Walter was now growing a fine, manly boy, distinguished for his generosity and the warmth of his affections; it was interesting to mark his devotion to his mother. With a consideration seldom found in older hearts, he watched her wishes, and often anticipated them, and was ever ready most promptly to deny himself any gratification for her sake. In the midst of her seclusion and apparent loneliness, Alice enjoyed much real peace. When the duties of the day were over, she walked with her children on the green hills that surrounded their home, and endeavoured to lead their young hearts to the God of the everlasting-hills, and to spiritualize every flower that bloomed beneath their feet.

"Mother," said Walter, one bright evening," we have not had our walk for several days; my head aches sadly this afternoon, and I think I should feel better if I could breathe some of the fresh air; are you not sufficiently at leisure to go a short distance with me, mother?"

Alice looked up as her son spoke, and observing that his face was pale and his eye heavy, quickly laid aside her work and prepared herself for a walk.

Walter, whose bounding step would often leave his mother and sister far in the distance, now walked pensively by their side, and they had proceeded but a short distance when he expressed a wish to return, complaining of fatigue and an increase of pain in his head. As soon as they reached the house he laid down, and a flushed cheek and excited pulse followed the paleness and languor that his mother had remarked an hour before. She perceived the necessity of immediate and active treatment, and without waiting for the coming of her husband, whose return she was expecting each moment, she administered such remedies as her judgment directed. Walter took his medicine without speaking, and then gently laid his head on his pillow and tried to sleep. His mother sat by his side till the shades of night gathered round them, and then left him but a few moments to attend to the wants of little Ellen.

"Has not father come yet?" asked Walter. "No, my son, but I am expecting him every moment; he promised to return to us to-night, and I have been looking for him the past hour."

"I wish he would come," said the child. "Hark! do I not hear the sound of his horse's feet? Do open the door, mother, and listen."

In a few moments Mr. Fleming was at the bed-side of his little boy; he bent anxiously over him, and inquired about his feelings.

"I have felt sick for two or three days, father, but thought I should get over it, and that I had better not trouble mother while you were away; but my head ached so much this evening, that I could not help telling her. I am glad you have come home, dear father, please sit down, and stay with me."

The anxiety of Mr. Fleming would not permit him to do this. Walter was his first-born child-his darling, only son. The little boy not only gratified his father's pride by his intelligence and generosity, but was bound to his heart by his affectionate and dutiful conduct.

Mr. Fleming perceived that the attack of his child was violent, and determined not to rest until he had procured medical advice. Although much fatigued by a wearisome ride of two days, he remounted his jaded horse and proceeded to the nearest town, that was ten or twelve miles distant. It was near midnight when he reached the house of Dr. D who readily yielded to his urgent request, that he would return with him immediately.

As the day dawned, they reached the cottage, and and found little Walter under the influence of a burning fever. Dr. D- pronounced his case an alarming one, and proceeded at once to administer the most active remedies.

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"Can you take this bitter draught, my little fel low?" he asked, as he held up the glass that contained the medicine.

"I can take any thing, Sir, that you and my parents think best ;" and, as he spoke, he raised himself in the bed, and extended his hand for the medicine, which he drank without hesitation.

"I do not find many such patients, among children of a larger growth," said Dr. D-, to Mrs. Fleming. "Your little son has been well disciplined, Madam."

"He has required but little discipline, Sir; we have been greatly blessed in possessing in Walter a filial and obedient child."

As the symptoms of Walter became more alarming, Dr. D--resolved to spend the remainder of the day with him, that he might minutely watch the progress of his disease. The little sufferer rolled restlessly from side to side of the bed, and towards night became unconscious of the presence of the kind friends who ministered to his wants. Alice calmly bent over him, bathing his burning brow, and wetting his parched lips, but the anguish of the father knew no bounds, when he perceived by the wild brillancy of his child's eye, that the inflammation had proceeded to his brain.

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Dr. D- was obliged to leave the distressed family at sun-set, but returned at noon the next day. He stood by the little cot for a few moments, and then turned mournfully aside to prepare some medicine.

Mr. Fleming could not trust himself to ask his opinion.

"You can say nothing to encourage us, Sir," said Alice.

"I will not deceive you, my dear Madam-the symptoms are at present obstinate, but they may yet yield. May God assist our feeble efforts."

