After these words he said, "I have lived to see this world is made up of perturbations, and I have been long preparing to leave it, and gathering comfort for the dreadful hour of making my account with God, which I now apprehend to be near; and though I have by his grace loved him in my youth and feared him in mine age, and laboured to have a conscience void of offence to him and to all men, yet if thou, O Lord, be extreme to mark what I have done amiss, who can abide it? and therefore where I have failed, Lord, show mercy to me, for I plead not my own righteousness, but the forgiveness of my unrighteousness, for his merits who died to purchase a pardon for penitent sinners. And since I owe thee a death, O Lord, let it not be terrible: and then take thine own time, I submit to it. Let not mine, O Lord, but let thy will be done."

This passage is, we know, familiar to a large portion of our readers; but, if we may judge from our own feelings, it can never cease to be interesting. We did not intend to quote it all, but, having commenced, we knew not where to stop until we reached the end; nor can we forbear to add his last words, which he addressed to Doctor Saravia on waking from the slumber into which he fell after uttering what is quoted above. "Good Doctor," said he, "God hath heard my daily petitions; for I am at peace with all men and he is at peace with me; and from which blessed assurance I feel that inward joy which this world can neither give nor take from me. "More he would have spoken," remarks his biographer, Isaac Walton, in language of simple eloquence, beautifully appropriate to the occasion, "but his spirits failed him; and after a short conflict betwixt nature and death, a quiet sigh put a period to his last breath, and so he fell asleep.

"

In how striking a manner does this great and holy man express the estimate which his experience in life had led him to form of earthly things: "I have lived to see that this world is made up of perturbations." Not only is it subject to causes of disquiet, disturbed

in its course and thrown into disorder, by occasional and accidental occurrences, but it is "made up of perturbations," all things in it shifting like the sands of the desert or the waves of the sea. Nothing is stable, save that which bears upon it the impress of eternity. And yet Hooker, in meditating upon the confused and unquiet scenes of earth, and contrasting them with the order and harmony of the heavenly hosts, indulges in no feelings of disgust. He looks upon it all with tender concern for those who have suffered with himself the evils of a fallen, sinful nature, and prays that the same grace which has rescued him from their power may abound to all. Though about to quit the world, his spirit already, as it were, in advance of his body and holding communion with heaven, he cannot forget his fellow-men. Contemplating the obedience, the order, the peace which reign among those with whom he is soon to associate, he exclaims, "Oh! that it might be so on earth!" How richly was he imbued with the spirit of Him who has taught us habitually to pray, "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

Many such instructive lessons may be learned from the expressions of holy men in the closing scenes of life. We shall adduce but one other instance, and it is from the life of one worthy in all respects to be named with Hooker, and probably the purest specimen of human nature elevated and sanctified by divine grace which modern times have produced.

Archbishop Leighton, to whom we refer, though always labouring for the good of his fellow-creatures, was for many years before his death anxious to depart to his home. The world had ceased to interest him, except as a place of labour for God and preparation for eternity. And yet it was not in a melancholy tone that he was accustomed to speak of death. "To him," says the Rev. J. N. Pearson, "death had lost its sting; it was become a pleasant theme, and gave occasion to some of his most cheerful sayings."

"In general," the same writer remarks, "his temper was serene rather than gay; but his nephew states that

if ever it rose to an unusual pitch of vivacity, it was when some illness attacked him; when 'from the shaking of the prison doors he was led to hope that some of those brisk blasts would throw them open and give him the release he coveted.' 'Then he seemed to stand tiptoe on the margin of eternity in a delightful amazement of spirit, eagerly awaiting the summons to depart, and feeding his soul with the prospect of immortal life and glory. Sometimes, while contemplating his future resting-place, he would break out, with pious George Herbert,

"O let me roost and nestle there;

Then of a sinner thou art rid,
And I of hope and fear."

The following beautiful language is from a letter supposed to have been written by Leighton a short time before his death:

"I find daily more and more reason without me, and within me yet much more, to pant and long to be gone. I am grown exceeding uneasy in writing and speaking, yea, almost in thinking, when I reflect how cloudy our clearest thoughts are: but I think again, what other can we do till the day break and the shadows flee away, ås one that lieth awake in the night must be thinking; and one thought that will likely oftenest return, when by all other thoughts he finds relief, is, when will it be day?"

The last act of Leighton's life was an errand of mercy. In 1684, he was earnestly requested by Burnet to go up to London to visit a nobleman who had bogun to feel much compunction for his lamentable departure from virtue, and had expressed an earnest desire to have the benefit of the bishop's counsel. Though with such feelings of illness as probably led to his presentiment that death was at hand, he said, "The worse 1 am, the more I choose to go, that I may give one pull at yon poor brother, and snatch him, if possible, from the infectious air of the court. Burnet on meeting him, expressed his gratification at his look

ng so well. His reply was, "that for all that he was very near his end, and his work and journey both were now almost done." At the expiration of this period his anxious desires had been gratified, and he had exchanged the perturbations of the world for the enduring and untroubled rest of heaven.

THE RIVER OF DEATH.

Death has been often compared to a river which we are all rapidly approaching, and eternity called the country beyond. The writer and readers of these lines may well enough be supposed to have already gone over one half the distance necessary to bring us to this awful stream. During our journey thus far, we have not only sought to procure subsistence by the way, but to provide something for the future; some of us grasping at wealth, some at honour, some at rare attainments in human learning. But have we all duly considered this important question? Are our treasures of a kind to be carried over the river, either sent forward to await our own landing on the opposite shore, or as part of our baggage at the time of passing? Should it prove otherwise, we must find ourselves under the terrible necessity of leaving them all in a world which we can never again visit, and doomed to endless misery.

Now, the word of God has decided, that when we leave this world, "we can carry nothing out of it.” The only safe attempt, therefore, is to send our treasures forward, so as to have them laid up in heaven against our arrival. But how shall this be done? Neither gold nor silver can be sent across the river in our way; houses and lands still less; bank paper is uncurrent off this earth; the honour that comes from man, as also mere human knowledge, seem equally valueless beyond the tomb. But, remark, all these things are the rewards of human labour, undertaken for self alone.

But there is such a thing as expending our strength

in the service of God; and lo! here we find the solution of our difficulties: for such labours meet their chief reward beyond the fatal stream. The divine promise in relation to them, as we may gather from various parts of the Bible, is present maintenance; but the chief payment is after death. Here, then, is the means of sending before us all the earnings of our lives. We may render the matter secure, that when we pass into eternity, we shall go to our treasures, not leave them behind. Should the reader question the certainty of this, the word of God comes in proof: "Who will render to every man according to his deeds: to them who by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for glory, and honour, and immortality, eternal life. (Rom. ii. 6, 7.)

On the other hand, let the man know, who labours for this world, he is laying up wealth only to leave it for ever; and just in proportion to his gains will be the loss which he is surely and speedily to sustain. Let him affix the label to each successive addition to his fortune, "This is to be left behind when death calls for me." In this manner he may escape that most bitter disappointment which awaits every inconsiderate lover of earthly good. All who labour for earthly treasures ought fully to keep in mind, their reward is to be upon earth, and must be left here whenever they are called into eternity.

RICH AND POOR.

Poor men sometimes think what a fine thing it would be if all the property of the rich were equally divided amongst them, and that in future no one should be allowed to grow rich; but they little consider what would be the consequence of such a measure. In the first place, they must begin by robbery, as no one could expect that the rich people would willingly part with their property; and in the next place they would find, after this iniquity had been committed, and an equal division of the whole property of the nation had been made, that each person's share would be a very small