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and with but a vague, dim, and traditionary belief, that she shall ever meet again her loved and lost, she prepares to place in the tomb all that remains to her of her only

son.

The wild flowers may bloom in their beauty over his quiet resting-place, but all is dreariness to her there; the night-bird may plaintively chant his requiem, or a thousand little voices make merry music through the overshadowing trees; the light of day may smile kindly on the spot, and the starry host, in their ceaseless courses, sparkle there: they bring to her no voice from another state of being, no message from the spirit-land. The hope of a future existence is but an indefinite idea, a debated point among her people. They fondly name their sepulchres "the houses of the living;" but little dream that the living part cannot be confined there. She hopes that what has appeared to die, may be again restored at some future period to an earthly existence; but she can feel nothing of the deep, inexpressible joy of believing that the disembodied spirit may hold instant communion with those who mourn the severing of a visible intercourse.

They reach the gate of the city, through which that lifeless form is to take its last passage, and she feels that when she enters it again, it will be without that which made her life most dear. She knows not the holy power that is near to assuage her distress. The Saviour approaches, and compassionates the desolation of the sorrow-stricken woman. With the calm majesty of conscious power, with the unspeakable dignity of perfect purity, with the loveliness of expression which a benevolent intent marked on his placid countenance, he touches the bier. Instantly the loud wail of the mourners is hushed; the mournful notes of the flute die on the ear; all stand still at the summons of him, "who spake as one having authority." He, at whose word the stormy sea was calm, allays the tumults of human passion. He recalls the spirit to that pallid and decaying form, and delivers him to his mother. Oh! who can describe the revulsion of feeling which that act oceassioned in the heart of that sorrowing parent; the overwhelming burst of joy and gratitude and returning hope, when she saw that stiffened figure, from whose cold touch she had shrunk in agony, as if its iciness reached her heart's core, again animated with the breath of life! The attendant

crowd look on in amazement; "a great fear came on them all;" they acknowledge the divine power which enabled him to perform so great a miracle, and hail Jesus as a great prophet.

"The son of the widow of Nain"-how associated are these words with all that is lovely in benevolence, true in affection, and cherished in hope; the simple story can never be read without emotion, as the mere narration of events as they occurred in that ancient city eighteen hundred years ago, or whether we regard it as full of consoling reflection for ourselves. Time, space, all attendant circumstances sink into nothing before the mind; the hundreds of leagues which separate us from the land where this took place, the hundreds of years that have elapsed since that mourning procession was passing out through the gate of the city of Nain, the differences in customs and appearances, all vanish away before the naturalness of this simple and touching story. The heart responds with a sympathy as true as if the scene were present to our senses. In the midst of her anguish, the desolate mourner finds, in the truth thus forcibly revealed by the blessed Saviour, an allavailing consolation; and so it has been ever since, and so it shall be until the end of time.

MISCELLANEOUS.

AN ODD SERMON.

In the year 1606, when the Covenanters of Scotland were in arms, a Master of Arts of the College of Aberdeen preached at Aberdeen a sermon from these words in Jeremiah: "Sion is wounded." In this sermon (a copy of which is preserved in the British Museum) we have an amusing specimen of the style of preaching which prevailed in those days.

The preacher sets out with showing, that by the Sion in the text, was meant the puir Kirk o' Scotland,' and then asks, 'Wha ha' wounded her trow ye?' To this purpose,' he says, 'I'se tell you a tale; but I'll no say 'tis true; but be it true, or be it fause, tak it as I tak it, a God's benison. When I was a young lad, there was a winsome man student o' Theology at the College o' Aberdeen; and he was to make a preachment before the Master Regents o' the