From that moment Alice surrendered her child to her Maker. Something told her that he must go, and with an almost bursting heart, she submitted to the Lord's will. It was not so with Mr. Fleming. Unsupported by the faith that sustained his wife, he was prostrated at the bare possibility of his child's death. He could not-he would not see his son torn thus suddenly from his embrace-he felt that a stroke so heavy must not fall upon him. He paced the room in agony, entreating the physician to save him-but in vain.

On the sixth day of his illness, after a short but quiet sleep, he opened his eyes, and exclaimed "Mother." The heart of Alice bounded with gratitude at the sound; it was the first time his lips had breathed her name for several days.

"Mother," said, he extending his trembling hand, "Mother, does the doctor think I shall get well?"

Alice hesitated a moment, but the next she said, "I fear not, my son-do you feel willing that it should be so?"

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Yes, mother-I am sorry to leave you and father, and dear little sister, but I have felt that I was going to die ever since the evening I asked you to go and walk with me. I feel very weak. How long have I been sick?"

"Only a week, my child-does it seem to you longer?"

"O, yes; I thought it had many weeks-so many things have passed through my mind."

Mr. Fleming came in at this moment, and with his wife, rejoiced over the restored reason of their child. Alas! they knew not that it was but the flickering of the lamp on the eve of expiring in the

socket.

After an interval of rest, Walter again spoke. "Father, dear father," said he, "the doctor thinks I shall not get well. I am sorry to go away from you, but I hope I am going to my heavenly Fatherin my trunk you will find my little bible and prayer

book that mother gave me last Christmas-they are for you, father, because you have not got any like mother's-and, dear mother, I have been thinking what I could give you, and I have nothing but that box of beautiful shells that I gathered with Ellen on the beach at home-that is in the corner of my little drawer. You must give Ellen all my books, and my little garden with sweet peas and golden coreopsis that I have been hoping to see blossom."

He sunk back exhausted- Alice offered him a cordial, but he shook his head. After a few moments he said, "I hope the Lord Jesus Christ loves me, and will put me on his right hand among his sheep,

mother."

"Walter, Walter," exclaimed Mr. Fleming, as his head fell languidly on his mother's shoulder. The sweet child answered not. He was 'absent from the body, and present with the Lord.'

Dark and desolate was the heart of Mr. Fleming, as he contemplated the remains of his child. No blessed word of promise found access there whispering, "I may go to him, but he cannot come to me." All was dark uncertainty, and he saw his first-born placed in the ground, without faith in the promise

that he should rise again.

But the blow brought him to himself, and to that inspired word, that assured him that his child was not dead, but sleeping. There he sought consolation,

the mind to a very profitable train of reflection.

There are some, indeed, who think that anything like cheerfulness ill accords with those mournful associations which are naturally connected in our minds with that place which is the abode of the dead: but such is not the view which should be taken of the matter by the Christian. He does not, when he looks upon the spot where the remains of those who were once so dear to him are deposited, sorrow as one without hope. On the contrary, though he may continue to mourn as one deprived of that sweet company which tended to render his pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world joyful; yet he rejoices at the remembrance, that those whom the hand of death has snatched from him are not lost to him for ever, and that though his cup of joy has been embittered by their removal, their's has been made to overflow with sweetness: for those who have fallen asleep in Jesus have already entered into their rest; their spirits, set free from this earthly tabernacle, are already in that abode of joy where neither sorrow, nor sighing, nor tears, can interrupt their happiness; and a day is coming, when even these cold remains, this apparently dishonoured dust, shall again awake at the voice of the archangel, and be clothed with incorruption, immortality, and glory. Every tribute of respect which the believer pays to the remains of those whom it has pleased God to remove out of the miseries of this sinful world is, or should be, a testimony of his belief in the resurrection of the body. If "The voice said, cry, and he said, what shall I cry? that body were to sleep here for ever, it would All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof as be altogether valueless; but, as, when it lived the flower of the field: the grass withereth, the upon this earth, it was fearfully and wonderflower fadeth; because the Spirit of the Lord blow-fully made, the noblest work of God, so, when eth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass it shall be raised again incorruptible, its value shall be infinitely increased; for then, by the mighty power which raised the Saviour from the dead, it shall be "fashioned like unto his glorious body."

and there he found it. He studied, believed, and was a happy man.

