ering came over me, though it was a sunny day and without a cloud—and I strove to think that a brain fever had been upon me. I lay for two days and nights on the hilland more than once I saw my children playing on the green beside the water-fall, and rose to go down and put them to death-but a figure in white-it might be thou, Alice, or an angel, seemed to rise out of the stream, and quietly to drive the children towards the cottage, as thou wouldst a few tottering

beside a corpse so cold, he will lose his senses-I must indeed separate him from his dead grandfather." Gently did she disengage his little hands from the shrouded breast, and bore him into the midst of us in her arms. His face became less deadly white-his eyes less glazedly fixed-and, drawing a long, deep, complaining sigh, he at last slowly awoke, and looked bewilderedly, first on his mother's face, and then on the other figures sitting in silence by the uncertain lamp-light. lambs." "Come, my sweet Jamie, to thine own bed," During all this terrible confession, the said his weeping mother. The husband folspeaker moved up and down the room-aslowed in his love—and at midnight the Paswe are told of the footsteps of men in the tor and myself retired to rest-at which hour, condemned cell, heard pacing to and fro dur- every room in the cottage seemed as still as ing the night preceding the execution. "Lay that wherein lay all that remained on earth not such dreadful thoughts to the charge of of the Patriarch and Elder. thy soul," said his wife, now greatly alarmed

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Hunger, and thirst, and the rays of the sun, and the dews of the night, had indeed driven thee into a rueful fever-and God knows, that the best of men are often like demons in a disease!" The Pastor, who had not dared to interrupt him during the height of his passion, now besought him to dismiss from his mind all such grievous recollections and was just about to address himself to prayer, when an interruption took place most pitiable and affecting.

It was on May-day that, along with my venerable friend, I again visited the cottage of the Hazel Glen. A week of gentle and sunny rain had just passed over the scenery, and brought all its loveliness unto life. I could scarcely believe that so short a time ago the whiteness of winter had shrouded the verdant solitude. Here and there, indeed, a patch of snow lay still unmelted, where, so lately the deep wreathes had been drifted by the storm. The hum of insects The door, at which no footstep had been even was not unheard, and through the glitheard, slowly and softly opened, and in glid-ter of the stream the trout was seen leaped a little ghost, with ashy face and opening at its gaudy prey, as they went sailing eyes, folded in a sheet, and sobbing as it came along. It was no other than that loving child walking in its sleep, and dreaming of its grandfather. Not one of us had power to move. On feet that seemed, in the cautious-heard behind us the sound of footsteps, and ness of affection, scarcely to touch the floor, he went up to the bed side, and kneeling down, held up his little hands, palm to palm, and said a little prayer of his own, for the life of him who was lying dead within the touch of his balmy breath. He then climbed up into the bed, and laid himself down, as he had been wont to do, by the old man's side.

down the pools with their expanded wings. The whole Glen was filled with a mingled spirit of pleasure and of pensiveness.

As we approached the old sycamore, we

that beautiful boy, whom we had so loved in his affliction, came up to us with a smiling face, and with his satchel over his shoulder. He was returning from school, for the afternoon was a half holiday, and his face was the picture of joy and innocence. A sudden recollection assailed his heart, as soon as he heard our voices, and it would have been easy to have changed his smiles into tears. But we rejoiced to see how benignly nature had assuaged his grief, and that there was now nothing in memory which he could not bear to think of, even among the of pauses

his pastimes. He led the way happily and soon sat all down together at the cheerful proudly, and we entered once more the cot-board. In the calm of the evening, husband tage of the Hazel Glen.

The simple meal was on the table, and the husband was in the act of asking a blessing, with a fervent voice. When he ceased, he and his wife rose to bid us welcome, and there was in their calm and quiet manner an assurance that they were happy. The children flew with laughter to meet their brother, in spite of the presence of strangers, and we

and wife walked with us down the glen, as we returned to the Manse-nor did we fear to speak of that solemn night, during which, so happy a change had been wrought in a sinner's heart. We parted in the twilight, and on looking back at the Hazel Glen, we beheld a large beautiful star shining right over the cottage.

