before him; and then he sunk under the fever, and died of it. I saw him in his coffin: he was withered and changed by the devastating violence of that malignant fever-changed as completely, almost as rapidly, as the flower whose petals are defaced, and marred, and rolled together, never more to expand. Yet amidst all, there lingered an expression belonging not to the children of this world. It spoke a conflict, but it also told of a victory, such as man un assisted can never achieve. I knew not until after wards, what words had expressed the dying expe rience of that glorified saint. At the very last, at the threshold of immortality, he had slowly and solemnly uttered them :- Mighty power of Christ! to give a poor sinner the victory even in death!' Yes; though death had laid upon him a hand that might not be resisted, though every mortal energy was prostrated, and icy chains fast wrapped around his suffering body,—though crushed into the dust, and speedily to crumble beneath it, he grasped the victory, he felt it in his grasp; and the glorious truth which in its height, and length, and depth, and breadth, he had appeared remarkably to realize in his life-time, shed splendour unutterable on his dying hour.-" Nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me." With D, religion was altogether a substance nothing shadowy, nothing theoretical or speculative had any place in him. He coveted clear views, that by them he might lay hold on right principles; not to gather their flowers in a showy bouquet, but to get their deepest roots fast planted in his soul. I never saw one, who seemed so totally to forget the things which were behind, while reaching forth to those which were before. The only subject on which I ever knew him to ex press impatience, was the slowness, as he considered it, of his growth in grace. Of this he spoke even bitterly: often taxing me with indifference to his spiritual welfare, because I did not urge him onward, when, perhaps, I was contemplating with secret dismay, the inmeasurable distance at which he left us all in the race. 'If you make no better progress than I do,' he once said, it is an awful sign of a sluggish spirit. Yet proceed warilymake sure of every step; for many in this day are running fast and far, they know not whither.' The shining heart's-ease will continue to expand throughout the year: the memory of D will be written on every successive blossom: and I cannot promise that in some future month, if God spares me, I may not resume the subject of this chapter. When gayer flowers have enjoyed their summer day, our heart's-ease will survive many painted wrecks and then it may come forth again, to speak of one who never spoke to me but for the glory of his God, and the spiritual welfare of his friend who dearly loved to follow the wonder working hand of creative power in its glorious dis plays throughout the visible world, and to trace the beautiful analogy subsisting between the providential government without, and the rule of grace within us. He understood the privilege of giv ing, as it were, a tongue to every object, that all might unite in one harmonious song of praise. This formed a conspicuous tie among the many that appeared to bind the spirit of D—with that of my dumb boy, in such perfect fellowship; per fect indeed beyond what poor mortality may con ceive. CHAPTER V. THE HAWTHORN. THE changeableness of earthly things has been always a favourite and a fruitful theme, alike with the worldly moralist and the more spiritual instructor. The mutations of vegetable life, in particular, appear to have presented an obvious lesson, known and read of all men. The pagan Homer could tell us― Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Holy scripture abounds with sublime and touching allusions to the same affecting memento of life's transitory bloom. Who has not felt the thrilling power of those words, so appropriately introduced in our funeral service,-"Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble; he cometh forth and is cut down like a flower The pride of my little stand, last winter, was a white Camelia Japonica, gracefully towering above its companions, terminating in one of the richest floral gems that I ever beheld. Summoning, one day, some young friends to admire it, I was startled to find the stalk bare; and, looking down, I saw the petals, not scattered about, but fallen into a half-empty flower-pot, upon the lowest round, where they laid in such a snowy mass of death-like beauty, as perfectly embodied that vague idea--the corpse of flower. Yet, in general, the evanescence of these bright and beautiful creations affects me far less thar their unchangeableness. Individually, the florets may perish in a day; but succeeding families appear, formed and pencilled, and tinted with such undeviating fidelity, as to bewilder the imagination; leading it back, step by step, through seasons that have been crowned with the same unfailing wreaths. The flowers of this year come not to me as strangers, never seen before; I can select and group the different species, as of old, and gaze upon them with the eye and the heart of delighted welcome for surely these are loved companions, revisiting my home, to awaken recollections of the many hours that we have passed together--hours of joy, rendered more joyous by their gladdening smiles; hours of sorrow, when, in silent |