pleasure against sin.

His fear was that

which brings a constant torment to the guilty mind, rather than that contrite fear which leads the penitent to the foot of the cross, to supplicate for mercy and salvation. To avoid the conversation of his brother, which was becoming more and more annoying to him, he frequently sought the society of persons who, even during the visitation of the judgments of God, have the daring effrontery to make sport of the religion of the Bible, and "laugh at the bugbear death." Thus, while Joseph was in the sanctuary, listening to the word of life, Alfred was seated in the parlour of a neighbouring tavern, listening to the roar of merriment, and essaying to drown his uneasiness in the inebriating cup. While the one had recourse to the fountain of living waters, that his soul might be refreshed and comforted, the other ran to broken cisterns that can hold no water.

A crisis now arrived, which terminated in the separation of the orphan-brothers. One stormy evening, in the month of November, Alfred returned home at an unusually late hour. Joseph, who was seated at the table, reading his Bible, saw that he had been drinking; and, from the sullen expression of his countenance, conjectured he had been quarrelling with some of his companions. "Shut that book," he exclaimed, in a passionate tone: "I am sick of seeing you always poring over it."

Joseph hesitated to comply. In a moment the daring youth inflicted so severe a blow on the face of his brother, that he fell from his chair.

Persuaded that any remonstrance, in his present excited state, could produce no beneficial result, Joseph composedly wiped the blood from his cheek, burst into tears, and soon after retired to rest.

The next morning, while seated together at the breakfast-table, Alfred appeared to be uneasy. The recollection of his base

conduct on the preceding night filled him with sorrow and remorse; and he entreated his brother's forgiveness, which was readily granted. Encouraged by this expression of contrition on the part of his brother, Joseph besought him to forsake his sinful companions, and to seek the salvation of his soul. His godly advice, however, was utterly disregarded.

Before entering on the business of the day, Joseph proposed prayer; but the other begged to decline what he termed an unnecessary exercise. A chapter in the New Testament was then suggested; but this was objected to, with the same contumacy.

"I do not understand how it is, brother," said Joseph," but lately you seem to have steeled your heart against everything that is good, and to have acquired an unaccountable indifference to the things which

make for your peace. Be assured, the day will come when you will be sorry for it. I tremble for you."

"Tremble for yourself," was the bitter reply.

"But think, Alfred, how many have been suddenly hurried into eternity, by the malignant disease which still rages throughout the country. Who knows but you may fall a victim to it? And what will become of your soul?"

"What is that to you? Are you your brother's keeper?"

"I find, Alfred, that it is useless for me to remonstrate with you. You seem determined to have your own way, and to walk in the light of your own eyes. But beware, lest that light should betray you into perdition."

"I will hear no more, Joseph; and, if you are not satisfied, you may seek lodgings elsewhere."

"The same thought has indeed agitated my own mind; and, as I now see there is little hope of our living amicably together, I will leave you to-morrow morning. Our uncle, who resides in Liverpool, has been uniformly kind to us; and I am sure he will receive me under his hospitable roof."

Thus ended the conversation; and nothing of more than ordinary interest occurred during the remainder of the day.

The next morning, as soon as the first streaks of light beamed through the latticed window of his apartment, Joseph rose from his bed, and began to make the necessary arrangements for his departure. Alfred was still buried in sleep; and it was not till the coach stopped at the door, to convey his brother to Liverpool, that he woke from his slumbers.

"Farewell, Alfred! The coach is waiting. May God Almighty bless you!" And the tears gushed from his eyes, and almost choked his utterance, as the sorrowing youth gave expression to these parting words.

"What!" exclaimed Alfred, springing up in the bed, "are you determined to leave me?" "Yes: I told you so yesterday." "It is cruel of you, Joseph."

"But you told me to seek lodgings elsewhere. I thought my presence was an annoyance to you."

"That was only when you spoke about religion, and exhorted me to become a Methodist."

"And is religion so annoying to you? Then we must separate. I thank God for the little religion which I possess; and would not part with it for all the kingdoms of the world. It has been my chief consolation in seasons of trial. It has preserved me from those allurements which, unhappily, have led my brother astray. And hear me, Alfred, it has enabled me to bear the reproaches and persecutions of that brother without a murmur.'

"Be quick, young man," shouted the coachman, who appeared to be impatient at the delay of his passenger: "be quick! we must be going."

The brothers shook each other by the hand. "Heaven bless you!" was their hasty ejaculation, as they now, for the first time in their lives, took a formal farewell of each other.

