'glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end,'-the young children from the forest started from their seats, in wondering joy, while the changing colour and quivering lip of the elders evinced that the hallowed music woke deep echo in their bosoms. But with what breathless attention did they hang upon every word of bishop Ravenscroft; as with his own peculiar combination of zeal and tenderness, he illustrated the inspired passage which he had chosen, or, with a sudden rush of strong and stormy eloquence, broke up the fountains of the soul. Listening and weeping, they gathered up the manna, which an audience satiated with the bread of heaven, and prodigal of angel's food, might have suffered to perish. With the hoary patriarch, a throng of his descendants, who had been duly prepared for this holy vow and profession, knelt around the altar, in commemoration of their crucified Redeemer. At the close of the communion service, when about to depart to his home, the white-haired man drew near to the bishop. Gratitude for the high privileges in which he had participated; reverence for the father in God whom he had that day for the first time beheld; consciousness that his aged eyes could but a little

longer look upon the things of time, and that he could scarcely expect again to stand amid these his children, to 'behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple,' overwhelmed his spirit. Pressing the hand of the bishop, and raising his eyes heavenward, he said, with the earnestness of humble devotion, 'Lord! now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.'

Bishop Ravenscroft fixed on him one of those piercing glances which seemed to read the soul;and then tears, like the large rain-drops, rushed down his cheeks. Recovering from his emotion, he pronounced, with affectionate dignity, the benediction, 'the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'

The patriarch, bowing down a head heavy with the snows of more than fourscore winters, breathed a thanksgiving to God, and turned homeward followed by all his kindred. Summer had glided away, ere it was in my power again to visit the lodge in the wilderness.' As I was taking, in the autumn twilight, my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of rustic appearance approaching with hasty steps accosted me.

"Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water, and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come to him?"

Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished. With the light of the early morning, I commenced my journey. Autumn had infused chillness into the atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy into the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness the passing away of the glories of summer, and to robe herself for humiliation.

As the sun increased in power, more of cheerfulness overspread the landscape. The pines were busily disseminating their winged seeds. Like insects, with a floating motion, they spread around for miles. Large droves of swine made their repast upon this half ethereal food. How mindful is nature of her humblest pensioners!

As I approached the cluster of cottages, which now assumed the appearance of a village, the eldest son advanced to meet me. His head declined like one struggling with a grief which he would fain subdue. Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips. Neither of us spoke a word: yet it was written clearly on his countenance, come quickly ere he

die.' We entered together the dwelling of the good patriarch. One glance convinced me that he was not long to be of our company. His posterity were gathered in sorrow around him:

"For drooping, sickening, dying, they began
Whom they revered as God, to mourn as man.'

He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of that Saviour who went not up to joy until he first suffered pain,' his brow again lighted with the calmness of one whose 'way to eternal joy was to suffer with Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to die with him.' Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that the holy communion might be once more administered to him and his children. There was a separation around his bed. Those who had been accustomed to partake with him, drew near and knelt around the dying. Fixing his eye on the others, he said with an energy of tone which we thought had forsaken him: "Will ye thus be divided at the last day?" A burst of wailing grief was the reply.

Never will that scene be effaced from my remembrance: the expressive features and thrilling responses of the patriarch, into whose expiring body the soul returned with power, that it might leave this last