EREMUS.

THE YEAR.

HEN God set great lights in the heavens, He commanded that they should be for signs, and for seasons, and for days and for years. You have heard how the sun marks the day; let us now see how it marks the year, by the time and place of its rising and setting, by its height above our heads, and the light and heat it gives us.

of dim red light, showing whereabouts the sun is, though we cannot see him.

Afterwards the days begin to grow shorter and shorter. Towards the end of September they are of the same length as the nights; and by the 21st of December, St. Thomas's Day, which we call the shortest day, the sun rises in the south-east after eight, and sets before four in the south-west; and the night is twice as long as the day. The rays of the sun come, so slanting that they have then very Towards the end of March, the sun rises in little power; and the sun shines for so short the east at six, and sets in the west at six; a time that the air cannot grow warm; and and the day is just as long as the night, twelve often the snow and ice, and the hoar frost on hours in each. the grass, cannot melt all through the day. Then it rises every day two minutes ear-But it is in the long dark nights, and through lier, and sets two minutes later, and gets high-the clear frosty air, that the stars look most er at noon-day. All through June you notice bright and beautiful. but little difference in the time of sunrise and sunset; but the 21st of June is called the longest day. Then the sun rises in the northeast before four, and sets in the north-west after eight; and the day is twice as long as the night. The sun is up so long, and beats down so much on our heads, that we feel its

heat
very strongly; and the air, and the earth,
and every thing on it, gets so warmed and
baked, that there is not time in the short night
for all to cool again. Nor does the light go
quite away; the sky is of a deep grey blue,
the stars look feint, and there is often a line

The sun always appears near the same stars at the same time of year, but we cannot see those that are close to him because of the brightness of his rays; we can see no stars in the day-time. If you watch some particular star, you will find it rises a little sooner every night, and then rises before the sun is down, and then sets earlier every night, till at last you cease to see it, because it is so near the sun. And every year you may observe this at the same time, coming round every year with perfect certainty. So the stars, as well as the sun, mark out the year for us.

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But the seasons are not shown only by the Ash-Wednesday. We then for forty days heavenly bodies, but by the effects of the keep a saddened recollection of those sins for sun's heat upon the earth, causing the buds which our blessed Lord suffered, and of His to swell and burst, the leaves and flowers to fasting and temptation, which He endured for unfold, the fruits and the corn to ripen; and our sakes. The last week of Lent is the when men have gathered in the fruits of the Holy Week, or Passion Week, the most earth, thus abundantly provided for them, solemn week of the whole year, in which we and rejoiced in the beauty of the woods, and commemorate the sufferings of Christ; and fields, and gardens, the coolness of shady we call to mind His precious death on Good boughs, the songs of birds in the air, and the Friday, the day of shame, when the Lord of sweetness of the flowers,-then the time life was crucified; which we call good, for comes for all to wither and die, shrivelled and the best of gifts then given us-redemption nipped by the early frosts, or blown away by from everlasting death. Through Easter-eve the winds of autumn. And all is at rest; but we wait in silence while our Lord is laid in the trees are hardening to bear fruit and His sepulchre of stone, till the Easter Sun leaves another year; the seed is lying under begins to rise with healing on His wings. This the ground, ready to swell and sprout with festival of Easter, the highest in the year, is the first spring-rains; the snow is covering prolonged for forty days, in which we think up the ground to protect it from the frost, like upon our risen Lord; till, on Ascension-day, a thick garment. All seems dead, but all is or Holy Thursday, we see Him received up waiting. into glory; and ten days after, on Whitsunday, the feast of Pentecost, we celebrate the outpouring of the Holy Ghost. This festival also, for its greatness, is prolonged three days. Lastly, the Church calls upon us to acknowledge the glory of the eternal Trinity; and this we do on Trinity Sunday; after which the Sundays are numbered till we return again to Advent. The first half of the year, the Church, by great festivals, keeps raising our love to Christ, and leading us by holy discipline. She bids us spend the other half in bringing forth the fruit of a holy life.

course.

