returned to his engagement. But about seven o'clock, intelligence reached us that he was seized with illness. We hastened to the spot, and found him speechless and senseless-unconscious of any thing. Medical aid was soon procured; bleeding and other means were resorted to, but nothing would restore consciousness. He was removed home ; other remedies were applied-anxious and loving friends did all for him that lay in their power to do; but the master had called, the summons had come, so that about nine o'clock it was discovered that the vital spark had fled. Yes, it was a fact, though we could hardly realize it, still it was a fact that our dear brother Ward, who only a little more than two hours before was in his usual health and spirits, was now no more. The scene at that crisis was overwhelming-it was truly a 66 a house of mourning;" we all felt that we had sustained a heavy loss; and yet we felt sure that our loss was his gain.

Thus "suddenly he threw his shackles by,
Nor bore a single pang at parting;

Nor saw the tear of sorrow starting;

Nor heard the quivering lips that blessed him;
Nor felt the hands of love that pressed him."
So did he die-It was,

"All bliss, without a pang to cloud it;

All joy, without a pain to shroud it;
Not slain, but caught up, as it were,

To meet his Saviour in the air."

Painless and swift his spirit had fled;
The soul undrest,

From her mortal vest,

Had stepped in her car of heavenly fire,

And proved how bright,

Were the realms of light,

Bursting at once upon the sight."

Brother Ward thus suddenly ceased to live and labour, and entered on his everlasting reward, March 29th, 1858, in the 57th year of his age. On the morning of "Good Friday" we assembled to carry his mortal remains to their resting place. Great respect was shown by the inhabitants of Ripley and the vicinity. Besides the hundreds of people that crowded the streets along which the procession moved, the various ministers and principal tradesmen of the town walked in procession before the hearse; and the Teachers and Scholars of the School, and many of the members of the church followed after. The funeral service was conducted in the chapel by the writer, and then the body was placed in the family vault outside, where it awaits the resurrection to everlasting life. His death was improved on a subsequent Sabbath, to a crowded congregation, by the Rev. E. Stevenson, of Loughborough.

Our consolation under the bereavement is, to know that the Lord has done it; and that, "He doeth all things well." We are not ignorant concerning them who are asleep, and hence we sorrow not as others who have no hope. We have hope. We believe that our departed brother has gone to be with Jesus. Though we have no death-bed experience to relate, yet we have the experience of a long, consistent, and useful life. We know how he lived, and how he laboured for God. We know that he was a man of faith and prayer, and that he ever sought to excel to the edifying of the church.

We are not going to pronounce him faultless. No doubt he had his failings; and of these no one was more sensible than himself. But taking him altogether, perhaps he is not excelled by many. As a husband, he was remarkably tender and affectionate. As a Christian, he honoured his profession, and sought to glorify God. As a Deacon, he used his office well, and always had the welfare of Zion at heart. His place in the house of God and at the Lord's table, was never vacant, except through illness or absence from home, which however was not often. As an occasional preacher, for some years, he laboured diligently and acceptably; and though for the last few years of his life he had declined preaching, yet he had engaged to give an address or short lecture on Tuesday evening, March 30th. But instead of addressing the people, he was gone to appear before his God. As a Tradesman, he was just in all his transactions, and God was with him and prospered him. And as a friend and neighbour, he was kind and obliging, and so was beloved and esteemed by all. In him, the Church at Ripley and the town generally, have suffered a loss which will not soon be repaired. But our prayer is, that the Great Head of the Universal Church may overrule this event for his peoples' good and for his own glory: May he be a husband to the widow, and a friend to the friendless; and may those of us who have laboured and conversed with him, learn from his sudden removal, to be more faithful in our master's service; and at length, when we have done with all below, may we meet him again in heaven, and go no more out for ever.

