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THE DEATH OF FRIENDS.

BY MAC.

"Impress

Indelible, Death's image on his heart,

Bleeding for others, trembling for himself."-YOUNG.

THERE are certain periods in the life of man, which sometimes appear like unbidden guests, and leave an impression on the memory which after events can never wholly efface-periods which stand so prominent in the path we have trod, that on looking back we discern them standing as we Some of these periods afford us matter for much joy, both at the time they happen and in after years; others seem to start like spectres in our way, only to afford sorrow and pain; and others have so much of joy and sorrow mingled, as to produce both extremes according to the light in which they are viewed. The death of friends sometimes partakes of each description. Rarely, indeed, can we view their death with unmixed joy, but sometimes we can. When, for instance, some dear friend, after suffering the greatest pain for a length of time, with no prospect of relief on this side the grave, having tears and sorrows for his meat, is at last released by death, with the glorious hope of immortality, we can sometimes look upon his death with joy. When, if our own wishes for his life were granted, they would only be accompanied with suffering and distress, we are sometimes able to sacrifice joyfully our own feeling and desires, in the assurance that our friend's sufferings are o'erhis pains and griefs for ever gone-his tears for ever wiped away. What joy could we experience, though he were still spared, when our souls are continually rent with anguish as we behold his sufferings when every moment which adds to his suffering here, also keeps him from the enjoyment of heaven? Far be it from any one to desire the death of friends in such circumstances-let God's will be done; but need they sorrow when it is His will to release them from their pain? Our grief is thus dried up in the joy we experience; and, every time memory carries us back to their death-bed, our enfeebled faith is strengthened, and we strive, in the words of scripture, "to live the life of the righteous that our latter end may be like his." When we are ourselves in suffering and distress, we are often rejoiced amidst our tears when we think of the faith and patience of the departed, and their dying examples speak in words of comfort and of power. When our journey in life is embittered with painful trials-when our hearts are deeply pierced with many sorrows-we are encouraged to bear up against them when we think of those

"Not lost but gone before."

As when a man, journeying on a dreary road under great privations, is encouraged to persevere when he remembers he is going to his father's home, where he will meet those friends who have travelled the same road before; so, the death of friends in these circumstances may often communicate joy to our breasts and chase our sighing and sorrow away.

But the death of friends may sometimes be the cause of the greatest sorrow. A friend may die when he is most needed-such as a dear parent; father and mother may both become the prey of the "insatiate archer," and we, mayhap left in the days of youth, surrounded with many temptations, yet no one from whom we can receive advice, or to whom we can, with confidence, embosom our souls. Or it may be that the husband is deprived of the wife of his bosom-the partner of his cares and of his joys-when he most required her sweet advice and her many tender endearments to soothe him amidst his cares, or when her love and watchful care were required for the objects of her affections in their helpless days. Or it may be that the wife is deprived of her husbandher stay and comfort—and left, perhaps, to toil and suffering and tears; or it may be that, as a widow, she is deprived of her "only son," on whom she centred her affections, to whom she looked forward for support in her declining years, whose hand she fondly hoped should smooth her dying pillow and lay her honoured head with reverence in the tomb. In these and many other like cases is the death of friends sorrowful-the heart throbs with convulsive emotion, and almost chokes the utterance with its sighs and sobs. Oh! how these occasions furrow the brow and make the head hoary before the time! No smile lights up the countenance -we go along the streets with our heads hanging down-strength seems departed from us-former pleasures can give us no relief-they make our grief still more grievous. Every object which belonged to the departed reminds us of them, and opens anew the fountain of our tears. How we then think of them! How many graces we see in their characters which we formerly overlooked! We think that if we had them again with us, we would treat them with more kindness and love-no unkind word would ever pass our lips, nor would we harbour an unkind thought regarding them.