Besides those we have named, there are lesser festivals sprinkled all over the year,

This was all known to the heathens; they had months and seasons, and marked out the course of time with great exactness. But we Christians have another way of dividing the year into seasons, by which we are taught to spend Christian lives. We have our ecclesiastical year, or year of the Church; the course of which is taught us by the PrayerBook, and is marked out by the life of our blessed Lord. Ever since the time when He lived on earth, His Church has kept this holy It is her reckoning to begin the year with Advent, or the coming of our Lord; herein differing from all other accounts of time. And this is to let the world know that { like fragrant flowers, to refresh us. These she neither numbers the days nor measures the seasons, so much by the motion of the sun as by the course of the Saviour, beginning and continuing the year with Him, who being the true Sun of Righteousness, began now to rise upon the world, as the day-star from on high. The season of Advent leads us on to the high festival of Christmas, when we rejoice at the birth of our Lord. The feast of the Circumcision and the Epiphany follow quickly after. On this last the Church dwells with joy for five or six weeks; this joy is broken off on Septuagesima Sunday, that we may prepare for the great fast of Lent, which begins three weeks after, on

are in honor of the holy Apostles and Evangelists, the blessed Virgin, and the Baptist. One is set apart to the honor of St. Michael and all Angels, that we may duly reverence those bright spirits who minister to the heirs of salvation, and another (the last in the year) to the commemoration of All Saints, the multitude that no man can number, that we may not forget those who are knit together with us in one communion and fellowship. And as the stars which are scattered over the sky, and ever shine in their own places, so are the memories of the saints preserved from one generation to another.

Thus, in a calm and clear order, the life of

our blessed Lord, the doctrines of our holy faith, and the examples of the saints, are brought before us one after another; and as each season of the year brings its own labors and its own fruits, so each season of the Church, each Sunday, and each holy-day, brings its own duties, and remembrances, and blessings.

THE TWO YEARS.

THE natural year, swift shadow of the sun,
Wakes from the earth a chequered tapestry
To greet his footsteps as he passes on-
Snows and bright dews, sweet violets, lilies high,

Then fields of waving gold, then varied dye
Of autumn; but the snow, and violet sweet,
Lilies, and autumn's wild variety,

And waving corn, fast as the sun-beam fleet,
They bow their head, and die, beneath his hurrying feet.

Not so the holy Church doth tread.

The Year, that walketh in her light unseen,
Around its steps awakens from the dead
Hopes that shall never die. Through the serene
Of the calm Sunday, like an alley green,
Are seen the eternal towers; and where lights gild
Death's twilight portal, us and them between,
She shows her suffering Lord; throughout the wild
Still shows her suffering Lord to her faint wandering
child.

CHRIST BEFORE PILATE.

ILATE Would have chastised (deed, which these remorseless hypocrites had and released his prisoner. begun. The cruel Pilate, though he knew Even this had been an act that Jesus was delivered for envy, falsely acof cruelty for what evil cused, basely and slanderously traduced, no had Jesus done? but the longer refuses to yield to Jewish bigotry and cruelty of Pilate was tender superstition. O Saviour, thou didst fulfil mercy in comparison with that of thine own word, "I gave my back to the the Jews: no punishment would sa-smiters, and my cheeks to them that plucked tisfy them but the death of their off the hair-I hid not my face from shame victim. While the Roman gover- and spitting." Lord, how can we be suffinor again proclaims our Saviour's innocence, ciently sensible of those sins which occasioned his enemies more loudly proclaim their inve- thy bitter sufferings! Thou wert wounded terate malice. They cried the more, "Cru- for our transgressions-thou wert bruised for cify him, crucify him!" our iniquities-the chastisement of our peace As their clamor increased, the justice of was upon thee, and by thy stripes we are Pilate declined. His feeble and dubious vir-healed. tue was carried away by the tide of popular tumult. Thrice had he declared our Lord guiltless; now, "willing to content the people," he prepares to sentence him to death. O wretched slave to human ambition! Not God, not his conscience, meets with regard, but the giddy multitude-that senseless idol of the proud man's adoration, whose anger is but a fleeting shadow, whose applause is as the wind that passeth away, and cometh not again. Now must the Gentiles complete the bloody together with eager haste-each man has his

