and life-there they lay in the cold grasp of death, and over them hung the agonized mother of the one and friend of the other-helpless, hopeless, almost heart-broken! The storm swept on-the heavy thunder rolled by and was lost in the distance, and the lightning's reckless flash passed from that dwelling it had a moment before made so desolate. The awful tidings of its ruthless work were borne from house to house, and soon friends, neighbours, and physicians were collected in the stricken dwelling! And what awaited them there? The cold corpses of those sweet children, stretched upon the damp pavement in the moveless sleep of death. The prostrate mother lay by their side insensible-with wonderful strength and presence of mind she had sought the proper remedies, but when she found that death was truly there, weak nature failed and she sank powerless by their side. * * * * The next morning we stood at the grave of our dear children.-Around it were gathered groups of their young companions, whose wail ing voices alone broke the deep, sad stillness. The hand of affection strewed fresh flowers upon their youthful forms-gentle friends stood by the side of the mourners and strove to soothe their deep fresh sorrow, while the man of God drew from the Word of Inspiration the only balm that could heal their agonized hearts. It is the Lord-let Him do what seemeth to Him good. Our sad tale is told-and as we commit the dust to its kindred dust, let us address to all young surviving friends the sweet words of the Christian poet: O, in the morn of life when youth With vital ardour glows, And beams with all the fairest traits Deep in thy soul, before its powers Are yet by sin enslaved, Be thy Creator's glorious name And character engraved. Note. The above sketch is literally true, and founded on the instantaneous death by lightning of E. A. P. and M. M. W., of Richmond, Va., August 9th, 1845. CONCLUSION. Leaves have their time to fall; And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death! How full of death is this world of sin? It is at all times sad, solemn and mysterious; sad even when the pilgrim of three score and ten years sinks beneath the weight of a good old age into the faithful tomb; but O, how mysteriously sad, when the voice of God is heard in the morning, and man in the vigour of his strength and usefulness is summoned to His presence. Southey's beautiful picture of the early removal of the gifted Kirke White often rushes to my recollection, as I see the young and promising summoned to the grave. “Just at the moment when the painter would have desired to fix his likeness, the poet to sing his praises, in the fair morning of his virtues, and the full spring blossom of his hopes, just at that moment, death has set the seal of eter nity, and the beautiful has been made perma nent." My kind reader! perhaps as you close this volume, you will feel that an atmosphere of sorrow and death surrounds most of my wayside sketches, and that in my little book, like the roll of the prophet, there is written nothing but" lamentation and mourning and woe." It may be so, for my pilgrim feet have been led along the shaded side of earth's pathway, and far more frequently have I been called to weep with those who weep, than to rejoice with the rejoicing. You will pardon me then if the impression left by these Sketches be a sad one; I trust it will not be unprofitable, for though their perusal may dim for a moment the brightness of some young smile, the emotion, though transitory, may make the "heart better."* To the one source of true and enduring light I have endeavoured to turn the reader's eye, and I have selected only such scenes from the many it has been my lot to witness, as should distinctly exhibit the might of that grace which is "sufficient" for every want of earth's suffering children. * Ecclesiastes, vii. 3. There is a "sure refuge for the distressed in all generations," and from it flows an eternal peace which earth cannot give, and, blessed be its author, cannot take away! May all who read these imperfect pages possess it, and as they glance over this record of sanctified sorrow, be led more fully to feel that omniscient love is ordering their footsteps and mingling their cup of joy or discipline. My effort is a humble one, but it will not be unblest, if in a single bosom, it shall create or renew confidence in Heaven, or awaken a more cordial interest in the services of a Church within whose holy precincts every living member may find a spiritual home and ark of rest. With a prayer for God's blessing, my little volume now goes on its forward way! "To God alike the living stream And the dull region of the grave: Thither we hasten-as the sand Drops in the hour-glass, never still, |