Sorrow, deep sorrow, may follow the death of friends in such cases, but with how much greater sorrow are we afflicted, should there be “ no hope in their death "”—if their lives have been stained with crime, and they have gone to the grave without repentance or peace. We can easily imagine the not unfrequent occurrence (alas! that it should be so) of a "prodigal son," drawn away by the solicitations of evil companions, enticed by the glowing scenes which imagination has pictured, but experience proves to be false. We can imagine him casting off parental restraint, deaf alike to the commands and entreaties of his loving parents, treating their tears with mockery and their admonitions with disdain. Can we conceive the grief which eats away the peace of his parents' hearts, as they find all the anxiety with which they watched him in infancy abused, and the fond hopes they cherished of him entirely blasted? Who can paint the grief of the mother on whose breast he hung in infancy, and for whom so many prayers were breathed to Heaven? Who can paint the father's grief? His brow is marked with it his sleepless nights, his secret moments, should tell, with too convincing power, the sorrow of his heart. What consolation, then, can

these parents have in the death of their son, when no repentance marks his last moments- when they are only embittered with disappointed hope and unavailing remorse ?—

"Prayers then extorted may be vain,
The hour of mercy past."

Ah! surely such a death must strike a heavier blow than even his sinful life. Such was the case with "the sweet singer of Israel," when he mourned over his lost son:-"Oh! Absalom my son, my son; would God that I had died for thee!" We can think of the old man wringing his hands and rending his garments with grief when he heard of the death of his unfortunate son; how touchingly do his words express the love he felt for his ungrateful and rebellious son!

The death of friends, however, may sometimes take place under a different aspect, and produce somewhat different feelings in the breast. Let me transport you to a house of mourning, because a house of death : see, the windows are darkened, and we can discern the dim shadow-the indescribable gloom, which death has cast around; the girl who opens the door is filled with sorrow, and her eyes are red with weeping. Hark! these voices tremulous with emotion-interrupted with stifled sobs-are feebly attempting to raise the well-known hymn in which they have often joined, but never with such overwhelming feelings. Tread softly, for they have now finished. Let us stay here a moment. Hear you not that low, feeble voice in prayer; we cannot discern the words, but it gets louder, while heart-rending sobs are heard; it is entreating for some life to be spared, and as from the heart seems that prayer to come: but it concludes "Thy will be done." Let us enter. Why do all these weep? That young man, so pale and weak, and yet so young, that we are apt to think death might well spare him, is now addressing these weeping friends-bidding them farewell. He tells them that shortly he will “die and appear before God." See how they weep! But he adds, "I die with joy; my heart feels no fear; I know in whom I have believed; but I charge you to meet me there," as he raises his trembling hand and points it upward. He takes his mother's hand, and with a heart-rending shriek she falls upon his neck and weeps over him-"Oh, my son, my child! must you, then, leave your poor mother?" and again she hugs him to her bosom, as if that could shield him from the grim king. He tries to comfort her, though himself nigh overcome: he speaks to her of his hope, and how joyfully they will meet again, where death will part no more. He now takes his father's and his sister's hands, while he gives them his blessing. Oh! who can describe that scene, as they each “fell upon his neck and kissed him," while their hearts are too much filled with sorrow to utter even one farewell. Other friends now shake his withered hand, and to each he speaks a word of comfort; but exhausted he falls back upon his pillow, and his spirit seems to have fled; but he revives, and the man of God-the ambassador of Heaven-approaches and whispers those words of comfort which are fitted to his case. He then takes that good man's hand and thanks him for all his kindness- his

admonitions and his prayers; every word he utters seems as a breath from heaven, and they all hearken to them as the words of one who will shortly enter upon its bliss. Exhausted he has again fallen back, and scarce a sob is heard from his surrounding friends as they eagerly watch him in his last moments: he looks around them-that look whispers peace; and, with the softness of the zephyr in the summer noon, he has breathed his spirit away. He is dead! but why do these friends still look so intensely? They cannot believe that this is death, till the man of God breaks the silence, with a whispered prayer for "those still left behind." Oh! see how the mother again grasps that youthful form to her breast, and kisses its pale lips, while her tears drop scalding on those insensible cheeks! But she is borne away in a swoon; and let us hasten away.