I LIVE in the country. It has been customary with me, on a sultry summer's day, to take my book and seek the quietude and coolness of some shady retreat, there to pursue my reading and meditations without interruption. On one of the afternoons of August I walked leisurely through the yellow corn fields to a distant plantation. The reapers were busily cutting and binding together the golden grain, and there were indications that if the weather continued propitious the ripened crops would soon be gathered in. The heat was very oppressive, so when I reached the plantation and sat down I was grateful for the rest afforded me. The spot I had chosen for my afternoon visit was quite in harmony with my cherished love of the romantic and beautiful. The ground was sloping and irregular, and in some parts precipitous, leading down to a stream which flowed below, with its continual wild yet beautiful music. The trees, planted sparingly, here and there were enclosed by a fence, which with the river on the south side formed the boundary of the plantation. As I reclined under the spreading shade the prospect was

entirely excluded except beyond the river. In that direction we are favoured with the view of picturesque and undulating slopes clad with verdure, corn fields and pastures, verdant hedgerows, numerous trees which seem planted in wild disorder over the landscape, and the spire of the village church in the distance. This is the particular spot I think a poet would choose in order to pursue his reveries and gratify himself with imaginary excursions to dream land. I commenced reading a book of choice poetical selections. The bees were busily humming around me; various kinds of insects with beautiful wings were flitting joyously past; the butterfly gorgeously apparelled occasionally came and lighted upon a flower which was near me, and attracted my notice; the songs of the birds over my head were soothing and pleasant; and the rippling of the stream at my feet soothed me with its sweet music. At length I fell asleep. A bright messenger came and stood at my side. He was clad in garments of beautiful texture and unsullied purity, and his countenance glowed with the radiance of heaven. He was the personification of all that is lovely. As I gazed on him I was enraptured, for there was everything in his majestic appearance and peculiarly graceful demeanour to dispel fear and fill me with unutterable delight. He spake to me, and his voice was like that of one who had been accustomed to discourse celestial music and sing for ages to the golden harps of heaven. "Come with me," said he, "and I will reveal to you wonderful things which mortals, during their pilgrimage in this vale of tears are not wont to behold. I will disclose scenes which shall tend to increase your faith in God and your love of heaven-revealed truth." I obeyed. My body seemed to be instantaneously etherealized, and I proceeded to wing my flight over the beautiful scenes of nature. How gladsome did the world appear beneath my feet! The songs of birds and the mingled voices of those engaged in toil seemed to ascend past me as acceptable incense to the Holy One. I can give no detailed history of our career. I remember the fleeting vision of earth's varied scenery beneath me, and the fanning of the cooling breezes as I passed through the air, but I was especially attracted by the divine discoursing of my angelic guide, who spake to me with silvery eloquence of the glories of "The High and Lofty One," and ever and anon he would trill on his sacred lips one of the melodies of heaven, as angels are wont to do when, with veiled faces, they bow before the throne, or are engaged in holy service as the winged messengers of the Lord.

"Now," said the angel, "let us descend in our flight, for I am sent on an errand of love to that little cottage which lies embosomed among the trees immediately before us." We approached. It was evidently the abode of a poor but pious labourer, one of the hardy sons of toil, who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow. The neat garden was a visible proof of his thrifty industry, and the woodbines and monthly roses which adorned the entrance showed the dwelling to be one where peace and love were accustomed to abide. As we drew nigh I heard the sound of weeping and lamentation. It was like the low wailing of a heart-broken mother over her departing one, and seemed to be mingled with sad moving tones of woe which proceeded from the heart of a father, brothers, and sisters. The angel, having conferred upon me the power, which he himself possessed, of becoming invisible to men, bade

me enter with him through the open window of a little chamber. There lay, on his little bed, a dear child, three years old, in the agonies of death. He was like a promising flower which the rude wind had laid prostrate, and whose beauty was doomed to wither. For a few moments we stood and gazed on the scene, and "wept with them that weep." I saw crystal tear-drops fall from the angel's eyes, revealing the depth and sincerity of his emotion. He then approached the disconsolate mother, who was one of the heirs of salvation, and secretly ministered to her, reviving her drooping heart with occasional glimpses of the love of the Eternal Father, pouring into her troubled spirit "the oil of joy," and compassionately enrobing her with "the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." The mother knew not that the angel was near her, but she restrained her tears and became calm and patient. The celestial messenger then bestowed his gracious attentions on the expiring child, sustaining it in its death agonies, smoothing its pathway to the spirit land, and preserving it from the assaults of demons. At length the silver cord was cut which bound the little one to this mortal life, and its liberated spirit (though the weeping mother saw it not) rushed joyously into the arms of the angel, to be borne away like a spotless lamb to the heavenly fold of Jesus. "Come," said the angel to me, "attend me, at least for a time, as I bear this dear one to the Saviour's bosom."