It was a dull November day. The sun refused to shine; and a drizzling, penetrating rain was falling, while Joseph sat on the outside of the coach. A damp chillness pervaded the gloomy atmosphere; and here and there might be seen patches of dissolving snow, contrasting with the faded verdure of the surrounding fields. With a sinking heart, Joseph several times turned his eyes in the direction of his native town, till it was at length for ever hid from his sight.

Within the space of two hours he arrived in Liverpool; and he soon discovered the residence of his venerable uncle. He briefly explained the occasion of his journey. The aged man wept at the recital; and, embracing his pious nephew, assured him that, while he had a house, he should possess an equal claim to it; and as long as Providence furnished him with the comforts of life, he should share them with him.

As the evening approached, Joseph complained of being unwell. Indeed, his countenance betrayed symptoms of physical indisposition; and, taking leave of his uncle and family, he retired to his room at an early hour.

For a considerable time he slept soundly; but, towards the hour of midnight, his rest was suddenly broken by the most violent spasms. He made an effort to rise, but was utterly unable. Then calling loudly on his uncle, the whole family were soon at his bedside. A surgeon, who resided in the immediate neighbourhood, was sent for; and he promptly obeyed the summons. On examining his patient, he pronounced the symptoms to be those of malignant cholera. Suitable medicine was administered, and the medical man remained in the room to witness its effects. Joseph appeared to suffer paroxysms of the most excruciating pain; during the intervals of which he spoke of his absent brother. "I feel that I am dying," said he, in one of those intervals; "but my soul is happy in God. I shall go down to the grave in peace, and rise with a triumphant shout! I could wish to see Alfred once more. We are twinbrothers, and should not be separated now." "He shall be sent for immediately," said the weeping uncle.

"But if death should remove me before he arrives, tell him I die happy; and that my last breath was employed in prayer to Heaven for his conversion. Poor Alfred! May I meet him in a better world!"'

The spasms continued with increasing virulence; the symptoms were becoming

more and more alarming; and hope died in every bosom. At length came the crisis. The anxious family drew nearer to the bed. All held their breath, as if fearful to disturb the suffering patient. The surgeon felt his pulse; and, for the space of a quarter of an hour, the stillness of the grave pervaded the sick chamber. At length, just as the morning sun began to peep through the little window, the medical man pronounced him to be dead. Yes! the soul of Joseph had returned to its native heaven.

About midday Alfred arrived; and, with breathless anxiety, inquired after the health of Joseph. He was conducted to the chamber of death. Casting a hasty glance round the gloomy apartment, he beheld the younger members of the family bathed in tears, as they hung over the inanimate body of the youthful victim.

"But who can paint the" brother "as he stood, Pierced by severe amazement, hating life, Speechless, and fix'd in all the death of woe!" Gazing on the pallid corpse of his only brother, he stood for a moment motionless. His eyes appeared to be starting from their sockets, and his tongue refused the faintest utterance. "O God," he at length exclaimed, in a paroxysm of indescribable grief, "O God, support me in this dreadful hour! My heart will burst. But is he really dead? Is poor Joseph torn from me for ever? Perhaps he only sleeps. Wake, my brother! Speak to me, Joseph! Tell me that you forgive me. Alas! he hears me He will not speak to me. O that I could have seen him, had it been but for one moment, before death for ever sealed his lips!"

not.

Then, smiting his burning forehead, he flung himself on a chair, and hid his face in his handkerchief.

"Endeavour to be calm, Alfred," said the sympathizing uncle, on hearing the wild and incoherent expressions of his bereaved nephew; "endeavour to be calm. Your affectionate brother is removed to a better world. And shall not the Judge of all the earth do right ?"

My affectionate brother, did you say? Yes, he was full of affection. But I requited that fraternal affection with insolence and oppression. My cruelty drove him from the dwelling which paternal regard had bequeathed to us both. O that I could have heard his angel-lips pronounce the words, 'I forgive you, Alfred !"

"And that, in substance, he did pronounce," said the aged man.

"And did he speak of me before he died? Tell me, my dear uncle, what he said."

"He requested me to tell you, in case you should not arrive before his departure, that his last breath should be spent in prayer for his brother."

But I need not longer dwell on this heartrending scene; nor attempt to describe the

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agonizing feelings which lacerated the bosom of Alfred, when, on the following day, he saw the body of his only brother committed to its last earthly resting-place.