Who was he, you ask, whose calm and peaceful death we now witnessed? He was a dutiful son; he was a loving brother, a dear friend— "the child of many prayers." Early was he brought to know the truth, and early was his life conformed to its commands. He had consecrated his life to the service of God; his great wish was to preach unto others what he so dearly prized himself. His days and nights were spent in study, and in doing good; often might his lamp be seen flickering through the gloom of night, while he pored over the sacred page. He died young, who, had it been the will of Heaven to spare him, would have been a blessing to the world. And surely, then, his friends had cause for sorrow; but they had also cause for joy-they did not "sorrow as those who have no hope."

"Why should they weep for him who, having won

The bound of his appointed years, at last,

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done,
Serenely to his final rest hath past,

While the soft memory of his virtues yet

Lingers, like twilight hues, when the bright sun hath set?"

In cases such as this the heart is often disturbed with conflicting emotions—with the extremes of sorrow and of joy; we know not whether to weep or smile. When we think of the many hallowed associations and endearing remembrances connected with our friendship, the tears oft come unbidden, and sighs, loaded with sorrow, escape from the breast; yet, on the other hand, when we reflect upon his virtues-the hopes he breathed in death—the calm serenity of his death-bed—that he is taken "from the evil to come" to the felicity of heaven-these thoughts

"May charm the bosom of a weeping friend,
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,

And pensive pleasure with devotion blend :
While oft he fancies music sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint."

It is one of the amiable traits in the character of man, that the remembrance of departed friends never entirely fades from the mind; and to us it appears an additional proof of the immortality of the soul. And, in many cases, had we not the hope-nay, the assurance-that when this scene of

things is over, there is another and a better world, where "death-divided friends shall meet," the death of friends would be insupportable; we would be unable to bear the sorrow attendant thereon. This assurance Revelation gives; and, would we wish to die happy, and have a happy re-union with our friends, we must have our hearts and conduct ruled according to its dictates, contained in the standard of truth. It has become fashionable with certain parties to despise, or at least neglect, that standard: they will have anything but it. Let us, however, remind them, that there are few fashions at a death-bed; that at the death-bed of friends, or at their own, this question will either be forced upon their minds, or become a subject of delight. Better, far better then, it must be to prepare for it now, as the Bible directs, than, by waiting “till a more convenient season," we find ourselves involved in confusion, misery, and despair.

Were we inclined, we might profitably contrast authenticated "deathscenes" of the two parties, and show of which it might be truly said, "the death of that man is peace." We think, however, enough has at present been said to show how paramount the influence of religion is at the death of friends-how paramount it is to the peace and consolation of the mourner; and we may, therefore, easily deduce the necessity of religion in preparing us for that solemn period when we must struggle with the last foe. If, at that time, as during our lives, the benign influence of religion be exhibited, we will leave an impression on the memory of our friends never to be effaced, which will whisper with a "still small voice" amidst the noise and tumult of the world-"Go ye and do likewise."

Glasgow.

THE MOORMAN'S TALE.

BY THE REV. J. YOUNG, M.A.

"There's horror in his looks,

His wild and bloodshot eye proclaims a tale

Which language may not speak; conscience in arms;
Remorse and horror mingle into one,
Wide-gaping ruin opes to take him in."

OTWAY.

I HAVE frequently been surprised at the breathless eagerness with which a tale of mystery or horror has been listened to, and the undisguised pleasure which individuals have displayed while attending to a narrative with which a more than. ordinary degree of moral delinquency, or even bloodshed, has been associated. Whether such inexplicable propensity may or may not arise from superstition, begotten and fostered by ignorance, or from sheer brutality of mind, which is not uncommonly the offspring of the former, I pretend not to determine; the solution of the problem I leave, on the present occasion, to be decided by those who delight to dabble in metaphysical science, contenting myself with suggesting the query I have advanced. But to the tale itself.

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