puts up from the lake, between the rugged mountain on one side, and the southern skirt of the glen on the other. The clouds in a lowering day are always seen to rest on the summit of the mountains which arise on each side of the ravine, which stretches off to the east of the cottage. Half way up these heights the eagle builds her nest, without fear of molestation, and seems to look down from her conscious elevation in defiance of man below. The white-washed cottage, and the swelling mountains have a pleasing and imposing effect, when viewed from the water. It was here, one evening, I requested the boatmen to land me, as I was returning from the excursions of the day.

There are seasons in the life of almost every man, when he needs not the formality of an introduction to a stranger to enable him to commence an acquaintance. The mind is in such a state of buoyancy and good feeling, that we feel every stranger whom we meet to be an acquaintance, and every human being our brother. Such were my feelings, as I walked leisurely forward towards an elderly and venerable looking man, who sat beside his humble dwelling, enjoying the calm pleasures of the evening. After the usual salutation of strangers he invited me to take a seat beside him. I soon found that I had introduced myself to a plain, open-hearted, but poor man, upon whose head probably sixty winters had shed their snows. His countenance was intelligent, though there was an expression of sorrow upon it. He seemed to possess an intellect endowed with good sense, of a sober, meditative cast. He pourtrayed in lively colours the beauties of the scenery around him, which shewed that he had not yet become insensible to the charms of nature by the lapse of years. He adverted also to the fast approaching hour when he should no longer be animated by these scenes. "Stranger," said he, with seriousness and emphasis, "see

you that setting sun? Though it may set to-night in darkness, yet it will rise again to-morrow, and rise perhaps in far brighter glory. But soon my sun will set to rise no more." It may rise, said I, in eternity. The poor Pensioner, for such I learned he was, was silent; and I could see the tear standing in his eye, as with a worthy hospitality he invited me into his cottage to remain for the night. I could not accept the invitation, but promised to call on the following morning. I then took my leave of him; and as we glided swiftly, down the lake, aided by at stiff breeze, I could not avoid revolving in my mind the adventures of the evening. Early in the following morning, I left my lodgings for the Pensioner's cottage. The aged man was waiting to receive me, and did receive me with all the cordiality of an old acquaintance. I found in the cottage of this poor, but worthy man, all that neatness and industry could do to make him comfortable and happy; for at best his health was but poor, and he appeared to be sinking to the grave, under the accumulated weight of infirmity and years. Though he seemed to possess an imagination which could soar above the mountains which surrounded him, and visit the busy abodes of man beyond them; yet he appeared like one insulated, and shut out from the bustle and perplexities of the world, and, with few regrets, could have parted with it for ever. There was, however, the love of one tender object, which attached him to life. Nothing could exceed the filial affection of his lovely daughter, over whom the fond father had doated for seventeen years. Her mother had died in her infancy, and to the bereaved father had been left the sole care and superintendance of the education of his infant child. His other children had been snatched away, one after another; and it was not a wonder that the affections of the mourning father had taken such firm hold of his daughter, since she was

all that now remained of a once numerous family.-The war-worn veteran gave me a minute history of his life. He related his most interesting adventures in the Revolutionary struggle. He had been advanced to a station of some honour and trust in the American army, was placed near the body of his general, and had served in many daring and hazardous enterprises. He had cultivated the fields of this little glen, while he had been able to labour, and from them he had gleaned a scanty though comfortable support. In one corner of his little farm, he pointed out the graves of his wife and children. "My sweet Jane," said the old man with tears," is the very image of her mother, whom I laid here almost seventeen years ago. She has the same temper, and manifests the same assiduity to make me happy. She knows little of the mother she has lost; though often, as she has sat on my knee in her childhood, has she wept when I told her the story of her mother. I used often to tell her of the virtues of her of whom both she and myself were bereft, that I might, if possible, form her mind upon the same model; for it was that very mother who taught me, that to be conversant with virtue is, in a measure, to become virtuous ourselves." And was your daughter always assiduous to promote your welfare as now?" No, she was not always so. Though she possessed an amiable temper, yet she used sometimes to manifest the waywardness of youth. Never shall I forget the prayers of my poor dying wife, that her infant child might be spared in mercy to its father, and be to me all that she would have been, had her life been prolonged. Never shall I forget her last petition for her little offspring, as she pressed it to her expiring bosom, for the last time, and then holding it in her feeble arms, she said, "Blessed Saviour! I beseech thee to be the God of my child, as thou hast been my God-to sanctify its heart as I