For several months a settled gloom appeared to pervade the inmost recesses of his soul. He seldom left his solitary habitation, except when business called him away. The beauties of nature, the voice of joy and gladness, and even the conversation of his friends, failed to invigorate his spirits, or to produce a smile upon his countenance. All had lost their charms. But God is merciful to the wounded spirit: "a broken

and a contrite heart" He will not "despise." And when Alfred, bowed down with the weight of his sins and sorrows, was at length enabled to struggle to the bleeding cross, and to trust in the merits of the Divine Mediator, he obtained a knowledge of salvation by the remission of sins; and the joy which this knowledge produced in his soul, supported him during the few remaining years of his life. And he is now in the kingdom of his Father, joining with his sainted brother in singing the song of Moses and the Lamb!

THE WIDOW AND HER SHIP

WRECKED SON.

IN the north of England, in a small inland village, a Lieutenant of the British Navy, after serving his country for many years, took up his abode. He had a pious wife, and six or seven children. She sent them to the village Sabbath-school; but the eldest, a boy of fourteen years, seemed determined to profit neither by maternal love, nor by pious instructions at school. His father's

rigid discipline alone restrained him from rushing into excesses of wickedness and riot. But that father died, and left his widow to combat the idleness of her boy alone. No, not alone: for she sought the help of her Heavenly Husband.

The father being dead, the son grew worse. He was ungovernable; and the afflicted widow wept, as with a broken heart, over her recreant child. Unable to restrain him, she adopted a very common mode of disposing of idle lads. She resolved to send him to sea. He could not grow worse there, she thought; and possibly the severe discipline of a ship might humble his proud spirit, and lead him to reflection.

Un

A ship was obtained for him. The bustle of preparation began, and was over. known to the youth, the mother placed a Bible in his chest, with the secret hope that its light might lead him to his heavenly Father, when he should be far off on the deep blue sea. Many were the prayers that mother offered for the son; many the counsels she gave him from the fulness of her heart. The day of separation came. It was a day of trial to all but to him who was the occasion of the sadness of that family. Warm were the tears she shed, as, pressing him to her bosom, she bade him adieu, and commended his wayward heart to God.

Many years had passed, and the wanderer had not returned. The ship had perished at sea, and the widow mourned her son as dead; and, what was worse, she trembled

been at rest. doubly lost.

It was a stormy night in mid-winter. The wind howled, and the rain poured down in torrents. The widow and her children sat beside the fire, and a chastened cheerfulness overspread the circle; though now and then a cloud of melancholy gathered over the mother's brow, as the driving storm reminded her of her lost son. A slight tap was heard at the door. It was opened. A sailor stood there, wayworn and weatherbeaten. He begged a shelter from the storm. It was not in the mother's heart to refuse a sailor on such a night, and she offered him her fireside and her food.

When he had refreshed himself, she modestly questioned him of his condition. His tale was soon told. He had been shipwrecked, and was going home poor and penniless to his mother. He had been shipwrecked before. The widow asked him to tell the story of his sufferings.

He said, that in a violent gale the ship ran ashore, and went to pieces. The crew were either drowned, or dashed to death against the rocks. Himself and another were the only persons who reached the shore. They were thrown upon the beach by a powerful wave. His companion was senseless at first, but, at last, revived,-alas! but to die. "He was a sweet youth," the sailor observed: "once he had been the terror of the ship for his excessive devotion to vice. But suddenly he had changed. He became a serious, praying man; as remarkable for When he piety now, as for vice before.

had revived a little on the beach," said the sailor," he pulled a Bible from his bosom, and pressed it to his lips. It was this blessed book, he told me, that led him to change his way of life. Rummaging his chest one day, he found a Bible: his first

impression was to throw it away; but, chancing to see his mother's writing, he paused to examine it. It was his name. It made him think of his mother, of her instructions, and the instructions of his teacher; and then he saw his sins, and felt he was a sinner. Overwhelmed, he sunk upon his knees beside his chest, and wept, and prayed, and vowed to change his way of life. And he did change it; for he became a decided Christian. After telling me about this change," continued the sailor, "he gave me his Bible, and bade me keep it for his sake; and then, falling back upon the sand, he expired with a half-offered prayer upon his lips."

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As the sailor concluded, the widow, who had listened with deep interest and feeling, inquired,

"Have you got the Bible, my friend?"

"Yes, Madam," said he; and he took from his bosom what appeared to be a bunch of old canvass. Carefully removing several envelopes, he at last produced a small pocket-Bible, and gave it into the hands of the lady,

Tremblingly and hastily she seized it. She turned to the blank page, when, lo! her child's name, in her own writing. A death-like paleness overspread her cheek, as she made the discovery, and exclaimed, 'Tis his! 'tis his! My son! my son!"

