all grades, and of all generations, without distinction, and to them goeth forth the assurance that God has mercy and abundant pardon, ready to meet the uplifting of their eyes to his throne of grace. Lift up thine eyes, then, thou downcast mourner in Zion, to the holy habitation of God, and behold, to thine amazement, that over his countenance there spreads, at the meeting of his eyes with thine, the joy and the tenderness of a father who has long been watching for the return of his prodigal son, and waiting to be gracious. To know if "any good thing can come out of Nazareth," thou must come and see;" and so must thou taste and see that the Lord is gracious. "Come unto him, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and he will give you rest." Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock," at the door of grace, and it will fly open. Blessed opening! It is the gate of heaven, with its green pastures, its living waters, spreading to infinity behind it. 66 But O! let us beware of mistaking the mercy of God, or twisting it round to the bent of our own sinful inclination. Ha! we are apt to confine our views of mercy to these gates of heaven; and in our very prayers to think only of mercy dispensed from the throne of judgment on our naked souls. O! it is not thereit is on this side of heaven and the grave that all the mercy of God is dispensed and applied: and verily just because God is infinitely more merciful than we are inclined to have him. For he will not only bestow upon us that rich inheritance of honour, glory, and immortality, which Christ has purchased for us with his blood, but qualify us for the enjoyment of them, by a sanctification of our nature, a refinement of our taste, and an elevation of our desires, without which heaven would be unto us a poorer inheritance than even the earth itself with all its sorrows. We, in a word, would seek only to be saved from the penalty of sin, but God wants to save us likewise from its power. THE TRUE VALUE OF DYING TESTIMONIES. (Concluded from p. 259.) IN estimating dying testimonies, it is moreover important that we be not indifferent to peculiarities of individual temperament, or to what is called, in technical terms, the idiosyncrasy of the sufferer. Character is not only modified by circumstances, but it differs in its nature and essence. Of its distinctions every physiologist is well aware, and is accustomed to class temperaments under the heads of phlegmatic, nervous, sanguine, and lymphatic. In vain shall we expect from any one person the indivi dualities of another. The physical torture, which made every form fit the bed of Procrustes, was not more enormous than would be the moral injustice which should measure each by a common standard. The man of impulsive emotion must not expect from the cool-headed his own proper indications; nor must he, in whom a calculating temperament prevails, imagine that all is vain enthusiasm which transcends his own moderation. In this computation, neither national characteristics, nor habits of early education, should be forgotten. In many cases, calm serenity and confidence in long tried principles, will be worth as much as a thousand burning words thrown off by the more impetuous; in others, the instinct of righteous faith will be recognised as Divine, where there is little power of argument; whilst in others, again, expressions of transport to which the speakers have been little accustomed, will be acknowledged as the highest form of the sublime. The death-bed of the imaginative author of Theron and Aspasio, was the close of a life truly edifying. "You tell me that I have but a few moments to live-Oh, let me spend them in adoring our great Redeemer! thou mayest well be reckoned among the treasures Oh, welcome, welcome, death! of the Christian!" HERVEY'S last words were"The great conflict is over-all is done!" The development of a more equable, though not more holy character, is apparent in the last words of MATTHEW HENRY:-" You have been used to take notice of the sayings of dying men, this is mine: that a life spent in the service of God, and communion with him, is the most comfortable and pleasant life that any one can live in the present world." kind of genial wit; it flashed even upon the scaffold, SIR THOMAS MORE was always distinguished by a and did not indicate in him the levity which it might have manifested in another. LATIMER'S humour was apparent in his dying saying-" Be of good cheer, Master Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God's grace as shall never be put out." The same predisposition was shown by another eminently holy man of the present times. A merchant of London, visiting the death-bed of the Rev. R. HILL, said "Sir, I heard of your illness on 'Change."