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emaciated face, and she made a sign for me to sit down by the side of her bed. I did so; and she immediately began the conversation by remarking, "Sir, this is very kind; I am fast dying. But, Sir, will you tell Mr. (mentioning the Vicar's name) that I trust I shall find mercy at the last; but O, Sir, I am a vile sinner."

"Calm yourself, my dear young woman," I replied, "Death can have no terrors for you. Yours is a case, which it is not often the privilege of a minister of Christ to witness. Your life has been one of devotion to God's service; at least the latter part of it has been so; and you may safely trust that God will look upon you, and receive you into his favour through the merits of our blessed Saviour. You must calm

yourself."

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"O, Sir," she answered hastily, "my life has not been one of devotion. Oh, no, no; I dare not think of my life. If I am to be saved by my life, I am lost for ever.”

"Do not fatigue yourself," I replied. "You really take too melancholy a view of your past life. Many, on a dying bed, would wish they had lived as you have done. Your obedience has been sincere, though doubtless imperfect."

"O, dear, dear Sir," she answered, her eyes assuming au unusual brightness, "if I am saved at all, it will be of free sovereign mercy. I have nothing of my own to plead before God. O, Sir, dear Sir, if I am saved, it will be of boundless grace."

“Yes,” I replied; "God, for his dear Son's sake, will accept your imperfect services. They have been willingly rendered."

"O, Sir, no, no; I have done no service. ALL must be of grace; free, unmerited grace. If not, I am lost for ever."

She was evidently wearied with what had passed. I knelt down by her bed-side with her weeping mother, and read a portion of the beautiful Visitation Service for the Sick. She appeared much composed. As I was about to leave the room, and held her by the hand, she said feebly, "Will you tell dear good Mr. that I wish to leave it as my dying testimony, that the sinner saved from eternal ruin must owe it all to sovereign grace?" I promised that I would, and left the dying chamber.

I saw her no more. As I walked home in the twilight, my thoughts were, as may be supposed, wholly engrossed

with the scene I had just witnessed. I cannot call it a melancholy scene. I could not fully enter into the dying Rose's view of her case. I thought that she had taken an erroneous view of the sinfulness of her state. I referred this to disease. I admitted, to a certain extent, the doctrine of grace; but I thought she carried the doctrine too far; and I was inclined to think that if the sentiments uttered by her were those ineulcated from the pulpit of her parish church, there was, indeed, a great license left for profligacy, and a wide door opened for Antinomian error; and that, excellent as Mr. B.'s intentions might be, and however eminent his own character for Christian holiness, still that his doctrinal statements were to be viewed with suspicion. I resolved, however, to take an early opportunity of conversing with him on the subject. He returned the day after Rose's death, and consigned her remains to the grave; and I requested permission to attend as a mourner. The poor mother followed the corpse; and when she returned to her now lonely cottage, I accompanied Mr. B., on whose arm she leaned, and knelt down by her chair while he offered a fervent prayer in her behalf.

Years have now passed on, and Rose's mother lies beside her, in the sweet secluded church of But the scene of Rose's last conversation with me has never been obliterated from my mind, and I trust that it never will. My lot in life has been, in a worldly point of view, very far from prosperous. Affliction has been mingled in my cup. I have known the loss of those to whom I was united by many endearing ties; and pain and disease have wrought their work on my own enfeebled frame. But I am willing to bear my testimony now to the truth of the declarations of the dying Rose," that from first to last grace reigns in the salvation of the sinner." This great doctrine, which I then did not fully comprehend, and which I should have been unwil ling to admit, has supported me in many a bitter hour of the world's sorrow, -it has whispered peace when all around was tempestuous. I have lived to feel, by experience, that there is nothing secure or stable but the eternal Rock of Ages; that he who builds his hopes of happiness for time, or for eternity, on any other foundation, is building on the sand, the straw and the stubble. My ministerial career has been one of considerable personal labour; I have had a tolerable share of experience; and I am willing to bear my humble but de

and

cided testimony to this important fact, that it is only when there is a cordial reception of the doctrines of grace, that there has been devotedness to God's service, and unreserved obedience and resignation to His blessed will; and that there is no portion of Scripture, the true import of which it is of greater importance that it should be clearly understood; for none is better calculated to cheer in life, and to support in death, than this: "By grace are ye saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God; not of workslest any man should boast."

[Church of England Magazine.]

THE AMERICAN LAY-READER.

