composed the spirit has returned to Him who gave it!" She turned with a dreadful cry; and as the sight of the already much altered face confirmed the dreadful truth, she threw herself on the bed, and gave way to every expression of the wildest grief-"William! O William, William, William," she repeated over and over, as if she sought relief in uttering that name, which was now but an empty sound. "It canna be, it canna be, that I am left my lane in this cauld world, William, William, it canna be." Her children crowded round her, their own distress aggravated by the sight of her violence. Matthew tried to raise her from the bed, but she clung to the corpse."My dear mother, be composed. Is it not the hand of the Lord? against it wad ye rebel?" He paused, and then added in a deeper tone, "Mother, you are disturbing the departing spirit."

These words were the first she seemed to hear, and addressed as they were to a belief (to call it a superstition sounds harshly in my ear) so prevalent in Scotland, they produced an immediate effect. The clenched hands dropped from their hold, and she allowed her son to carry her from the chamber of death. As he raised her, I observed her face was flushed, and her eye glazed and tearless.

They were followed by the two weeping daughters, and by Simon, who waited at the house-door for Matthew's return from the room to which he had carried his mother. "Matthew," said he, as they shook hands affectionately," there is something not natural in your mother's situation." "Oh, Mr. Simon, can ony body wonder at the violence o' her grief — this day nine-and-twenty years- -" his voice choked, and Simon went on. "I have known her long, Matthew, I know her piety and resignation under suffering. I saw her lose the father to whom she was so fond and dutiful a daughter, and I saw her lose her first child, your elder brother; and while she bent like a lily over them in speechless sorrow, every look and motion said, "Not my will, but thine be done." Now, she has shed no tear, her cheek and her hand are burning; depend upon it she is taking a fever; be ruled by me, and send for the doctor." "I dinna think that, I'm sure I hope it's no sae," replied Matthew; "but indeed she has na been like hersel'. That night it happened she had wandered out, as was her custom, to meet him coming frae his wark, so it came on her like a thunder-clap; she never spoke, never shed a tear, and seemed as if she grew quite stiff— her face has been like paper ever since, till now, as ye say, I did notice it flushed." "Well, Matthew, be persuaded, and let me send for the doctor." "Vera weel, Mr. Simon, be it sae; but oh, sirs," he added, with a bitter groan, as he turned away, "what can an earthly doctor do for the rending heart!" I offered my services to go on this errand, and in a few minutes I was mounted on one of their horses, pursuing my way back to the town we had so lately left.

The peaceful moon, that smiles alike on the joys and sorrows of poor toilsome man, was shedding its lovely light on every object as the doctor and I once more drew near the house of mourning. "What a joyous, happy family was this but three short days ago," said he, as we dismounted, "and what an awful change!"

We found that Simon's apprehensions had been too correct. The doctor bled the nearly insensible mother, and I heard him say that a few hours more might have rendered his services unavailing. "If tears would now come to her relief," added he, "all might soon be well." Simon had intimated to me that we should return to L that night, in case of putting the family to inconvenience, and we accordingly prepared to depart along with the doctor; but this intention was earnestly opposed by Matthew and his brothers. "You have assisted me, Simon, this night, in scaling up my father's desk, and I canna tak it kind if ye dinna stay to undo thae seals, and hear what's to come o' us a' hereafter." He stopped, for his manly

heart was too full; Simon's eye, too, glistened as he shook him by the hand, and assured him he had no intention but that of returning in the morning to stay till he attended the remains of his early friend to their narrow bed. Here the doctor touched Matthew's shoulder, and told him to go to his mother, and say that Simon was going away, and wished to say good night to her. Matthew hesitated, as if afraid to distress her, but went, and we heard him repeat the message. She seemed to start half up, and exclaimed, in a feeble, bewildered voice- Simon, Simon Fraser, it's dark night now, he manna gang. Surely your father winna let him gang; tell your father to-"} No sooner had the words passed her lips than they were followed by a burst of uncontrollable agony, that seemed absolutely rending the soul of the desolated mourner. However, we had the melancholy satisfaction of hearing it soon subside into sobs and tears. Simon went into the room, and remained a few minutes with her. We then bade an affectionate good-night to the family, and proceeded slowly back to Lwith hearts and feelings deeply solemnized by the scenes we had so unexpectedly witnessed.