- "Any effect on the funds?" was the being asked by the Rev. W. Jay if he felt his perarch yet innocent rejoinder. The same minister, sonal interest in Christ-"I can see," he replied, 46 more of my Saviour's glory than of my interest in nd I shall creep into heaven under some crevice of him. God is letting me down gently into the grave, the door." The last sentence is eminently characteristic. The REV. A. FULLER, whose intellect, though most vigorous, was of the calm and collected order, was frequently heard to exclaim," My mind is calm -no raptures-no despondency;" and on one occasion he used the following emphatic expression-My hope is such, that I am not afraid to plunge into eternity." Could the effect of the most triumphant end be stronger? Nor must we forget, in estimating a dying scene, the nature and physical effect of the last sickness. Certain conditions of the physical system produce effects well known to medical observers; but, by spectators, almost incredible. Every one familiar with death-beds knows the lethargy which is so deep as to be incapable of any excitement. In a striking picture which we have seen exhibited in London, an old man is represented on his dying couch, whilst his son, a debauched prodigal, sits upon his bedside, and a clergyman is vainly attempting to awaken the departing patient's consciousness to important truths. THE TRUE VALUE OF DYING TESTIMONIES. A slighter manifestation of this lethargy has been often, however, mistaken by the bystander for peace within. On the other hand, the influence of bile upon the system produces frequently all the symptoms of hypochondriasis. The abstraction of large quantities of blood, or the vitiation of that fluid from whatever cause, together with the train of symptoms known by the name of "hysteria," considerably modify the phenomena of dying sensations. It is almost superfluous to observe, that in cases of diseases of the brain, religion is exhibited in irregular light, or gloomy darkness, whilst the judgment is altogether irresponsible. No instance of such effects is more melancholy than that of our domestic poet, CowPER. 267 from him this snare, and his joy became unspeak- Terrified by the prospect of an appearance before the House of Lords, to qualify himself for the office of clerk of the journals, in the face of a strong opposition, he attempted more than once to commit an act of suicide, though he was mercifully prevented from accomplishing his purpose. His state of mental conflict continued. This was insanity. From this awful condition he was, however, aroused to lay hold on the consolations of the gospel of Christ, and during some considerable period he enjoyed religion in all its blessed efficacy. The dark hour, however, returned, and threw its deep shadow over the rest of his life; he believed himself forsaken of God, and destined to eternal punishment, whilst yet he bore witness to the Divine goodness, and vindicated the justice of his own sentence. In this admission, the observer will trace the real direction of the obscured reason. When death was near, we are informed by Dr Johnson, his relative, that he ventured to offer him consolation, by speaking of his approaching re-it, aroused her from her state of lethargic stupor, and lief from the sorrows of his life, and by pointing him to the happiness which the merciful Redeemer had prepared for his children. In an agony of earnestness the dying poet entreated him to desist," clearly proving," says his biographer, "that, though he was on the eve of being invested with angelic light, the darkness of delusion still veiled his spirit." We envy not the man who could draw an unfavourable conclusion from such a spectacle. The writer was himself acquainted with a poor woman, who, though long distinguished by her piety, had suffered under an insurmountable gloom, which obstinately rejected all religious consolation, whilst the evidence of Divine grace was yet to be traced amidst the chaos. In this depressed state she continued as long as speech remained; when, however, she could no longer express herself, a sudden change occurred; her altered manner and significant gestures indicated the sudden freedom of her spirit, and she departed in joy. Would it have been just to augur unfavourably of her state, even if this last evidence had happened to be wanting? THOMAS PEACOCK, B.D., was a man of remarkable piety and deep humility. After his first mortal seizure, his time was entirely employed in exercises of the most devout piety. Soon, however, he became involved in gloom, which he thus singularly explained:-"I thought I had been in a good state, but I see it now far otherwise. My conscience lays these things against me. I brought up my scholars in gluttony, letting them eat their fill of meat when they lived with me. Whilst I was talking, they did undo themselves. I did unadvisedly expound places of Scripture at the table; and for these things I now feel a hell in my conscience. I have procured my own death, by often eating like a beast." Argument and remonstrance were for some time unavailing. Yet he continued to express the deepest abhorrence of sin, though he declared himself guilty of the most abandoned hypocrisy. It pleased God to remove One instance, at least, occurs to us, in which the disclosure to the patient of the almost certainty of a fatal termination, and of preparations to be made for was the first step in her ultimate recovery. But, admitting the whole force of the objection-it does not appear to us by any means to warrant the course too often adopted; for the effect of the announcement— if made with due caution and prudence-the attendant is not responsible. "Disease, and the methods of cure," it has been remarked, "lie within the province of a medical attendant, and under certain circumstances it may not be proper to interfere with him. Yet, when there is little or no reasonable expectation of recovery, there is a degree of cruelty in keeping up a delusion, and thus encouraging a patient to delay turning to God till he cannot turn in his bed. The practice may be traced to an indifference to religion, or an ignorance of its real character." It is the truth itself that is terrible; and that truth demands to be proclaimed for man's benefit, as soon as it is clearly discovered, or even rendered very probable. George IV. was not informed, we believe, till a very