St. John's, Newfoundland, Dec. 27, 1834. SOON after my entrance upon clerical duties, in the State of North Carolina, I was informed of an isolated settlement, at a considerable distance from the place of my residence. Its original elements were emigrants from New England; a father and his five sons, who, with their wives and little children, had, about thirty years before, become sojourners in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian solitudes. They purchased a tract of wild, swamp-encircled land. This they subjected to cultivation, and by unremitting industry rendered adequate to their subsistence and comfort. The sons, and the sons' sons, had in their turn become the fathers of families; so that the population of this singular spot comprised five generations. They were described as constituting a peaceful and virtuous community, with a government purely patriarchal. Secluded from the privileges of public worship, it was said that a sense of religion, influencing the heart and conduct had been preserved by statedly assembling on the Sabbath, and reading the Scriptures, with the liturgy of the Church of England. The pious ancestor of the colony, whose years now surpassed fourscore, had, at their removal to this hermitage, established his eldest son in the office of layreader. This simple ministration, aided by holy example, had so shared the blessing of Heaven, that all the members of this miniature commonwealth held fast the faith and hope of the Gospel.

I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and of

ascertaining whether such precious fruits might derive nutriment from so simple a root. A journey into that section of the country afforded me an opportunity. I resolved to be the witness of their Sunday devotions, and with the earliest dawn of that consecrated day, I left the house of a friend, where I had lodged, and who furnished the requisite directions for my solitary and circuitous route. The brightness and heat of summer began to glow oppressively, ere I turned from the haunts of men and plunged into the recesses of the forest. Towering amidst shades, which almost excluded the light of heaven, rose the majestic pines, the glory and the wreath of North Carolina. Some, like the palms, those princes of the East, reared a proud column of fifty feet, ere the branches shot forth their heavenward cone. With their dark verdure mingled the pale and beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar, like the light interlacing of sculpture, in some ancient awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of birds, from those dark cool arches, poured their anthems of praise to the Divine Architect.

The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived at the morass, the bulwark thrown by nature around this little city of the desert. Alighting, I led my horse over the rude bridges of logs which surmounted the pools and ravines, until our footing rested upon firm earth. Soon an expanse of arable land became visible, and wreaths of smoke came lightly curling through the trees, as if to welcome the stranger. Then a cluster of cottages cheered the eye. They were so contiguous that a blast of a horn, or even the call of a shrill voice, might convene all their inhabitants. To the central and largest building I directed my steps. Approaching the open window, I heard a distinct manly voice pronouncing the solemn invocation-"By Thine agony and bloody sweat,by Thy cross and passion,-by Thy precious death and burial,-by Thy glorious resurrection and ascension,-and by the coming of the Holy Ghost." The response arose, fully and devoutly, in the deep accents of manhood, and the softer tones of the mother and her children.

Standing motionless, that I might not disturb the worshippers, I had a fair view of the lay-reader. He was a man of six feet in height, muscular, and well proportioned, with a head beautifully symmetrical, from whose crown time had begun to shred the luxuriance of its raven locks. Uncon

scious of the presence of a visitor, he supposed that no eye regarded him, save that of his God. Kneeling around him, were his "brethren according to the flesh," a numerous and attentive congregation. At his right hand was the patriarch -tall, somewhat emaciated, yet not bowed with years-his white air smoothly combed over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck. Gathered near him were his children, and his children's children. His blood was in the veins of almost every worshipper. Mingling with forms that evinced the ravages of time and toil, were the bright locks of youths, and the rosy brow of childhood, bowed low in supplication. Even the infant, with closed lip, regarded a scene where was no wandering glance. Involuntarily, my heart said"Shall not this be a family in heaven ?"—In the closing aspirations "O! Lamb of God! that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us!" the voice of the patriarch was heard, with strong and affecting emphasis. After a pause of silent devotion, all arose from their knees, and I entered the circle.

"I am a minister of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I come to bless you in the name of the Lord." The ancient patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed on me with intense earnestness. A welcome, such as words have never uttered, was written on his brow. "Thirty and two years has my dwelling been in this forest. Hitherto no man of God hath visited us. Praised be His name, who hath put it into thy heart to seek out these few sheep in the wilderness. Secluded as we are from the privilege of worshipping God in His temple, we thus assemble, every Sabbath, to read His holy book, and to pray unto Him in the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been preserved from 'forgetting the Lord who bought us, and lightly esteeming the rock of our salvation.'" The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven on my memory. Are they not written in the records of the Most High? Surely, a blessing entered into my own soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened the hope of those true-hearted and devout disciples. Like him, whose slumbers at Bethel were visited by the white-winged company of heaven, I was constrained to say—“Surely, the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not!" At the request of the patriarch, I administered the ordinance of baptism. It was received with affecting demonstrations of solemnity and gratitude. The sacred services were pro

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