College, and o' a' the Holy Scriptures o' God he wailed this text: What will ye gi' me, and I'll betray him to ye?' (and he could ha' said it in Latin, Quid dabites.) And there was an honest auld man in a blue cap, sittin' at the feet o' the powpit, and he says till him, 'Sir, gin ye betray him, I'se gi' ye a good fat Bishoprick.' Now ye may learn by this, wha it is that betrays and wounds the peace o' the Kirk o' Scotland.'- Having thus fixed the sin of wounding Sion, or the puir Kirk o' Scotland, on the prelates, he proceeds to show how she was wounded; first, in her head; second, in her hand; third, in her heart; and fourthly, in her feet. Of the first head there are three sub-divisions, showing how the prelates have wounded the Kirk. 1st. With the sword of their pride. 2d. With the sword o' gluttony; and, 3d. With the sword of covetousness.' In illustrating the fourth head, or wounding the feet, he says: "I can remember weel since the Kirk o' Scotland might hae been likened to a bonny nag, that could hae ambled and paced it fu' sweetly; but the Bishopsthose galloping swingers, they gat o' the back o' the nag, an' they quite jaded him up to ruin; for they laid upon his back the Book o' Common Prayer, the Book o' Canons, and since they came frae Lonon, the Aith of Supremacy, and the Kirk law books. I wonder what errand they had there; but, beluved, what here and what there they had sae used him, they hae na left him a fast nail in his feet.' Having discussed the four sorts of wounds, the preacher proceeds: 'And now, beluved, we may tell a tale without laughter, we may liken her to nane but Baalam's Ass, for in that story there are four things to be heeded: 1st, the Ass, that we may compare to the Kirk o' Scotland; 2d. The rider; that's e'en the proud Bishops; 3d. The angel that stopt the Ass by the way; and who trow ye that is? It's e'en my gude Lord Eglenton. God's benison light on his bonny face, there he sits, the trimmest sight that e'er the puir Kirk o' Scotland saw; 4th. There was a portmante in behind the nag, and what trow ye was, in it? E'en the Book o' Common Prayer, an' the Books o' Canons, an' the Aith o' Supremacy, an' the Kirk law books; but I hope the good angel will tak him (Episcopacy) out o' the saddle, for he hings by the hough, hauf in and hauf out; fain wad he keep in, an' tells ye let him stay in, and he'll na trouble you wi' a portmanteau ony mair: but the

de'il's a wily pow, let him get in his little finger and he'll soon get in his whole hand: let but the loon get in the saddle, and we may a' pow 'till weary before we get him out again.

'But a word or two o' use: an' first a word o' encouragement to a' the gude people that ha' already set their hearts an' hands to reading an' avowing the Solemn League and Covenant. Well I sow no mair but this; as ye hae begun the gude work, e'en sae perfect it, an' ye shall nae want your reward in heaven.'

BOOKS.

Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them, to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve, as in a phial, the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth, and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet, on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book. Who kills a man, kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye. Many a man lives, a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. It is true no age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss; and revolutions of ages do not oft recover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of which whole nations fare the worse. We should be wary, therefore, what persecutions we raise against the living labours of public men, how we spill that seasoned life of man, preserved and stored up in books; since we see a kind of homicide may be thus committed, sometimes a martyrdom, and if it extend to a whole impression, a kind of massacre, whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, but strikes at the ethereal and fifth essence, the breath of reason itself, slays an immortality rather than a life. Milton.

Not

Wondrous indeed is the virtue of a true book! like a dead city of stones, yearly crumbling, yearly needing repair; more like a tilled field; but then a spiritual field; like a spiritual tree, let me rather say, it stands from year

to year, and from age to age, (we have books that already number some hundred and fifty human ages;) and yearly comes its new produce of leaves (commentaries, deductions, philosophical, political systems: or were it only sermons, pamphlets, journalistic essays) every one of which is talismanic and thaumaturgic, for it can persuade men. O thou who art able to write a book, which once in the two centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to do, envy not him whom they name city-builder, and inexpressibly pity him whom they name conqueror or city-burner! Thou too art a conqueror and a victor; but of the true sort, namely, over the devil. Thou too hast built what will outlast all marble and metal, and be a wonder-bringing city of the mind, a temple, and seminary, and prophetic mount, whereto all kindreds of the earth will pilgrim.. Fool! why journeyest thou wearisomely in thy antiquarian fervor, to gaze on stone pyramids of Greece, or the clay ones of Sachara? These stand there, as I can tell thee, idle and inert, looking over the desert, foolishly enough, for the last three thousand years; but canst thou not open thy Hebrew Bible, then, or even Luther's version thereof.Sartor Resartus.

A DATE-STONE.

HAVING lately had business in a neighbouring county, I called upon an old friend, who, as I heard, had removed from his former habitation, which was in a rich valley, and had settled among the neighbouring mountains. I had learned some particulars of his more recent history, but did not introduce the story of his removal, lest I should give rise to painful associations. Having had occasion, during my call, to visit his bed-room, which is also his library, for the purpose of consulting a Bible on a certain text, I was thrown into silent consternation on reading the following lines, well cut on a small slab of freestone, which is settled in the wall above the fire-place; and which may be called a date-stone.

I ascertained, by a mutual friend, that the lines,—both Latin and English,—are his own composition; and though the latter are a free translation of the former, the meaning is pretty well conveyed. He has, no doubt, thoughts wrapt up in them, which no reader can discover, but which enable

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