hope thou hast sanctified mine. I know thou art able to save it. I dedicate my child to thee. I leave it in thy arms. Thou wilt not suffer it to perish from thy own arms. Thou wilt remember thy ancient covenant and promise. I give my child to thee. Blessed Saviour! accept my humble offering."-Her voice failed. These were her last words;-she soon expired. Oh! Mr. E., you know not how good a woman my wife was. I have often heard her in the thicket just by us, or yonder, where once stood a little hovel, earnestly engaged in prayer for me. If any are Christians, I have no doubt she was one. And my beloved Jane was not so like her mother as she is now, till two years ago, when a Missionary called here two or three times, and gave her that little Bible you saw standing upon her shelf. For a time I wished my daughter had never seen the Missionary, she was so unhappy. She could do nothing but read her Bible, and weep. But after a tinre her mourning was turned to joy, and she has been ever since beseeching me to be a Christian. She is just what her mother used to be, and often have I heard her praying for me, in the same manner and place as her mother used to pray. I was once a disbeliever in the Christian religion-thought it all to be the device of man; and, for a long time after I married my wife, I thought she was a visionary, under the influence of a heated imagination. But upon a candid and impartial examination of her feelings and conduct, I was fully convinced that they sprang from pure and steady principles, of which I had no experience. To witness, as I do daily, how religion influences all the conduct of my Jane, and makes her happy under all circumstances, serves to make me believe how blissful is the lot of those who possess it." He drew a deep sigh, and would have proceeded; for I perceived he was interested in the subject. But the approach of a boat to the shore

drew our attention, and we walked forward to meet it. It conveyed a small party of young people, who had called to pay their compliments to the Pensioner and his daughter. As the day was far spent, I took my leave of the whole party, not with out leaving a promise that I would call frequently. I had become but little acquainted with that lovely daughter on whom the old man leaned for support. There was something so retiring about her, and yet so winning; so simple, and yet so elegant; so humble, and yet so exalted, that I could not but admire a character made up of such contrasted qualities. I had learned enough to know that she was intelligent without ostentation, and modest without awkwardness. There was something in the character of the old man which I did not understand. He was frank and generous, but he seemed not to admit me to the deepest feelings of his bosom. He was cheerful, but he was not happy. Something seemed to lie with weight upon his mind.

With almost the dawn of the first fair day, I betook myself to my boat, intending to take the cottagers by surprise, and sit down with them to their cheerful breakfast. The sun had risen, and was beginning to pour down his cheerful beams along the ravine, between the high mountains, when I arrived at the glen. All was still, except the faroff whistling watermen, who were urging their boats in various directions over the clear, blue lake; and I saw no living creature around the cottage, except the large Newfoundland mastiff, which lay by the door. As I approached the dwelling I thought I heard a voice. It was the clear, sweet voice of the daughter, reading the parable of the Prodigal Son. I approached nearer. She read with an emphatic but tremulous tone of voice, "I will arise, and go to my father, and will say to him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee, and am no

ore worthy to be called thy son;

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make me as one of thy hired servants." At this moment I heard a sobbing, and the old man burst into tears. In a few minutes all was hushed. "Father," said the daughter beseechingly, “ God will receive you if you go to him as the prodigal went to his father." "Kneel down beside me, my dear Jane," said the Pensioner. "Oh! Thou, who didst cause light to shine out of darkness, shine into my benighted soul. Thou, who didst receive the repenting, returning prodigal, receive me, who am worse than the prodigal." After a pause" It will not do-I cannot

Oh, Jane, pray for me." Jane did pray for him; and I could not but weep as I listened to her earnest supplications for her poor father, and join my prayers with hers for his relief. She soon ceased, and I would have retreated. But I could not go; for now was explained what had been so mysterious, and I desired to learn what I had failed to learn before, and if possible to administer relief. The old man opened the door, and seemed surprised at seeing me; but such was his salutation that I knew I was not unwelcome. He was aware that I was acquainted with his situation, and did not endeavour to conceal it. I stepped forward, and took from the shelf a neat little Bible which seemed to have been preserved with care though much used. The eyes of the daughter, which lately had been suffused with tears, now beamed with joy and hope. I opened to the fiftyfirst Psalm, and read it. I commented upon the nature, necessity, and reasonableness of true repentance. I endeavoured to shew that repentance would be acceptable to God, through the sacrifice and mediation of Jesus Christ. The old man was moved, and the countenance of his daughter brightened with joy, as she said, "Father, I know repentance to be a happy feeling." The interest this little family manifested in my welfare was much increased by this morning's visit. I had been revealed to them in a new character; and

they regarded me not only as a friend, but also as a Christian. I learned from the daughter the history of her father's feelings for several months past. It was more than six months since he began to look forward, with seriousness, to a future world; and for many weeks he had been in much the same state of mind as that in which I now saw him. In my further intercourse with him that day, I was convinced that he was anxious to secure the better portion; but he was selfish. He was deeply convinced of sin, yet he would not repent. His anxiety was not produced by fear, but by conviction.

For several successive days I was a constant visitor at the cottage. I endeavoured to instruct him; but all was to no purpose. Indeed it was not necessary. He was well instructed in his duty. But there seemed to be an unyielding obduracy in his heart which endeavoured to reject every offer of mercy. His obstinacy was not so open and tumultuous as steady and persevering. He knew it to be wrong, but he would not overcome it. The principles of a depraved heart were in vigorous and successful exercise.