The few and simple events of the time intervening between this and the day of the funeral, afforded little worth recording; the struggle between the natural feelings of overwhelming grief and suggestions of habitual piety, were most interesting to witness, but are not subjects for description.

There was something inexpressibly affecting in the now noiseless wo of the widowed mother, and the assiduous affection with which each of her children strove to comfort and sooth her."What a blessed education these young people must have had,” said I to Simon on the day of the funeral, as we stood alone at the door; "they are really a family of love." "Yes," said Simon," they had the best. They never heard a brawling word pass between their father and mother, and besides that, often observed there was nothing William and she checked with more severity, when they were bairns, than any inclination to quarrel-the boys were taught to be kind and helpful to their sisters; and if at any time a dispute did arise between the boys, instead of quieting them by force, with a gowl and a thump on both their backs, as I have o'er often seen in other houses, William would look into what they were bickering about, and do justice between them; and as he never spared the offender, this made the boys less mischievous and heedless of what they did to one another, than if they had known that he would never take heed to what they did. But the grand secret of their good education was the perfect obedience their parents exacted. None of them can remember a time when they durst even have gone out or in at a door if father or mother said "na." Many people are so foolish as to think that there's no use in commanding or controlling the will of a wee bairnie, or punishing it when disobedient; but they may take the word of an old man, that if their children are disobedient at three years old, they will become more and more so every future year they live; and if children get their own will in trifles, they will take it in more important matters."

Here we were interrupted by the arrival of the neighbours who came to attend the funeral.

The perfect decency and solemnity with which every thing was conducted was highly pleasing to my feelings, for I could remember a time when country funerals in Scotland were, shame to say so, apt to wear a different aspect. When the sad and sternly simple ceremony by which, in this country, "dust to dust" is joined, was over, Matthew invited the aged clergyman to come in the evening, and be present at the reading of his father's will. When we returned home, accompanied by a maternal uncle of the young men, we found a plain well-prepared dinner spread for our reception: the widow and her daughters came and sat down, each one trying

to restrain the tears that were swelling in their eyes. When we sat down to this first regular meal since the death of the father, the voice that was wont duly to ask a blessing on their humble fare was hushed for ever, and all seemed struck anew with the magnitude of their loss. It was strange but among all the afflicting scenes through which I saw him pass, none seemed so far to overcome Matthew's unbending fortitude as this. His eye glanced twice towards his mother, then with a violent effort he took his father's empty seat, raised his hands, which shook as if palsied, and uttered a few words, inaudible from excessive emotion.

From respect to Simon, I was asked to be present at the reading of the will. Simon and the clergyman broke the seals, and along with Matthew sought every part of the desk in vain for any indication of such a paper. "Is there nae ither place we can seek," said the uncle, “did he keep papers nae whar else i' the house?" "No," replied Matthew, "he had nae ither place to my knowledge that he ever put papers into, and farther search is needless; Indeed I was a' but certain that nae will was ever made, but I thought it right to look."

