is nothing exaggerated; and it is made up of the simplest and most scriptural materials and images. We seem to stand in a flood of light poured on us from the open gates of Paradise. It falls on every leaf and shrub by the way-side; it is reflected from the crystal streams, that between grassy banks wind amidst groves of fruit-trees into vineyards and flowergardens. These fields of Beulah are just below the gate of heaven; and with the light of heaven there come floating down the melodies of heaven: so that here there is almost an open revelation of the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.

During the last days of that eminent man of God, Dr. Payson, he once said, 'When I formerly read Bunyan's description of the land of Beulah, where the sun shines and the birds sing day and night, I used to doubt whether there was such a place; but now my own experience has convinced me of it, and it infinitely transcends all my previous conceptions.' The best possible commentary on the glowing description in Bunyan is to be found in that very remarkable letter dictated by Dr. Payson to his sister, a few weeks before his death. 'Were I to adopt the figurative language of Bunyan, I might date this letter from the land of Beulah, of which I have been for weeks a happy inhabitant. The Celestial City is full in my view. Its glories beam upon me; its breezes fan me; its odours are wafted to me; its sounds strike upon my ears; and its spirit is breathed into my heart. Nothing separates me from it but the River of Death, which now appears but as an insignificant rill, that may be crossed at a single step, whenever God shall give permission. The Sun of Righteousness has been drawing nearer and nearer, appearing larger and brighter as he approached; and now he fills the whole hemisphere; pouring forth a flood of glory, in which I seem to float like an insect in the beams of the sun; exulting, yet almost trembling, while I gaze on this excessive brightness, and wondering, with unutterable wonder, why God should deign thus to shine upon a sinful worm.'

There is perhaps, in all our language, no record of a

Christian's happiness before death so striking as this. What is it not worth, to enjoy such consolations as these, in our pilgrimage, and especially to experience such foretastes of heaven, as we draw near to the River of Death, such revelations of God in Christ as can swallow up the fears and pains of dying, and make the soul exult in the vision of a Saviour's loveliness, the assurance of a Saviour's mercy? There is no self-denial, no toil, no suffering in this life which is worthy to be compared for a moment with such blessedness.

It is very remarkable that Bunyan has, as it were, attempted to lift the veil from the grave, from eternity, in the beatific closing part of the Pilgrim's Progress, and to depict what passes, or may be supposed to pass, with the souls of the righteous immediately after death. There is a very familiar verse of Watts, founded on the unsuccessful effort of the mind to conceive definitely the manner of that existence into which the immortal spirit is to be ushered.

'In vain the fancy strives to paint

The moment after death;

The glories that surround the saint
In yielding up his breath.'

The old poet, Henry Vaughan, in his fragment on 'Heaven in Prospect,' refers to the same uncertainty, in stanzas that, though somewhat quaint, are very striking.

'Dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just,

Shining nowhere but in the dark,

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

'He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know

At first sight if the bird be flown;

But what fair field or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

'And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.'

LIFE'S COMPANIONS.-Charles Mackay.

[The Expression,' in the first three stanzas of this piece, is marked by the tones of animation, cheerfulness, composure, joy, and courage; it changes in the next three, to regret,-in the seventh to earnest but tender entreaty,—in the eighth, to sublime aspiration and triumph.]

When I set sail on Life's young voyage,

'Twas upon a stormy sea;

But to cheer me night and day,
Through the perils of the way,

With me went companions three;
Three companions, kind and faithful,
Dearer far than friend or bride,

Heedless of the stormy weather,
Hand in hand they came together,
Ever smiling at my side.

One was Health, my lusty comrade,

Cherry-cheeked and stout of limb;
Though my board was scant of cheer,
And my drink but water clear,

I was thankful, blessed with him.
One was mild-eyed Peace of Spirit,

Who, though storms the welkin swept,

Waking, gave me calm reliance,
And though tempests howled defiance,
Smoothed my pillow while I slept.

One was Hope, my dearest comrade,
Never absent from my breast,

Brightest in the darkest days,
Kindest in the roughest ways,

Dearer far than all the rest.

And though Wealth, nor Fame, nor Station,
Journeyed with me o'er the sea;
Stout of heart, all danger scorning,
Nought cared I, in life's young morning,
For their lordly company.

But, alas! ere night has darkened,
I have lost companions twain;

And the third with tearful eyes,
Worn and wasted, often flies,

But as oft returns again.

And, instead of those departed,
Spectres twin around me flit;
Pointing each with shadowy finger,
Nightly at my couch they linger;
Daily at my board they sit.

Oh! alas! that I have followed
In the hot pursuit of Wealth;
Though I've gained the prize of gold,·
Eyes are dim, and blood is cold,

I have lost my comrade, Health.
Care, instead, the withered beldam,
Steals the enjoyment from my cup,
Hugs me, that I cannot quit her;
Makes my choicest morsels bitter;
Seals the founts of pleasure up.
Ah! alas! that Fame allured me,
She so false, and I so blind, -
Sweet her smiles; but in the chase
I have lost the happy face

Of my comrade, PEACE OF MIND;
And instead, Remorse, pale phantom,
Tracks my feet, where'er I go;

All the day I see her scowling,
In my sleep I hear her howling,
Wildly flirting to and fro.

Last of all my dear companions,

Hope! sweet Hope! befriend me yet!

Do not from my side depart,

Do not leave my lonely heart

All to darkness and regret!

Short and sad is now my voyage

O'er this gloom-encompassed sea,

But not cheerless altogether,-
Whatsoe'er the wind and weather,-
Will it seem, if blessed with thee.

Dim thine eyes are, turning earthwards,
Shadowy pale, and thin thy form ;-
Turned to heaven thine eyes grow bright,
All thy form expands in light,

Soft and beautiful and warm.

Look then upwards! lead me heavenwards! Guide me o'er this darkening sea!

Pale remorse shall fade before me,

And the gloom shall brighten o'er me,

If I have a friend in Thee.

HENRY MARTYN.-Macaulay.

[An exercise in the reading of biographical narrative, imbodying all the highest qualities of sentiment and language, and a corresponding intensity of Expression" and vividness of 'Variation.']*

Towards the middle of the last century, John Martyn of Truro was working with his hands in the mines near that town. He was a wise man, who, knowing the right use of leisure hours, employed them so as to qualify himself for higher and more lucrative pursuits; and who, knowing the right use of money, devoted his enlarged means to procure for his four children a liberal education. Henry, the younger of his sons, was accordingly entered at the university of Cambridge, where, in January, 1801, he obtained the degree of bachelor of arts, with the honorary rank of senior wrangler. There also he became the disciple, and as he himself would have said, the convert of Charles Simeon. Under the counsels of that eminent teacher, the guidance of Mr. Wilberforce, and the active aid of Mr. Grant, he entered the East India Company's service, as a chaplain. After a residence in Hindostan of about five years, he returned homewards through Persia, in broken health. Pausing at Shiraz, he laboured there, during twelve months, with the ardour of a man, who, distinctly perceiving the near approach of death, feared lest it should intercept the great work for which alone he desired to live. That work, (the translation of the New Testament into Persian,) at length accomplished, he resumed his way towards Constantinople, followed his Mimander, (one Hassan Aga,) at a gallop, nearly the whole distance from Tabriz to Tocat, under the rays of a burning sun, and the pressure of continual fever.

On the 6th of October, 1812, in the thirty-second year of his age, he brought the journal of his life to a premature close,

* Passages such as the above, serve to exemplify the style of elocution in obituary discourses.