Now, into what a world of reproaches, indignities, miseries, art thou entering! To an ingenuous disposition, unmerited ignominy is torment enough;-but here, bodily anguish is added to mental suffering-and both conspire to gratify the despite and malice of thine enemies.

The perpetrators of these savage cruelties are fierce and merciless soldiers-men inured to blood-in whose very faces were written the characters of murder. These are called

appointed office-each man, joining insult to barbarity, hastens to add more sorrow to a heart that is grieved.

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Thus disguised, thus bleeding, thus mangled, art thou brought forth to the furious multitude, presented to their derision and reWas it not enough then, O Saviour, that proach. "BEHOLD THE MAN! Behold him, thy sacred body was stripped of its garments, O ye Jews, the man whom ye envied for his and disfigured with bloody stripes; but that greatness, and feared for his usurpation. Does thy person must be thus indignantly treated he now command your reverence? Will by thine inhuman enemies-thy back dis- he wrest the sceptre from the hands of Cæguised with purple robes-thy temples sar? Behold him, discolored by cruel bufwounded with a thorny crown-thy face spat fetings, wounded with thorns, torn with upon-thy cheeks buffeted-thy head smit-scourges, bathed in blood. Is he not now ten-thy hand sceptred with a reed-thyself sufficiently miserable? Would ye expose derided with bent knees and scoffing accla-him to more aggravated sufferings and tormations? Whence are all these mockeries, ment?" but to insult Majesty? Whence are the ornaments and ceremonies of royal inaugura-Pilate! His conscience bids him spare-his tion, but to cast scorn on the despised and persecuted Jesus? Was that head fit for thorns, which every eye shall hereafter see crowned with glory and supremacy? Was that hand fit for a reed, whose sceptre controlleth all the world? Was that face fit for contumelious spittings, from whose dreadful aspect impenitent sinners shall flee in guilty consternation, when he shall arise to shake terribly the earth?

What an inward war is in the heart of

regard to popularity bids him kill. His wife, warned by a dream, cautions him to refrain from shedding the blood of that just man— the importunate multitude presses him for a sentence of death. All expedients have been tried to liberate one, whom justice pronounces innocent-all violent motives are urged to condemn one, whom malice pronounces guilty. In the height of this contention, when conscience and a regard to duty are ready to gain In the mean time, whither dost thou abase the victory in the heart of Pilate, the Jews thyself, O thou Son of the Father, whither cry out, "If thou let this man go, thou art dost thou abase thyself for mankind? We not Cæsar's friend." Now Jesus must die— have sinned, and thou art punished-we have this is the fatal, the decisive allegation. In exalted ourselves, and thou art dejected—we vain shall we hope that a wicked man can have dishonored thee, and thou art scorned-prefer virtue to safety. Pilate hastens to the we have smitten thee, and thou art smitten judgment-hall-his lips no longer refuse to for us-we have clothed ourselves with pronounce the bloody sentence-"Let him shame, and thou art covered with robes of be crucified." ignominy.

As the sun does not wait for entreaties and { incantations that it may rise, but beams out at once and is welcomed by all: so wait not thou for clapping, and noises, and praises, that thou mayst do good. Let men find in thee a voluntary benefactor, and thou shalt be loved equally with the sun.

LET the measure of all that thou eatest and drinkest be the first satisfying of thine appetite; let thy relish and enjoyment be that appetite itself. Thou shalt thus not take more than enough, thou shalt want no skilful cooks, and thou shalt be well pleased with whatever drink may be at hand.