TWO DEATH-SCENE PICTURES.

THERE is no place in this world like a death-bed. There is no scene on earth so full of solemn and momentous interest, and around which gathers such affecting impressions. The death-bed is the last stage of human journeyings to the world of spirits. The minds of men naturally approach that last point of human travel with reluctant dread. From the death-bed man takes his last look of earth and earth's objects. On the death-bed the eye grows dim, the world recedes, the vision changes, and the dark, gloomy twilight of life's last evening settles down on all things here below. The deathbed is to the christian the vestibule of heaven. While he lingers here, undressing for the grave, and putting on the garments of immortality, the christian often hears from afar the songs of angels, and his ear is greeted with celestial music. But the death-bed is to the man without piety, and destitute of religion, the dark vestibule to the world of woe.

This last chapter in human history must be written for each one of us. Of what sort will it be? is an affecting question. The following two chapters, diverse in character, were written by an eye-witness of both. One was—

THE DEATH-BED OF A CHRISTIAN.

THE writer, in speaking of the two, says: "These men, through life, professed sentiments very different from each other; and at the awful hour of dissolution, their feelings were indeed very opposite. They were both snatched away in the prime of life, one being twenty-four, and the other

twenty-seven years old. A long and disinterested friendship with the former induced him to request my attendance professionally; but all human skill was vain: the cold hand of death had seized him. Never in my life did I see the cheering effects of a religious life more strongly exemplified than on this occasion. His wife, his mother, and his five sisters, with myself, were present. Observing his female relations in tears, he requested them to come near, and, after a little pause, addressed them in nearly the following words: 'Beloved friends, I perceive with regret the anguish of your souls; I say regret, because I had promised myself nothing but tranquillity and happiness while the partition is breaking down that separates me from my God. I am entering on my last journey, which, so far from being terrible, is inviting and delightful.' A paroxysm of pain here interrupted the interesting account, and for a minute he lay apparently insensible; but opening his eyes again, with a placid smile he said, 'I feel the infirmities of nature, but my sense of pain is lost in my ardent hope of salvation. I have heartily repented of all my sins, and firmly believe, through the mercies of my God, and the redeeming power of my blessed Saviour, that I shall, in a few minutes, be numbered with the saved of God. O my wife! my mother! my beloved sisters! I beseech you not to mourn my departure. I feel happiness unspeakable opening on my soul, as it bursts from this wretched tenement.' Then grasping my hand, he faintly exclaimed, 'Ah, my friend! piety is its own reward. See the effect of a religious life, and the blessed composure of a dying christian!' He continued, 'My lamp is nearly out;

but, blessed be God, I feel that it has not burned in vain. O Lord God, forgive my impatience: I am ready to obey thy call, and anxious to receive thy promised rest.' Here his voice failed-his tongue faltered-and his spirit took its flight to the bosom of his Father in heaven."

THE DEATH-BED OF AN UNBELIEVER.

"The picture of my other unhappy friend was just the reverse of the above. He had indulged freely in all the fashionable gaieties of the world; and if ever a serious or useful thought obtruded on his disordered fancy, it was immediately stifled by some idle vanity.

In this mad career he quaffed away life to the dregs, and, before he arrived at the meridian of manhood, he was verging fast to the brink of eternity. A drunken surfeit in

a distant county brought on a fever, which threatened a speedy dissolution of life; and in this state I saw him for the first time for several years, and I am certain I shall never forget the painful feelings I endured throughout this melancholy interview. It is absolutely impossible to give even a faint idea of the horror, the agony, the heart-rending terror that harrowed up his soul whenever the thought of death flashed across his mind. He received me with frenzied ardour, in which hope and fear were strongly depicted. 'Alas!' he exclaimed, 'you have come too late, for I am lost -every way lost.' I immediately perceived that life was ebbing fast; and being convinced that nothing short of Divine interposition could retard his fate, I endeavoured to console him by drawing his attention to the mercies of God,

and the saving mediation of a gracious Redeemer; to which he replied with asperity and violence, 'If you have any friendship left for a degraded, self-polluted wretch, torture not his last moments. My life has been spent in iniquityfoolishly spent-because it never yielded one hour of solid happiness. I have lived without thinking of God, and why should he now think of me, unless it be to, judge me-to damn me? O God! I shall go distracted!' A fainting fit intervened, and fortunately broke this mournful chain of reflections: but, alas, sensibility too soon returned, and with it fresh trains of gloomy despondency. He stared wildly, and roared out, 'I have broken froin him, but he is coming again-there-there-death! O, save me! save me!' After nearly an hour passed in this dreadful state, he again became capable of reflecting; but every moment added to his dejection, 'I have been so bad,' he exclaimed, 'that God can never forgive me. I have blasphemed and dishonoured his holy name a hundred times, when my heart inwardly smote me. I have ridiculed and denied his existence, that my companions in sin might think well of me: but I never was sincere in my wickedness.' His mind became so agitated that all reasoning was lost; he was unable to repent; and the thought of death rent his very soul. In this perturbed state he languished for about four hours, from the time of my first seeing him; till, at length, overwhelmed by despair, a a paroxysm of fever closed the tragic scene. The last words he uttered, that I could hear were, 'God will not, cannot, forgive'-the remainder was lost in a murmuring groan." Like which of these would you die?

Wellingborough.

THE SEASONS.

AN ACROSTIC.

SPRING! We hail thy gentle reign;
Prison'd flowers burst their chain;
Rippling brooks, kept silent long,
In icy bands, resume their song;
Now bedewed with nature's tears,
Green and fresh the earth appears.

Summer rules with cloudless skies;
U nderfoot the flowerets rise;
M yriad songsters fill the trees;
M ingled sweets perfume the breeze;
E ver bright are Summer hours,
Rich with choicest fruits and flowers.

A utumn comes with golden sheaves,
U nto earth 'mid falling leaves;
Trees, that late so emerald were,
U mber, red, and gold appear;
Merrily the reapers sing,
Now the harvest home they bring.

W inter clothes the world in white;
I ce-bound floods attest his might;
Now the fire-light brightly glows,
Though without the wild wind blows;
E ver rough though he may be,

R are old Winter we love thee!

WINKS AND SON, PRINTERS, LEICESTER.

DORA.