short time before his death, of the urgency of his danger, if indeed he knew it at all; and the awful death-bed of Louis XV. of France, which we shall refer to in another connection, exhibited one of the most unprincipled contentions ever recorded, as to whether or no that sinner should be informed of his imminent danger. It is probable that many instances of calmness and courage, which have astonished the distant hearer, may be referrible to the fact, that the patients did not know themselves to be dying. Another consideration also, too frequently passed over, ought to receive due attention. During sickness, and especially the last sickness, trains of thought often arise, in answer to the suggestion of others, rather than from the spontaneous action of the patient's own mind, Every one knows with what jealousy the bench and the bar regard what are termed "leading questions." A sick man often only reflects the opinions of ministers and friends standing around his dying pillow, perhaps at some distance of time. Instead of speaking for himself, he has but repeated what they have suggested. And, as in the examination of judicial witnesses, a simple "yes," or "no," in reply to a question, has appeared in the report as if the witness had uttered a whole sentiment; so a dying man has often seemed to express opinions to which he was, at best, only an imperfect and faltering respondent. Nor must it be imagined that, because the deathhour is near, its subject can be no longer influenced by the desire of applause, or the ambition of ending his life with effect. Many instances might be cited, where, in the teeth of the most notorious facts, a bad man has put a dying gloss upon his sins and crimes. The faise apostle of the east, Mohammed, "died, and made no sign." The writer remembers to have witnessed, almost involuntarily, an execution at Newgate, many years since. When one of the malefactors was brought out upon the scaffold, his last words were a vehement denial of the justice of his sentence, and the cry of "Murder! Murder!" rang fearfully in the ears of the spectators. After his death, fresh evidence appeared, which could leave no reasonable doubt of his actual guilt. The record of "Remarkable German Criminal Trials" relates an instance of a man, named John Paul Foster, who was convicted of a double murder on the clearest evidence; and who, on his first committal (from which he was then discharged), declared to some of his companions, that "if ever he got into trouble again, he would persist in denial till his tongue turned black and rotted in his mouth, and his body was bent double." Though possessed of a large amount of religious knowledge, and often apparently beset by the pangs of a guilty conscience, he continued sullen and impenetrable; and, though yet in prison (his sentence was confinement for life), during upwards of twentyfive years has maintained his guilty obstinacy. The recent case of RUSH illustrates the same point, and the records of crime and punishment afford innumerable illustrations of the same principle. The name of LORD BYRON is as familiar as its associations are melancholy. His history was throughout peculiar, and its contrasts hideous. He had rank and genius; the latter was of a noble order, and was powerful alike in description and in passion, in I pathos and in satire. His fame was sudden and resplendent; and although taste has already abated somewhat of its lustre, it was not in the main deceptive. The circumstances of his early life might claim our pity, if pity were not overpowered by the strong moral reprobation demanded by his deliberate errors. Irregular and petulant as a boy; debauched and outrageous as a youth; entering upon life with every accompaniment of riot on the one hand, and sad disappointment on the other; contracting marriage with as heartless a selfishness as ever disgraced humanity, and surrounded after it by all the irregularities of vice and entanglement-the age of thirty saw him, "with all his household gods shivered around him;" separated from his wife-self-divorced from his country-a Prometheus" (to use his own title), with all the vultures of conscience let loose upon his soul. His genius, which, properly nurtured, might have illuminated mankind, flared with a self-consum. ing fire. In the triumphs of his first success, he wrung from an admiring public, as piece after piece appeared, tributes of admiration never equalled; yet he ended his career by making his high powers instruments of the most bitter infidelity, the most caustic malice, and the most self-degrading buffoonery. His death was doubtless, in its remote cause, produced by habits of intoxication freely indulged, and by the otherwise severe regimen he instituted to preserve his Apollo like beauty. Self-will had been the leading impulse of his life, and was his ruling passion at the last. He had been exposed after a debauch to inclement weather, and was overtaken by dangerous sickness. No persuasion could induce him to submit to the necessary remedies. In vain was early bleeding urged upon him; he persisted in his resistance to the remedy till it was too late. He died at Missolonghi, in Greece, April 19th, 1824. "It is with infinite pain," says one of his physicians, “I must state, that though I seldom left lord Byron's pillow during the latter part of his illness, I did not hear him make any, even the smallest, mention of religion. At one moment, I heard him say, 'Shall I sue for mercy?' After a long pause, he added- Come, come, no weakness; let's be a man to the last!'" In the "History (by Dr Calamy) of his Life and Times," is recorded a melancholy and awful instance of spiritual stupidity at the approach of death :-A young man who had been the special favourite of his father and mother, had "run through an unusual course of villany and impiety," causing the death of his mother, by suicide, during a season of "melancholy madness" produced by his excesses; and after being detected in an act of robbery, was confined in Newgate, convicted, and condemned to die. At the earnest request of his father, Dr Calamy visited him in prison. He found the young man "very stiff and sullen, exceeding captious with his father, and ready to snarl at him at every turn, and warm in his resentment of several things that had passed." Dr Calamy set before him with faithfulness the sin and misery of his sinful course, and at length went so far as to promise him (the doctor was in favour at court), that if he would humble himself before God and his father, and avow his intention to live in the future to some good purpose, he would engage to gain for him a reprieve on the following Wednesday; holding out some hope also, that the reprieve might be accompanied by a pardon. "Sir," said he, "I scorn any thing of that nature, and had rather die with my company." "This I must confess," writes Dr Calamy," raised my indignation, and I freely told him that such sort of talk fully convinced me that he had not duly considered what death was, nor was aware of the consequences which, in his case, would follow upon it. I asked him, if he really believed that his soul would survive his body; and that, if he left this world without true repentance, he must as certainly be for ever miserable as he was then living; and that the wrath of God was as intolerable as it was inevitable. He told me, with tears trickling down his cheeks, that he most firmly believed all this, and yet found his heart so hard and unaffected, that nothing of this nature would move it. His carriage plainly discovered a peculiar carelessness; for, in the midst of this serious discourse between him and me, he on a sudden turned to his father, and said, 'Sir, wont you come and see me at the tree?' at which the old man was so much moved, that he broke out into a flood of tears, and ran to the other end of the chapel, wringing his hands, and taking on most lamentably at his wretched stupidity." All endeavours were vain. The offer made by Dr Calamy was repeated the next morning by Dr Jekyl, but without effect. The conclusion which Dr Jekyl arrived at (we state the facts, and leave our readers to make their own comment), was, that "if he were any longer spared, he would be very likely to prove a yet further and greater curse than ever." The man was executed without manifesting the least sign of penitence. It appeared in the sequel, that when this malefactor was a child and thought to be dying, his father had prayed so earnestly for his life as to have ventured to say, "Let him prove what he will, so he is but spared, I shall be satisfied." THE TRUE VALUE OF DYING TESTIMONIES. An In another part of this volume, the reader will observe two cases of death-the expressions in one suggested probably by the other, in which good and holy men left their last protest against what they designated "death-bed scenes." Such is the weakness of human nature, even in the Christian, that earthly feelings do sometimes intrude even on a spot so consecrated to God as the dying pillow. anecdote of Whitefield, though well known, is not inapposite to these observations:-"In the last visit but one which he paid to America, he spent a day or two at Princetown, under the roof of the Rev. Dr Finley, then president of the college of that place. After dinner the doctor said, 'Mr Whitefield, I hope it will be very long before you will be called home; but when that event shall arrive, I shall be glad to hear the noble testimony you will bear for God.' You would be disappointed, doctor,' said Whitefield, 'I shall die silent. It has pleased God to enable me to bear so many testimonies for him during my life, that he will require none from me when I die. No, no; it is your dumb Christians, that have walked in fear and darkness, and thereby been unable to bear a testimony for God during their lives, that he compels to speak out for him on their death-beds.' The manner of Whitefield's death verified the prediction." We fear that, on points like these, sufficient care has not been always exercised; and that in their haste to make out a case which they have desired, with the most benevolent impulses, to be true, even Christian men have been often mistaken. When, too, we remember in what haste funeral sermons are often and necessarily prepared, it will not appear very strange if even ministers have not always painted the moral portrait with adequate care, and have sometimes uttered conclusions to which, with more time for thought, they would never have become committed. Nor is even religious biography, though admitting of more time for careful preparation, free from the fault of adopting conclusions more in accordance with the wishes of survivors, than with the real merits of the case itself. Many of the preceding observations, if they have any weight, bear with considerable force upon what are called "death-bed conversions." And when expressions of faith and hope occur in the departure of those who, during life, have rejected God's religious government, they are often greedily seized and exhibited as if they were unquestionably convincing. The following conversation, which lately occurred, is