There was perfect silence for a moment-it was broken by the uncle, who bluntly addressed his nephew, "Aweel, Matthew, my man, ye 're master o' a', then I wuss ye health wi' a' your wealth-it's a pity o' your brithers, puir chields! but nae doot ye'll no' see them want a' thegither." A strong expression of displeasure passed across Matthew's brow at this speech, but no one spoke. I saw Simon and the old clergyman watch him with intense anxiety. He looked round on his brothers and sisters, and then, in his own quiet tone of voice, he said, "I'm sure we a' ken that our dear father that's gane loved a' his bairns alike, and whatever is amang us o' warld's gear was gained by his industry and prudence, thereforeis but fair that a' should share it alike. This is what I think he intended if it had pleased the Lord to spare him to make his ain will. I wuss to God I daur hope to be ay able to fill his place as easily. Let the farm and lyin' money be equally divided amang us four brithers, and then each gie a portion to Lizzy and Mary the only privilege I ax aboon the lave is to keep my mother". - he stopped, and I need not describe what followed. The brothers showed themselves no less generous, by reminding him that he had been assisting their father with the farm long before they were able to work; which, exclusive of birth, gave him a title to more than the rest. The uncle said, "It was an unco thing to act sae cuttitly; he suld hae ta'en advice aff some sensible wise like freend afore he did the like o' that; nae doot he's doin' 't for the best, but it's a horrid pity to be riving and dividing at sic a grand farm. Folk suld na be in a hurry wi' the like o' that, but that was just the gate o' his father afore him." "Yes," interrupted Simon, to whom this was addressed, "Matthew is worthy to be the son of William Shearman, and that is as muckle as I can say in his praise, for I think in my heart a better man or Christian never drew breath." It was finally agreed that Simon and the clergyman should act as executors to see the property divided, debts paid, &c. Before the good old minister departed, he addressed the family with admirable sense and feeling. I wish I could give what he said in his own words, particularly the simple yet emphatic ones in which he recommended the example of their father to the pious imitation of his sons, and bid them beware of putting his memory to shame in this world, and forfeiting their hope of rejoining him in that eternity of bliss to which it had pleased God to receive him. After pronouncing a very short but beautiful prayer, the venerable man departed; and when I observed the dignified affection that marked his whole demeanour while in the house, I could not but muse upon the truly inestimable blessings bestowed on a country- the virtues, and consequently the prosperity pro

duced and fostered by a resident clergy. Blessings nothing else can produce, and the want of which nothing else can compensate.

"Wo, and again I say wo" unto him who lightly undertakes, or unfaithfully fulfils the awful duty of being thus, as it were, God's delegate on earth!

WORLDLY WISDOM, AND ITS END.

WE left the house of mourning and its excellent inmates, with feelings rather solemnized than sad, and pursued our up-hill road towards the town where Simon had business to transact. After walking some miles in silence, I turned to admire the surpassing beauty of the views all around; and Simon sat thoughtfully down on the grass. It was not often that he was so long silent. At last, pointing to a cluster of cottages under a clump of fine old trees a short way off-he looked mournfully in my face, saying-"That tenantless clay once sheltered a blithe and thriving family - and now, in yon far off field, in an unhallowed grave, lie the banes o' him that was its master. I went by and he was not- ·I sought him - but his place could not be found!' I looked at the good man, and saw a tear trembling in his eye, but did not speak.

Aye, silence, silence is best over such a grave!" he continued with a heavy sigh. "Many a time have I trudged this hill road; and many a merry evening I've passed up yonder beside the fire that's quenched for ever. James Barr, the tenant of this farm, was a jovial, thorough-gaun chield, active and laborious- up early and late-driving forward his work, and keeping his farm and all about it in the highest possible order. His wife was a clever and most worthy woman, who, in her department, fulfilled every duty well and wisely. I never met with them but at the time of my periodical visits, when I was sure to receive a most hearty welcome, and stayed sometimes an hour or two, sometimes a night, and all seemed well. The wife was of a sober and rather a grave cast, and James, though restless and rattle-brained, and apt to let his tongue run on at random, was yet, when we sat down to chat, a rational, clear-headed fellow, with fewer prejudices than common farmers then generally had, of which his fields bore sufficient evidence; for he had adopted many new improvements. I therefore found my occasional visits to him very agreeable, and thought time would ere long mend his faults.

"I, however, did not like the manner in which I heard him spoken of by his neighbours, even those who I did not think had any cause to dislike him. Some laughed and shook their heads, calling him a queer man, giving many a hint that, if he did not grow rich, it would not be because he stickled at the means. 'Only let Jemmy get sight o' the thing he 's wanting, and, my word! he'll make a steeple race for 't. It will be a gay big bar in his gaet that he 'll no lowp owre.' 'And then,' another would add, 'he's gotten in wi' the laird. Ye see, he takes the laird's bidden about drainen' and dykin' and limin' and dungin';' and, ye see, that pleases the gentles, but what ken they about lan' and craps? but just, ye see, they like puir folk to do their biddin', and that's what Jemmy does. And if ye but heard him wi' the laird, how impident he is! and the laird laughs, and thinks him sic a clever chield, and, my word, he is that! and that the laird 'll fin', yet, owre the finger nebs, or I'm mista'en.'