We passed away beyond worlds, and suns, and planetary systems as with the speed of the transient lightning, and the dazzling splendours of the universe excited within me the most sublime conceptions of the Omnipotent King who is "excellent in council and wonderful in working." It was the chief aim of my angelic guide to justify the ways of God to His chosen ones. He revealed to me the history of that child whose immortal spirit was now entrusted to his keeping, and proved by arguments clear and invincible that there was nothing really harsh in the dealings of God with the bereaved parents. "The visitation was needful," said he. "The discipline is healthy and profitable. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.' The graces of the Holy Spirit will grow and flourish abundantly now that the soil is copiously watered with tears. Faith's mystic visions will become clearer. Hope, transcending the influence and power of earthly objects, will bloom with immortality. Love blended with patience will advance more and more towards God and Christ, and now that the spirit of the child has fled, and its body will soon lie in its little grass-covered grave, the bereaved will take a deeper interest than before in heaven's joys and yearn more ardently for their realization. The beloved one is borne away first that the survivors may prepare to follow. Soon they will traverse this shining road. When a few years shall have elapsed the time of re-union in the heavenly city will have come, and the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them and lead them to living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.' Blessed hope! Would that all men possessed it! how would it soothe their sorrows, fill them with unruffled peace, and prompt them to sing of mercy and judgment, even at the death time." Thus the angel spake. His words were like the delicious droppings of the honeycomb, and more soothing than the most beautiful melodies. We were gradually approaching nearer to the angels' home and the habitation of spirits ransomed from

the power of death. We began to breathe heavenly air. A shining one would occasionally fly past us with kindly greeting on some urgent errand to distant regions, and now and then the gales, more soft and refreshing than any which have ever blown from the islands of spices, wafted to our ears the notes of heaven's thrilling minstrelsy. As we were drawing nearer to the gates of paradise the tide of my souls joy was rising higher and higher. At length the angel turned to me and said in gentlest accents, "You must return. 'What you know not now you shall know hereafter."" Feelings of keen disappointment followed. As I awoke, my face bathed in tears, these words were distinctly heardthey must have come from the throne of Christ-"Suffer little children to come unto Me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven. SIGMA.

The thoughts of a man What a man thinks, that

THOUGHTS are the children of the soul; streamlets from the inexhaustible fountain; the results of the workings of that divine inhabitant within, which is never still; ever thinking, ever active. are the criteria, and the tests of his character. a man is. What he says, is not always the exponent of what he is. What he does may not always be done from a pure or a sincere motive, but for a side purpose, or for some private end; but what a man thinks, or the thoughts that bubble from the depths of the soul spontaneously and uncalled for, are the best exponents of what a man is, and in the sight of God, who takes His measure from thoughts, they determine the moral, the spiritual, that is, the true character of the man. Man judges of us by what he hears, or by what he sees; God judges of us by what we think, for He is "The discerner of the thoughts and the intents of the heart." And again, "Thou knowest my thoughts afar off." The way to have good thoughts is to have a good heart. And in order that you may have that new heart prayerfully read and study that blessed book that creates new thoughts. Of all books the Bible is the most sugggestive, and suggestive of thoughts suitable to every season of the year.

The season

of the year at which we are now arrived, as our feelings tell us, is autumn, The year is about to descend into its grave-the trees of the wood will drop their magnificence, the flowers will part with their beauties, and the forest leaves will be borne hither and thither on fierce winds, or lie mouldering upon the earth. In every field we tread, at present, there is dead magnificence. We cannot look into the church yard without seeing the graves more grave-like, because the green grass that covered them, and the beautiful flowers that adorned them, have, the one withered and the other faded, and left more bare the foot-prints of death. David said, “As for man, his days are as grass, as a flower of the field so he flourisheth, for the wind passeth over it and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more."—Nearly three hundred years after David, Isaiah proclaimed the same analogy," All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field-the grass withereth, the flower fadeth." And seven hundred years subsequent to Isaiah, Peter records the same sentiment in