THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

BY THE REV. JOSEPH SORTAIN,

A. B.

It was on one of the dreariest days of last winter that I received an urgent summons to the sick chamber of a dear friend. My feelings were unusually depressed, for the wind was howling with a piteousness that extorted from the bosom the sympathy of a deep sigh. A thick mist, composed of fog and sleet, shrouded the offing of the ocean, while in the front ground of our mastless waters there could only be seen flocks of white sea-mew, whirling and screaming amid the equally white breakers. From such ominous associations, it was a startling duty to move toward the chamber of death. It was mid-day; but, for the purpose of cherishing abstraction from all earthly objects without, my friend's shutters were closed, and nothing but the pale light of the fire relieved my sudden stepping into darkness.

He was in the prime of life-at the height of prosperity in his profession-with a wife and eight children. When we had last met-but a few weeks since his spirits so exuberant, his wit, his play of fancy, his tender friendship-all deep-dyed with religious feeling—had been so contagious with the large circle in which we were together mingling, that one general expression of regret burst forth at his departure. I now saw him lying transversely on his bed, for the purpose of grasping the frame

His fine full countenance eye, which had ever been

work during his paroxysms of pain. was indrawn and haggard, while the dancing in brilliancy, was fixed and dissolved in affection upon our greeting.

He laid his hand upon his heart, and before I could summon power of utterance, he whispered, "All is peace-true peace." Even the physical impression which this produced upon me was thrilling: I had just left a scene where the elements were in gloom and discontent-here was a sweet serene atmosphere.

My friend, apart from his religious consolations, had much that threatened to unman him. A few years of prolonged life and energy would have enabled him, from the results of his profession, to leave his wife and daughters, if not in affluence, in comfort, while his sons would have grown up, aided in their education by his learning, and furthered in their worldly prospects by his living influence. It was a bitter dreg in his cup to leave his widow and his orphans to the mercies of a rude, selfish world. As he lay sleepless at night, there would come the harrowing vision before him of that wife oppressed-imposed on by coward plotters against defenceless woman, and of those children flying to her bosom to weep-whilst his arm, one manly stroke of which could have delivered them, would be bloodless in the tomb. This was human nature. This was the weak point against which Satan could plant his assault. As if made by Divine mercy, to all others, invulnerable, this seemed a fair mark for the envenomed arrow.

It was during one of these bitter struggles that I next visited my friend. He was in fierce pain, both of body and mind. He could not speak. He convulsively grasped my hand, and motioned me to pray. His wife knelt with me. Our supplications were broken-disjointed by grief. Partly as an unpremeditated allusion, partly as a promise which we pleaded, the