"They that sow in tears shall reap in joy," and the chastisement, that had seemed to Alice the most severe that could have befallen her, was made to her the cause of thanksgiving and praise.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD: *

A Sermon,

BY THE REV. HENRY W. SHEPPARD, M.A.
Curate of Newland, Gloucestershire.
ISAIAH, xl. 6. 7. 8.

withereth, the flower fadeth but the word of our God shall stand for ever."

appearance

THERE are few, I think, who could fail of being struck with the which our churchyard presented two Sundays ago. Each grave had assumed the aspect of a garden; and there were groupes, chiefly of children, collected here and there with their baskets of flowers, vying with each other which should decorate most tastefully that little spot of ground which possessed for them so deep, so peculiar an interest. Of the origin of this custom of decorating the graves of departed friends on the Sunday before Easter, or Palm Sunday, which is so general in this part of the country I am not aware; but there is something about it which is particularly pleasing, and something which might lead

*It is customary throughout Wales, and some of the adjoining counties, to decorate the graves of departed friends with garlands and spring flowers and evergreens on Palm Sunday.

And that particular mark of affectionate regard, to which allusion has been already made, seems to be peculiarly appropriate. It is at once simple and beautiful. It was of the flowers of the field that our Lord declared, “Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." Their beauty and their fragrance serve to recal to the mind the memory of the departed, to remind us how fair and lovely they were in their lives; and at the same time their perishableness reads us a lesson, not only of their decay, but also of our own mortality. For let us walk through the churchyard now, and that, which a few days since was as a garden, is again a wilderness. The violet and the primrose are plucked up or hang their heads, and even that which was

called an evergreen is withered, or trampled | spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the under foot, and speaks to us of death. people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever." Without staying to enquire as to what was the particular meaning which these words were intended to convey to those to whom they were at first addressed, can anything be clearer than that they are calculated to teach us

But again, the season chosen for the observance of this custom is also very appropriate. For at what time is it more fitting to meditate on death, and to contemplate in it the consequences of sin and disobedience, than at that in which we are invited to see the exceeding sinfulness of sin in the sufferings which were endured by him who came to bear its punishment? And what is more calculated to alleviate the pang, and to remove the sting naturally connected with the thought of death, than that assurance, so forcibly impressed upon us at this season, that "God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." And still further, what is there so well adapted to reconcile the believer to a temporary separation from those whom he has loved in this world, and to make him contemplate his own dissolution without a slavish fear, as the knowledge, that by his precious death our great Redeemer has "overcome him that had the power of death," and by his triumphant resurrection from the dead has "begotten us again to a lively hope of an inheritance" beyond the grave, "incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away." These are lessons which it is of great consequence that we should learn. These are truths which deserve to be deeply engraven upon our heart, and which, if they are so engraven, will materially influence our practice. And it is most important to be fully persuaded of the vanity and perishableness of all earthly things,-of earthly enjoyments, of earthly comforts, of earthly hopes,-whilst the evil day is at a distance; for those are best prepared to bear with patience and Christian submission whatsoever God in his wise providence may see fit to send them, who have been brought habitually to consider all the good things of this world as not given them, but lent; and that house alone is calculated to stand against the storm, whose foundation has been deeply digged and laid upon a rock. May such an effect be produced upon us now by our meditation on those words of Isaiah which have been selected for our text, in which the prophet contrasts the frailty of man, and the transitory nature of those things on which we are so apt to set our affections and our hopes, with the permanency and unchangeableness of the word of God, and the consequent certainty and security of those promises which in that word are made to his people.

First, that important, but too often forgotten truth, that "here we have no continuing city," and

Secondly, that if we would have a hope which can never disappoint us, we must seek that hope in the gospel of Christ, in that revelation of himself which God has graciously made to poor perishing sinners in and by his dear Son?

Let us then dwell awhile upon these two points.

I. The frailty of man's condition in this world is very aptly set forth in the text, where he is compared to the grass and the flower of grass. For he resembles the grass and the flower of the field in the brightness and the joy of his childhood and youth, and he resembles it also in the uncertainty of his continuance here, in the constant dangers to which he is exposed, and in the manner of his decay and death. How fair and beautiful is the prospect which the earth presents in the early spring! How refreshing is that luxuriant green with which the whole face of nature is covered! How delighful those numberless wild flowers which speak, to those who know and love God, of the mercy and beneficence of that great and blessed Being! And how full of hope and enjoyment is the season of childhood and youth! How bright to look forward to the future! How slight an impression is made by any of those distressing circumstances which in after-life take so firm a hold upon the heart and upon the memory! How difficult is it to believe that this season of enjoyment is only to be of short duration ! How hard to give credit to the assurance, so often repeated, that there is even then only a step between us and death, that we "know not what shall be on the morrow!" And yet how true this is. To what numberless accidents is the flower of the field exposed! The untimely frost may nip it in the bud: in the midst of its beauty it may be cropped or trodden under foot by the passing beast; or it may be cut down in a moment by the scythe of the mower.

