THE LAY OF A PILGRIM. Let the world frown-my ransomed soul ascends Let the world frown-my world is not below Let the world frown-soon shall I leave behind Let the world frown-its triumph of a day Thy Saviour guides thee onward, upward, home. R. H. D. A PAGE FROM A TEACHER'S NOTE BOOK. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.” Ox making enquiries one Sunday after J. B, an interesting boy about ten years of age, whom on that day I had missed from his accustomed place in his class, I found that he was kept away by illness, but was little prepared from what I heard, for the scene that awaited me on visiting him the following day. Little did I expect, to find the child, whom but a few days before I had seen in strong health, so soon cut down. Never shall I forget the deep grief with which the affectionate mother watched over her much-loved child, as he convulsively gasped for breath. The little sufferer was evidently near the termination of his pains, and though at the time, my heart was almost too full to speak a few words of comfort to the sorrowing parent, I trust the lesson was not in vain. And it is with the hope that thou, fellow-teacher, whoever thou art, as well as myself, mayest by God's blessing, learn something from such a scene, that I have penned this simple narrative. The lesson then I think we may both learn is, never to let any light reason keep us away from our class. What a lesson is here "to redeem the time," remembering that the days are evil. Alas, how small an excuse do we often consider sufficient to cause a teacher to absent himself from his post! But would this be so did we realize the value of the souls committed to our care, and feel that each might be the last opportunity permitted us of speaking to our scholars of the things concerning their peace? How can we know that any one of them, or even that we ourselves, may not be cut off before another Sabbath? Surely, the consideration of these things should excite us to more diligence, "To work while it is day, because that night presseth on in which no man can work." Terrible as was the whirlwind and the earthquake to the conscience of the guilty prophet, shrinking from the work given him to do, much more terrible, I believe, must have been that "still small voice" saying, "What doest thou here Elijah ?" So I doubt not would the "still small voice" of conscience within, if allowed to speak, often say to the absent Sabbath school teacher, "What doest thou here ?" Let us then strive by God's grace, to be constant in our duty, and each time we are permitted to meet our class, so to improve the opportunity, that if our next summons be to meet them on a deathbed, or at the judgement seat of Christ, we may be able to say with respect to each one, I am free from the blood of this child committed to my care. W. S. N. MINISTERIAL RECOLLECTIONS. I.-WILLIAM WILSON.-DEATH. Ir was but a short time after my appointment to the Curacy of T-, that I witnessed for the first time, the actual separation of the soul from the body. Death was a subject which had often occupied my thoughts; all that I had ever heard or read of it, conspired to make me shrink from being a spectator of the closing scene of life. It seemed as though it must be hard to witness a fellow-creature's agony, to see him growing gradually weaker, to hear his unavailing cries, and yet to be unable to minister relief or whisper comfort, or delay the too hasty approach of the king of terrors. On the day to which I refer, these ideas presented themselves to my mind with more than their usual vividness. I was quite downcast at the thought, that many such scenes were before me, and that it was my duty never to be absent from them, but always to seek out the sick and dying, as all good ministers ever have done. And it may be reasonably conjectured, that as this was my only motive, (for I knew not then the power of the Gospel in saving souls, nor the comforts of the Gospel in nature's most trying hour,) it will be easily supposed, that as a sense of duty was my only motive to stimulate zeal, it was with a heavy heart I lifted the latch of Mrs. Wilson's door. She lived near the parsonage, and as I had baptized her child, an infant of three-weeks old, only a few days before, I now called to enquire after it. On entering the cottage, several of the neighbours bade me welcome, and Mrs. W. motioned me to come towards the cradle. Poor thing, she too had never witnessed death before, and now her only child, lying convulsed and livid, gave undeniable evidence that the last enemy was struggling with it. I was asked to pray, and kneeling down, we besought the Lord to have mercy upon the child, to comfort the mother, and to sanctify the circumstance to us. On rising from prayer, it was evident that the contest would soon be over. We watched the countenance of the dying child with most intense interest; at first it seemed to suffer a great deal of pain; the little hands grasped the counterpane convulsively, the muscles of the face and neck twitched and quivered, the mouth was distorted and drawn aside. After a short time, all these symptoms of suffering passed away, and the sweet babe lay slumbering gently in its little cot; it seemed to me as if the malady had spent itself. I began to imagine its restoration to strength and the returning hue of health; but my hopes did not last long. Awaking with a sigh it opened its eyes, and gazing sweetly in its mother's face-smiled away its life. So sudden was its death, and yet so plainly and evidently did it die, that we knew not what to think or do. And were it not that the mother's sobs told her distress, and that she required our attention, we should willingly have looked on that terrorless image of death for a much longer period. But while one of the attendants threw a clean white cloth over the cradle, another led away the weeping mother, and I slowly left the house on my way homewards, repeating to myself, "This is death." It was a time for