"The hint of his being in favour with the laird seemed to explain away much of what I heard: and though some things did stick in my mind, and though all seemed going on as hitherto in his house, every year seemed to add a graver and graver cast to the disposition of his wife, and to furnish

his neighbours with new subjects of suspicion. In the course of my usual journeyings, in the common room of an inn, far from this, on the night of a fair, I sat with a number of farmers, and dealers of various descriptions, who were enjoying themselves round a good fire, and over their ale and whiskey punch; telling many a strange tale of cheats, pranks, and supple tricks they had witnessed in the course of the day, when an old man, seizing a pause in the conversation, began, 'Ay, but what d' ye think o' that devil's limb, Jemmy Barr? there was he and a bit wee twal year auld cow to sell. So, what had he done, but twa three weeks syne he closes her up in the byre, and to wark he fa's on puir aul' Crumie, and he feeds her wi' the stuff they gie to game cocks, deil fa' me gin I dinna believe it was stown frae the laird, I kenna what they ca 't; but he and the bit callan Jemmy curried and scoured and buttered and brushed her aul' hide, till they garred her shine like a race-horse. Neist he fa's foul o' her aul' rough horns, that I'll swear had a dizen o' nicks in them; and he and the bit callan- -sorrow fa' him to learn his ain bairn sic tricks-and they pared and they scrapit wi' this thing and the tither thing that wrights polish their wark wi3, till they made them like ony three year aul' quey's.' Some laughed, some looked grave, but the speaker went on. "But, what do ye think o' the graceless dog gieing such a lesson to his ain laddie? And that's no the warst o't.-Aft comes he to the fair wi' his dainty young cow: But he's owre weel kenned now-a-days to come muckle speed at a fair: so he gies Jemmy Crumie's tether, and set him into the fair by himself, weel instructed how he was to proceed. The father and son took nae notice o' ither whan they met, but they had their ain signals for a' that, and about the height o' the fair the callan gets amang a wheen stranger folk. So they took notice o' him, for he's a bit bonny callan, and they spe'ert about his cow, and I'se warrant you she was his granny's cow, and she had to be sell't to pay the rent, and, tho' he's as sharp as a needle, he lookit like a simpleton. So by comes the father, by chance, ye're sure, and he began jawing him about the cow, spe'ert gin it was a year aul', and gin he would gie 't for twa notes. So the folk took the callan's part, and the twa played to ane anither's han's, till, deevil be on me, gin they did na manage atween them to sell the puir auld worn-out b, that'll die in the calving, for a five year auld, o' the Guernsey bluid, and got fifteen guineas for her!'

"The expressions, called forth by this recital were various, as usual, among such people, many of them hardened in sin; but, though some laughed loud at the successful knavery, all, with one feeling, reprobated with execration the conduct of the godless father. As for me, I was mute in grief and astonishment, and for many years travelled little by the hill road, and saw little of James Barr. I could now account for the melancholy of his excellent wife, and for her sake, occasionally stopped at the house for an hour. Every thing seemed thriving, the farm, the cattle, the houses, all appeared in the highest order. His eldest son, this very Jemmy mentioned by the old farmer, had grown a fine, tall, handsome fellow, and had married well. The wife alone looked sad, and low in spirits, and broken in health. The last time I saw her, when I was about to take leave, she said to me,' So, Simon, and you must go! Farewell, Simon, it's no likely we'll ever meet here again, for I'm wearing awa, and the Lord's will be done! I have tried to do my duty to the best of my knowledge, but I have been a poor unprofitable servant. It has no pleased the Lord to gie me power over the evil spirits I've had to encounter.' I fixed my eyes on the poor woman's face, fearing her brain was touched with some fanatical fancies, but she went on. 'James cares for none of these things. This world, and the things o' this world, are a' he looks to; the mammon of unrighteousness has blinded his heart. These barns and byres; these bits o' fields, his crops and his cattle; these are his gods! Oh, Simon! Simon!