And is man more secure? No, my breLet us look, then, to the prophet's words: thren, every day's experience tells us that his "The voice said, cry, and he said, what shall" life on earth is but a vapour, which enduI cry? all flesh is grass, and all the goodliness reth for a little time and then vanisheth thereof is as the flower of the field: the grass away." Who are the tenants of those graves withereth, the flower fadeth: because the by which we are surrounded? Not only he,

and made sure to him by that Saviour in whom they are all "yea and amen." And thus St. Peter introduces this passage (1 Pet. i. 24, 25), as containing encouragement and comfort for God's people; for having re

who, like a shock of corn fully ripe, was gathered to his fathers; but the babe, which merely saw the light of day, and at once closed its eyes in the sleep of death; the child, whose limbs had just acquired sufficient strength to minister to its enjoyment, and to de-minded them (v. 23), that they were "born light those who watched its every movement; the young man, approaching to maturity, and seeing the bright prospects of pleasure and worldly success daily opening upon him-all these have been laid in the cold grave, cut off by some of those numerous diseases to which the flesh of fallen man is heir, or by some of those accidents against which no human providence could guard. Riches could not avail to purchase protection from the weapons of the king of terrors, neither could the poverty and humility of a low estate screen and conceal his victim. And those too who have hitherto escaped, who have been preserved from accident, and the strength of whose constitution has resisted the attacks of disease, yet even these are still but as the grass and as the flower of the field: they are born of corruptible seed; though they have survived the spring and the summer, and are now in the autumn of life, yet the winter is at hand, when the leaf which is already dry and withered must fall, and when the flower, which is already robbed of its colour and its beauty, must be deprived of its small remains of life, and be mingled with the dust from whence it sprang

Very mournful then, would be this declaration of the prophet-sad indeed would be the reflections caused by those words" All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof as the flower of the field: the grass withereth, the flower fadeth, because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it; surely the people is grass" if the message ended here. But it does not end here. For the same voice, which was instructed to speak of the frailty of man's condition, and of the vanity of all those pleasures and enjoyments which are earthly in their nature, was also commissioned to bid him look from these to something which would be satisfying-something which was sure, something which was enduring. It held out to him

II. A hope whtch could not make ashamed, for it is added immediately, "the word of our God shall stand for ever;" and although this assurance of the unchangeableness of God's word had more especial reference at the time when it was given to the promises of comfort and deliverance, which God made to Israel; yet those promises were not confined to "Israel according to the flesh." Every believer in Christ Jesus is permitted to look upon the God of Israel as his God, and to see all his promises confirmed

again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth for ever," he quotes the words of our text to remind them of the difference of their condition by nature and by grace. "For all flesh is grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away; but the word of the Lord endureth for ever," adding "and this is the word, which by the gospel is preached unto you." Yes, my brethren, the seed of everlasting life is the word of God. And they, in whose hearts that seed has been sown, and has taken root, have in them a principle which knows no decay. When the holy Spirit has made the word effectual, has carried it home to the conscience and the heart, and by it has wrought that change, which, on account of its greatness and completeness is called the new birth, then that life is commenced which shall know no end, but shall endure throughout eternity. They, who have thus heard and received and felt the quickening power of the gospel, "shall not come into condemnation, but are passed from death unto life." These are our Lord's own words, and "the word of our God shall stand for ever;" "heaven and earth shall pass away, but his words shall not pass away."

Great indeed is God's mercy, that in a world, where all is so uncertain, all so vain, all so fleeting, he has given us an unerring guide, which, like the pillar of fire that directed the steps of Israel in the wilderness, is able to afford us light and direction, and comfort, even in the darkest night of perplexity and distress. On every word which is written there we may implicitly rely; every direction which is there given we may confidently follow; if we build our hopes upon the promises and assurances which this blessed book contains, those hopes can never be disappointed.

And what does this word of God teach us? It tells us that we are "concluded," shut up "under sin," that "we all like sheep have gone astray;" and that that death, which is the common lot of all men, is the effect and consequence and fruit of sin. But then it also brings life and immortality to light;” it shows how the victory has been snatched from death; and how, if we are Christ's, there awaits us after this life an eternity of glory. Again it tells us, as we have seen to-day, that our continuance here in this

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