a common thought, put into words-"Have you heard of the death of -?" "No." "She died suddenly." "Was she prepared to die?" "Oh, she was a very wild girl, but she died quite happy." The false ground of hope was, in this case, a few religious sentiments uttered at life's last hour. Far be it from us to rate at any low estimate the power of God's infinite mercy, or to doubt the possibility of a conversion at the last. As long as it is the glory of God to forgive sins, so long is there the certainty that every returning sinner shall be accepted of him, and the greatest encouragement is therefore offered to all to return and seek his face. This needs not to be put falteringly. They indeed deny it who would exhibit the atonement with reserve; but to evangelical Christians, this full and free offer is the glory of the gospel. Salvation is a gift, without the "money," and without the "price," of previous acts of virtue. Divine grace is omnipotent! The most skilful medical practitioner must turn away from some cases of disease as too deep-too long seatedtoo desperate; but the Redeemer of men disdains no earnest entreaty-" Lord Jesus, have mercy upon me!" The succours of the gospel apply to the most 269 hardened habit of renunciation of God. All agree, that the sin which cannot be forgiven is marked by the want of desire on the part of the sinner that it shall be forgiven; so that, wherever there is penitence, there is the offer of Christ and his salvation; and not only so, but Christ and his salvation are offered to all, in order to stimulate their penitence, and to excite their hope. Each repenting and returning sinner must, then, as God is true, be most certainly saved; justified by the imputation of Christ's righteousness, and admitted to the advantages of a pardon, as prompt as free. The records of pastoral life furnish not unfrequent cases, in which the awakenings of sickness and impending death have proved valuable in directing and moulding all the future life. Baxter, giving an account of the plague-year, says "The face of death did so awaken preachers and hearers, that the former exceeded themselves in lively fervent preaching, and the latter heard with a peculiar ardour and attention. And, through the blessing of God, many were converted from their carelessness, impenitence, and youthful lusts and vanities, and religion took that hold on people's hearts as could never afterwards be loosed." Indeed, it was the expectation of early death which had quickened, though not excited, Baxter's own religious emotions. Let it be remembered, however, that in the case of a death-bed, the question is not-Can this man be accepted of Christ? but-Is he really the repenting sinner whom Christ has promised to accept? 46 We Feelings may put on the garb of truth, yet not be true; the man may imagine himself converted, yet be only seeking his "oil "when the "bridegroom cometh." Our Lord has, therefore, exhibited the life as the test, not only of the opinions of the individual, but of their force and power. By their fruits ye shall know them." "Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven." The storm which tosses the surface into the wildest disorder, may leave the depths below in perfect calmness. How then can we know that, in any given case, the alteration is one, not merely of temperament, but of nature and being? Only by the living proof of the fact. The event alone will show whether the administered medicine have been so received into the system as to effect a cure, or whether the inserted fluid, which is to prevent a deeper poison, have penetrated the whole man. can only judge with truth of the depth of a man's hatred of sin, by seeing the principle in action on the sins which have "so easily beset him;" or of the amount of his love for Christ, by witnessing its conquest of the other vanities which he has the opportunity of loving. Apart from such evidence, we may hope, but we can do no more. As we we do not hold the drunkard to be reformed, because for a week or two, or for even a month or two, he has refrained from his accustomed practice, so with regard to alleged death-bed conversions, the issue alone can satisfactorily prove the fact of the renewal. True it is, that if, during the course of a prolonged sickness, there shall be the proofs of temper mortified and patience in exercise, and especially if these shall be exhibited in increasing power, the hope will be greatly strengthened; yet, so long as the force of old tempta tions are distant, there will always be something wanting to a full and perfect proof. The wise will, therefore, express themselves on death-bed conversions with a discriminating caution. The story has often been told of a minister in the north, who, after having visited many sick-beds, computed the number of cases in which the results corresponded with the promise, and found, if we remem The true grounds of consolation are widely different from any such narrow and partial conclusions. As, in a painting, it is breadth of light, and shade, and colour, which gratify the eye of the connoisseur, so, in Christian character, it is the approach to a large uniformity which alone can give satisfaction of the highest order. If religious principle have been, during the life, distinctly prominent-evidently the motive to action, and the stimulus of hope; if in the calm and the tempest, the mariner has been known to pilot his vessel in one direction, and towards one ascertained point; and if, at the last, his eye shall dilate, and a calm tranquillity gather over his mind as he recognises