reflection. Death is not so terrible as it appears afar off; it is but the snapping of a silver cord, the breaking of a golden bowl. Death is the sleep of exhausted nature. The tired body lies down to rest, and the spirit returns to God. It is the work of a moment. The most protracted dying is not long; only its effects are matter of anxiety, What follows death? If we can think calmly of this, we need have no concern for the time or the way of its appearing. It was a time for prayer. "Except ye be converted and become as little children." The words intend some great moral change, which but few have undergone. O God, make me acquainted with it, and from my own experience may I make it known to others. It was a time to read the future. That infant's death, and the circumstances attending it, have been a type and emblem of my ministry ever since. Never once has word or act of mine, done anything apparently, towards the conversion of a sinner, or the building up of a believer; yet it has been my privilege often to see the clouds of doubt and fear, dispelled by the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit. I have only looked on. But God has dealt graciously. The once ignorant has drawn from his own heart, treasures of knowledge, and has taught me. The once downcast has had his face lighted up with a heavenly smile on his dying bed, and has reproved my sadness. The once fearful and coward soul, lingering on the banks of Jordan, and afraid to essay the journey, has at length boldly plunged into the boiling flood, has breasted manfully the surging billows, and has reached the joys beyond. II.-MRS. MARSDEN.-DEVOTEDNESS TO GOD. Sarah Marsden was the wife of a railway labourer; it was a love match; her parents were in comfortable circumstances, and she might have naturally looked for a better settlement, but her heart was given away to James Marsden; for him she resigned home and its enjoyments; with him she was content to endure the ills and wants which poverty entails. James proved a true and affectionate husband; all that he could he did for Sarah, and she was happy. They had two children-the eldest was taken by her father, the youngest, a little girl, was its mother's pride and the companion of her lonely hours. But Sarah and her husband were careless about their souls; neither of them looked beyond this world, or thought of dying. One Sunday, after evening service, a message was brought to me that Mrs. Marsden was ill and greatly distressed. I immediately set out for her cottage, which was about a mile distant from where I lived, and on entering, at once perceived that the tidings were not overdrawn; the marks of rapid decline were plainly stamped on her face. To my enquiries she answered, that for a long time she had felt poorly, but was unwilling that her husband should know it, he would be so distressed, but that within the last two days she had been obliged to send for the doctor. I asked her if she were prepared to die? "Oh," said she, "not yet, not yet, I cannot leave my husband, and there is no one to love and care for my child." It was a moving case-one so young, and so unfit to die, suddenly called away; one so bound to the world, so attached to her husband and her child, summoned to resign all that her heart held dear. But God was preparing her for more worthy objects of love, and was calling her to centre her affections in Him; He would have her call Him, Ishi. It is needless to repeat what was spoken that night. Enough-she had many years ago been taught in a Sunday school Gospel Truth, and now memory recalled long-forgotten lessons, and after many days, the bread cast upon the waters was found. I left her in a singular condition. A chord had been touched which awaked the instruction, the hopes, the pursuits of childhood, while as yet her heart was unengrossed by the world, and she subscribed herself by the name of Jacob Conviction of sin and of present misery, succeeded to fear of death, and desire for life. This was a step towards heaven. On my next visit her whole anxiety was about the way of pardon; and as I read passages of Scripture, which seemed suitable, she derived comfort. But the way of God's dealings was remarkable. As a striking illustration of God's mercy was read, she listened to it, solely with reference to the manner in which her teacher had explained it to her before. In this way she drank in rivers of comfort; in this way Christ was formed within her the hope of glory and as her pale cheek was tinged with a hectic hue from excitement, as her breast heaved and her dark eye sparkled, as her lips moved and words of gratitude were half uttered, I thought that the experience of the Apostle was again realised—" Who shall deliver me from the body of this death. Thanks be to God which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." From this time, till her death, what was chiefly remarkable in her conduct was her unceasing desire to glorify God. Many a time she used to say in the words of a hymn, learned when a child— "O could I tell to all around How great a Saviour I have found." And I well remember her look of reproof and sorrow, as I was one day about to leave her without prayer, because several persons, strangers to me, were in the room. Always her desire was to express thanks. She felt how little she could shew of gratitude, and yet how incumbent it was, that she should offer praise to the utmost of her ability. With regard to her child, she left it as her dying request, that her husband would keep her to school, both daily and on the Sabbath, and she entreated him to consider his ways and be wise, to learn from her how short is life, and, while he had the opportunity, to buy the truth and sell it not. About three weeks after this her illness terminated, by the sudden bursting of a blood vessel. She was very weak when I saw her last, but even in death she trusted in Jesus, and his strength was made perfect in her weakness. She seemed cheerful and happy. On asking |