diligence, he remembered that the manners of a servant were also under the regulations of duty.

There is a period in every man's existence when the value of right principle and of good conduct will be fully understood. That period is the dying hour. Whatever a man may have been, or fancied himself to be, in the season of youth, of health, and of prosperity; however unvarying his cheerfulness, or however careless he may have appeared to be of futurity,-that hour is sure to try him, if it leave his senses unimpaired, and especially, if it come upon him slowly and by degrees. The vast majority of those who have left us any record of their feelings at that serious moment have agreed in leaving us a clear testimony, that it is an awful thing to die-even to the good -to those who by the obedience of faith have hope in their death. One of the ablest of these men, and one who made his investigations, as he assures us, " from the neighbourhood of the eternal world," has the following among many striking observations :-"Like others of our race, I have relished several of these things (worldly goods,) with at least the common attachment. Particularly I have coveted reputation and influence, to a degree which I am not able to justify. Nor have I been insensible to other earthly gratifications; either to such as, when enjoyed with moderation, are innocent, or such as cannot be pursued without sin. But......all these things were vanishing from my sight. Had they been really valuable.... their value was gone. They could not relieve me from pain; they could not restore me to health; they could not prolong my life; they could promise me no good in the life to come." Such is the testimony of one whose whole life had been actively devoted towards advancing the cause of religion, and promoting the welfare · of his fellow-creatures. But if it be so with the righteous, "where shall the ungodly and the sinner appear ?" The writer of this has been present at some of those fearful

scenes where conscience and remorse awake from their long slumbers, and seem to begin those scourgings here which are to be continued through eternity. May those who read be admonished to earnestly set about the great work of their salvation in the appointed time, while the evil days come not, when their souls shall say, they have no pleasure in them.

William inherited from his parents a constitution liable to the attacks of that most deceitful of all complaints, consumption. This, as was before observed, had deprived him of his sister, and had now undermined his own health. In the autumn of 1823, business had called the writer of this article into his native county and one of his first inquiries, on reaching his friend at the rectory, was about William, who he had heard was afflicted with a troublesome cough. From one of the young ladies he learned that the poor young man had struggled manfully and patiently with his disorder through the summer: sometimes, for a day or two, so much better, according to the nature of that complaint, as to make him believe that he should at last recover; and then suffering under such increase of fever and cough, as to disable him from doing any thing. That he had, in consequence of this state of things, left the rectory about six weeks, in order to be more completely under the care of his mother, at whose cottage he was now residing. Upon hearing this account, the writer resolved, as soon as he had dined with the family, to go down to the cottage, and see how it fared with the invalid. This he was the more anxious to do as soon as possible, inasmuch as Mr. Freemantle himself was nearly confined to his house, from a general breaking up and decay of nature. Accordingly, in the evening he took his way down the well-known lane that led to William's humble cottage. It was one of those splendid sunsets which, although not uncommon at any period in the autumnal months, seem peculiarly to adorn the nights in

September. As he entered the low cottage, that luminary was pouring a flood of golden light through the little casement opposite to the door of entrance: the light was softened and broken by a screen of jasmine, which nearly covered the window with its closely interwoven twigs. The floor was nicely sanded; a chest of drawers by the wall, a neat cupboard in one corner of the room, and an eight-day clock in the other, afforded proofs of the comfort, order, and cleanliness, with which industry and good husbandry stock an English cottage. A turf fire was burning upon the hearth; the tea things still remained, although the humble evening repast seemed to be concluded.

William was sitting by the fire-side-for, warm as the weather was, he found the artificial warmth agreeable— his father was placed with his back to the door; and his mother first perceived my approach, exclaiming, as I stood in the door-way, "Oh, William! here is Mr.

come to see you. Indeed, sir," said she, "this is very kind of you. My poor boy has often spoken of you since he came from master's (so they all called Mr. Freemantle); and it was only this very day that we were hoping something might bring you from London before

Here a slight faultering in the poor woman's voice clearly discovered to us the feelings which this image of the future had raised in her bosom; but William, without change of countenance, his eyes still bright with the unexpected pleasure that had lit them up at my entering, finished the sentence by saying, "before I'm laid near that quiet pathway by my sister, is what my mother intends to say, sir." He then, in the same tone of cheerfulness, expressed his satisfaction at seeing me; told me how often he had thought upon former days when he was so happy at his kind master's; how much he felt for all their goodness to him; adding with a great deal of energy, "especially, sir, for the care that both master and the

young ladies took with me in explaining to me the holy Scriptures, and teaching me the importance of 'remembering any Creator in the days of my youth,' before the evil days came, in which I should say that I had no pleasure in them," "Well, William," said I, "I hope that, notwithstanding the bodily suffering which you have to bear, you are able to derive comfort from the promises of that book which you seem to have valued while in health, and that you have not been fretful or repining, nor found your spirits so much sunk by a sick-bed, as many suppose they must be in such a case as yours." Indeed sir," he replied, “I thank God I am able to answer your question tolerably satisfactorily. The promises of that blessed volume, so much above all that, of myself, I could ask, or think, are a great cordial to my spirits, I do not say that my spirits are always the same. Some days I feel so much better, than I can hardly help thinking that I shall recover, and at such times I am naturally more gay: at other seasons I feel nature sinking very fast; and, besides leaving my mother and other friends, with whom, had it pleased God, I could have been well contented to have remained a few years longer, I used, particularly at the beginning of my illness, to suffer a good deal from the fear of death; but all these things, which I believe are natural-I mean my hopes of recovery, my unwillingness to be parted from my friends, and to part with life, and particularly my fear of dying-are much abated; and I owe it to the Bible-to its promises and its explanations." "Can you call to mind," said I, "any of the promises which have contributed especially to support you under these circumstances ?" "O, sir," he replied with considerable energy, a great many; but I have been most struck and comforted with the concluding chapters of St. John's gospel, especially that first verse in the thirteenth chapter, where it is said that Jesus having loved his own which were in the world, he loved them unto the end.' As also

the three first verses of the fourteenth chapter, in which our blessed Lord expressly tells his disciples that he will go and prepare a place for them in his Father's house. But, above all the rest, I find comfort in the whole of the seventeenth chapter." I asked him whether he thought those promises, and the prayers which our Lord offered up in that chapter, referred to all the followers of Christ, as well as to the blessed apostles. Upon which he instantly referred to the twentieth verse, "Neither pray I for these alone, but for all them which shall believe on me through their word." This, sir," he added, "is what makes me sure that I have an interest in these glorious promises, because I am sure that God has given me grace and strength to believe in his Son as 'the way, the truth, and the life;' and therefore I am one of those for whom our Lord prayed that his Father would keep them from the evil.' My mother and all my friends are very kind to me, and they would willingly keep me with them, and if it were God's good pleasure I should be contented to stay; but I am thankful that I feel the truth of what the apostle says, 'that to depart and be with Christ is far better."" A little after he said, "I have been and am a great sinner; but I believe in Jesus Christ, and he is the propitiation for all sin." Upon his mother expressing her sorrow at losing so good a son, he said,

Mother, you have always loved me, and done every thing you could for my advantage; and you were very glad to get me to master's house, which, to be sure, is a very much finer place than our own. Now you know our Saviour speaks of many mansions in his Father's house, and of his preparing a place for his followers; and in another passage he tells them, I ascend to my Father and to your Father;' so that you should rejoice in the prospect that is before you of your son's going to his Father's house, where you will certainly join him if you do not sorrow as one without hope.'"