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THE TRAVELLER AT THE TOMB OF ONE OF THE KINGS OF ETRURIA.

An Italian traveller, on opening one of the regal tombs, saw upon a sort of bier the body of the deceased, arrayed in royal apparel; upon the head a kind of tiara or coronet; breastplate, armlets, and anklets, all of pure gold. The features were distinctly recognizable; the regal apparel apparently fresh; and the mind was filled with astonishiment that though deposited in that tomb some thousands of years before, the intruder felt himself in a royal presence. But while gazing with wonder and delight upon so rare a spectacle, a slight tremor was perceived in the corpse, as though an invisible power were about to inspire new life into the recumbent figure, and whilst awe filled the soul, the whole scene suddenly vanished, and nothing but the bier and the golden ornaments remained; for the sentence, long delayed, was fulfilled, "Dust thou art, and unto dust must thou return.

AGES on ages! they have pass'd o'er thee, Yet still unchanged thou restest in thy gloom,

As "dust to dust" were vainest mockery, And thou didst proudly triumph o'er the tomb:

In death a conqueror, scorning mortal blight, Crown'd as a monarch in the shades of night.

Semblance of glory! gold and gems are thine,

And regal purple, and a monarch's wreath; And jewell'd fingers in their last cold shrine, Ashy and stiffen'd in the grasp of death, Gleam in the darkness; they have proudly shone

In days of triumph,-hath the glory gone?

Empires have fallen; vanish'd thrones and Kings;

New dynasties arisen; stars that shed

Substance of an extract contained in the Life of the Rev. John Ely: communicated by the Rev. W. H. Sargent.

Wide radiance, sleep with earth's forgotten things;

Powers and dominions, they have been and fled!

Yet thou remainest, as but now thy head
Were laid to slumber on its last cold bed!

Ages on ages! yet unstain'd thy robe

Of regal glory; all undimm'd thy crown! Are they immortal? Is the dust inurn'd

With such vain relies of thy proud renown, By them made changeless? or with noiseless tread

Hath time pass'd by, nor known thee with the dead.

Ages on ages! yet the pallid brow

Hath its own form of beauty; the closed eye

Sleeps 'neath its ebon fringes, as e'en now

Its living orb might flash forth witchery: And on the parted lips a smile-the last! Ere death made all thy life a vision past.

Yet not a vision! thou didst live, and love, And joy, and suffer; hope, and mourn, and

trust;

'Midst thronging thousands gaily, proudly

move,

A King, perchance a conqueror! e'en thy dust

Such tale revealeth, and in kingly guise Thou waitest for the judgment-call," Arise!"

So mused the wanderer: he had gazed and gazed

On that still form in regal pomp array'd, And beautiful in slumber; now amazed And awe-struck, he doth tremble! hath the shade

Of the lone corse re-enter'd its frail home? For lo! it quivereth e'en as ocean's foam!

"NONE OTHER NAME." "There is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved."

NONE other name but Thine,
Redeemer, King divine!

Shall not the earth, with loud and glad acclaim,

Exult and triumph in a Saviour's name?
And bow the knee

In faith's adoring, meek humility?

None other name but Thine!
The weary-hearted pine

In vain for solace: bid them trust in Thee!
The sad, the sever'd, whither should they flee,
But to Thy breast?

There, there alone the sorrowful have rest.

None other name but Thine! Kneel, mourner, at that shrine: Perchance thine heart is desolate and lone, The loved, the cherish'd fondly,-all are gone!

The light that shed

Around thine home calm radiance it hath fled.

Yet these are Thine,-the lost,-
The erring tempest-toss'd;

The weak who suffer, and the wrong'd who sigh:

Earth's darkest children in their agony
Thou lov'st to save,

And rescue from the midnight of the grave.

BUCKINGHAM PALACE. WESTMINSTER has been for many centuries the "Court end" of London. Long as united England has had her Kings, here has been the chief royal residence. In Westminster their Parliaments assembled. In Westminster was the "King's Bench," from which his Judges administered justice.

This was done sometimes by himself in person. That venerable old English edifice, Westminster-Hall, opens into what is still called "Palace-Yard;" and though little remains beyond names and antiquarian records to bear testimony of the fact, the ground on the banks of the Thames from Whitehall to the splendid erection, the new