that point at hand, though none can discern it besides himself, there may be more than the hope-there may be the assured confidence that the haven is neared, and that the voyage will issue in a prosperous close. It is thus that the Christianity of life receives at death a fresh emphasis, and an accumulated power. What the believer rejoiced in with the world around, he exults in more deeply with the world away. The drawbacks which are necessary to be made in dubious cases, are no drawbacks now. Some of the feelings may indeed be deceptive; languor, or medicine, or the excitability of a disordered mind, may, in the eye of the scientific, be mingled up with them all; but as the emotions correspond with the known principles of all his former life, they are like clouds and vapours, lighted up by hues of golden radiance, all unreal and unsubstantial it is true, but testifying the power of the glorious sunshine which renders them magnificent. Even where a temporary darkness may come on, the argument of the life is remembered, encouraging the firmest hope that, however gloomy the "even-tide," there will be "a morn without clouds." But other scenes there are, in which, with intelligence and judgment all awake, however attenuated the body, the dying Christian seems to breathe the air of heaven before his time, and to stand irradiated by its light in brilliant relief upon a clouded world; brighter in his end than during his whole life before; emblem on earth of the state to which he is hastening, and where the promise shall be fulfilled-" The sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory." A FIRESIDE STORY ABOUT A MOTHER'S LOVE. A HIGHLAND widow left her home early one morning, in order to reach, before evening, the residence of a kinsman who had promised to assist her to pay her rent. She carried on her back her only child, a boy two years old. The journey was a long one. I was following the same wild and lonely path when I first heard the story I am going to tell you. The mountain-track, after leaving the small village by the sea-shore where the widow lived, passes through a green valley, watered by a peaceful stream which flows from a neighbouring lake; it then winds along the margin of the solitary lake, until, near its further end, it suddenly turns into an extensive copse-wood of oak and birch. From this it emerges half-way up a rugged mountain-side; and, entering a dark glen. through which a torrent rushes amidst great masses of granite, it at last conducts the traveller, by a zig-zag ascent, to a narrow gorge, which is hemmed in upon every side by giant precipices; overhead is a strip of blue sky, while all below is dark and gloomy. From this mountain-pass the widow's dwelling was ten miles off, and no human habitation was nearer than her own. She had undertaken a long journey indeed! But the rent was due some weeks before, and the sub-factor threatened to dispossess her, as the village in which she lived, and in which her family had lived for two generations, was about to be swept away, in order to enlarge a sheep-farm. Indeed, along the margin of the quiet stream which watered the green valley, and along the shore of the lake, might even then be traced the ruins of many a hamlet, where happy and contented people once lived, but where no sound is now heard except the bleat of a solitary sheep, or the scream of the eagle, as he wheels his flight among the dizzy precipices. The morning when the widow left her home, gave promise of a lovely day. But, before noon, a sudden change took place in the weather. Northward, the sky became black and lowering. Masses of clouds rested upon the hills. Sudden gusts of wind began to whistle among the rocks, and to ruffle, with black squalls, the surface of the loch. The wind was succeeded by rain, and the rain by sleet, and sleet by a heavy fall of snow. It was the month of May-for that storm is yet remembered as the "great May flakes of snow falling heavier or faster, or whirling storm." The wildest day of winter never beheld with more fury through the mountain-pass, filling every hollow and whitening every rock! Weary, and wet, and cold, the widow reached that pass with her child. She knew that a mile beyond it there was a mountain shieling which could give shelter; but the moment she attempted to face the storm of snow which was rushing through the gorge, all hope failed of proceeding in that direction. To turn home was equally impossible. She must find shelter. The wild cat's or fox's den would be welcome. After wandering for some time among the huge fragments of granite which skirted the base of the overhanging precipices, she at last found a more sheltered nook. She crouched beneath a projecting hedge of rock, and pressed her child to her trembling bosom. The storm continued to rage. The snow was accumulating overhead. Hour after hour passed. It became bitterly cold. The evening approached. The widow's heart was sick with fear and anxiety. Her child—| her only child-was all she thought of. She wrapt him in her shawl. But the poor thing had been scantily clad, and the shawl was thin and worn. The widow was poor, and her clothing could hardly defend herself from the piercing cold of such a night as this. But whatever was to become of herself, her child must be preserved. The snow, in whirling eddies, entered the recess, which afforded them at best but miserable shelter. The night came on. The wretched mother stripped off almost all her own clothing and wrapped it round her child, whom, at last, in despair, she put into a deep crevice of the |