oneness of truth-a word so various and captious in its tone on one and the same essential tenets, that it might well be received as no boon-no beacon-no mark or studying point, either to the philosophers or the wayfaring man.

Oh, no! let not human passion-human pride-human zeal-or even human love-pass absolutely for the Word of God: let no man exalt himself by daring to say in prayer or discourse that he preacheth the Word of God!

But the Sermon. After the prayer just recorded, the Pastor slowly unfolded his Sermon-book, and I was gratified to find that we were not about to listen to a mere extemporaneous harangue. Yet he set about it with all that quietness with which great preachers usually begin, and well if they would sustain their tranquil tone unto the end. We might then be reminded of the Saviour's teaching. But our Pastor was a great preacher, if a quiet earnest appeal that touches the heart be the test of good preaching. O, the still, small spirit is powerful and pathetic, more than the whirlwind and the earthquake. He gave a remarkable text from (1 Sam. xx. 3;) and he gave it with more self-possession than had been with him in the prayers:-" But, truly,

as the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, there is but a step between me and death." He first described the occasion of the words, and how they were spoken by a man whose life was hunted down by an unsparing foe. He then at once asked what is the step?-What is it? What its effects and consequences? Death that may be in a moment; death that strips us of all things; death the last end of all our opportunities and means of grace; death sending into the presence of God; the account; the deeds done in the body; the faith; the heart; the judgment; the home of saints and angels; the dark dwelling of damned souls. All these are heads of a discourse that came from the heart. And then when he alluded to the awful period some in that parish had lately experienced, some were then experiencing, and all present must soon experience; when each would truly say as they felt, "there is but a step between me and death"-then there were tears and sobbing from many; a fixed graveness on the faces of all; and, as he gently alluded to his own feelings of the nearness of death, you might have heard the head of a pin drop on the ground. And then the duties to be done; the God to glorify; the neighbours to edify;

the enemy to be reconciled to; the sick to administer to; the mourner to solace; the young to educate; the servants to pray with; and then the entering upon a state of re-union with the loved; where there shall be no more dying.

All this was affecting, and elevating; and glorious, and blessed, thought I, were the minds and hands that conceived the building of this humble temple; blessed were those who established a herald of the Gospel here; but, above all, blessed the God who sent the glad tidings to the earth, and hath renovated the hopes of man!

When the congregation broke up, I sauntered thoughtfully away. I would not have spoken a word for the world to any one; and the beautiful landscape saw me no longer its slave, but a wonderer at the glorious prospect in store for the redeemed soul, when all here was so fair and enchanting to a ruined one!

Glad, indeed, was I that I had not cried with Southey, and persevered in it :

"Go thou, and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all Nature's charm mine eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies!"

but rather acted according to the same immortal poet's altered tone, for it is Southey again who says:

"I love the bell that calls the poor to pray,

Chiming from village church its cheerful sound,
When the sun smiles on labour's holy-day,
And all the rustic train are gathered round,
Each deftly dizened in his Sunday's best,
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest."

Days, weeks, months had passed, when I found myself seated during a morning call with the good Pastor of Penscellwood in his little study. I had ardently wished an acquaintance with him, but still not sought it-circumstances of a seemingly accidental nature having brought it about. This was not my first call, and I had been fortunate to meet with him in morning calls at other people's houses, for he never dined out except upon some rare and unusual occasion. He received me with his accustomed welcome; and, after we had talked on various themes, I ventured to direct his mind to the Sunday I have described as being spent in Penscellwood Church. He at once remembered it, and spoke of having observed me. "And, ah !" he exclaimed, "that was a

painful Sunday, indeed. It is one never to be forgotten."

The good man wept; and I discovered that he alluded to a dreadful illness at that time raging in the Waddilove family, one of the best and most valued families in his parish—a family that all the people mourned with, and sympathized with in their distress.

The melancholy tale cannot be told here, but it may be elsewhere. I have only to say now, that soon I was privileged to become a bosom friend of the good Pastor, and in due time I found that he was a great writer. Several manuscripts were placed in my hands. and I have selected five out of many others, because three of them were just finished, and relate to modern events; and the other, that on the Souls of Animals, was a peculiar favourite of his own. I remember once in a large party, some one asked him: "What might be the useful result of the argument, if proved in the affirmative, that animals possessed souls, and might inherit a future life?" and he answered, in addition to other reasons, that: "It would lead us to show greater humanity towards them."

"All slaves have souls," replied the other; " and yet see how slaves are treated."