One evening, as I was returning from the excursions of the day, I thought I would run my boat into the cove by the Pensioner's dwelling. A heavy cloud was hovering in the west, which seemed to presage a storm; and, as I was alone, I scarcely dared to attempt the voyage homeward. On going on shore I found the old man; but his daughter had gone. I was told she had been sent for by a sick friend, whom she had been accustomed to visit. It was about sun-set when we walked down to the beach, to look out for the boat which should bring home the sole comfort of her anxious father. "I do not much like that dark cloud yonder," said the old man as we stood upon the shore. "Though my sweet Jane has never slept from under the paternal roof, I hope she will not attempt to return

to-night." The shadows of evening were fast falling. As we could descry nothing of the daughter, we returned to the cottage. It was not long before the portending storm came on with great violence, and the waters were swept by one of those terrible gusts with which Lake George is sometimes visited. The heaving and white-foaming billows of the lake made a gloomy contrast with the surrounding darkness. A deep dusk hung over the face of things, and we could discern only enough to see the havock which the storm was making abroad. As we sat silently by the window looking out upon this scene, we thought we heard cries of distress. In a moment we were upon the beach. But it was so dark that we could distinguish objects only at a little distance. All was again hushed, except the troubled billows, and howling blast, and we stood listening in breathless silence. Again we heard a cry. It was the last. The old Pensioner's heart died within him, for he knew it was the voice of his daughter. The sound seemed to proceed from some one not far from the shore. At this moment the mastiff, which stood beside us, plunged into the waves. He was gone a long time, but at length returned bearing by his mouth the drowned girl. We made every effort to resuscitate the lifeless body, but all was unavailing. The soul had left its earthly tenement, and flown to another and heavenly world. We carried the body of poor Jane into the cottage, and laid it on the humble couch it had so often occupied. The poor old man seemed alive to all those heart-rending pangs which his forlorn condition now made him realize. His feelings were the feelings of despair. He sat down by the bedside of her who lately was so lovely-hid his face in both his hands, and burst into a flood of tears. I would have soothed him, but I knew I could not. After the first paroxysms of agony and grief had subsided, by degrees he

grew more calm. But I thought his calmness was incapacity to endure such poignant grief, and that he was exhausted by the tempest of his feelings. I could see by his countenance that there was not peace within. The cottage was still as the mansion of death. While the bereaved father sat, intently viewing the inanimate features of his child, the last ray of hope seemed to expire, and there was no longer a tie to bind him to earth. That night was dreadful to us both. The storm was raging fearfully without, while all was hushed like the silence of the tomb within. The old Pensioner was the first to interrupt the stilness. "I did not think that the flower, which bloomed so sweetly in the morning, would be so withered and dead at night. Oh! Jane, Jane! It is hard to part with thee for ever too!-in one short hour torn from my aged arms!" His feelings were too big for utterance, and his voice faultered. But he struggled hard for self-possession, and soon resumed: "I was always poor-but never so poor as now. Oh! Jane, how fondly have I nourished thee! Seventeen years thou hast been my sole companion! How kind wast thou to me, my daughter! Thou art gone. Shall I never more hear from thee the fervent prayer for thy poor father-never more hear thy kind entreaty to be reconciled to God? Ah never! Oh! that I might be what thou wast, when thou left thy father's dwelling! But there is no hope for me." Here the old man again burst into tears. After a short pause," Yes, I have one resource. I will arise, I will go to my Father, and will say, Father I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee, and am not worthy to be called thine.-Oh! Saviour of sinners! let me come to thee-let me call thee my Father! I have no friend but thee. I have abused thee abused thy mercy.-I am the chief of sinners!-Oh! gracious Saviour, I come to thee ashamed, and guilty. If I perish, I will perish at thy feet.

Here, Lord, I am-do with me as seemeth good to thee."-The Pensioner ceased-his heart was melted within him. The thoughts of the dead no longer occupied his mind. There was a glow of fervour upon his countenance. His soul seemed to be elevated above this world, holding communion with its God. We were both silent; but I trust we both prayed.—I cannot tell all that happened on that night. It is sufficient to say we spent the night in prayer by the bedside of Jane. The murmuring spirit of the father seemed to be hushed into meek submission. He could kiss the hand by which he was smitten, and thank his heavenly Father for the chastisement. There was a pleasing serenity upon his countenance, even in the chamber of death, which seemed to say, "All is well."

With the early light of the next morning, I went out to visit the neighbouring settlement, to invite the attendance of two or three female friends, to perform their last offices of kindness for the deceased, and to make the other necessary arrangements for her funeral. As I walked along towards my boat, I observed a little skiff stranded upon the beach. It was the same which conveyed Jane so near the paternal dwelling, the preceding evening. This circumstance, and a hat, which lay at a little distance, told me that Jane Mandeville was not the only person who had been the victim of a watery death. The melancholy tidings of the catastrophe of the preceding evening were soon spread wide; and deep was the feeling excited in every breast along the shores of Lake George. The next day was the Sabbath; and there was sadness upon the countenances of those who convened at the glen. The mourners were not relatives; for old Mandeville had none remaining. But they had known Jane in her childhood-had known her in her riper years; and many were the tears which were shed that day upon her coffin. The Missionary