approaches to him. Indeed, the very feeling of the soul itself, seemed like a kind of silent, voiceless worship. And prayer there was all adoration, spontaneous, irrepressible adoration. The reason of this was, that the nature of the place strangely suggested to the mind the idea, the great, the awful idea, of a present God, and especially in the more grand and majestic, and terrible attributes of His being. On that rude heap of stones, the two visitants of this solemn temple of Nature, sat down together; the aged veteran soldier of Christ, almost ready to put off his wellworn armor, and the young and inexperienced disciple, just putting on his harness, and with a fluttering, palpitating heart, halfhoping, half-trembling, in view of the prospect before him, and in painful uncertainty as to the particular direction in which the path of his duty lay. Little was said. Few words became such a place; except that the grey-haired man, long since gone to his rest, gave some brief history, partly from his own knowledge, and partly from tradition handed down from his fathers, of the character of those good men in the same church, who had gone before him, of the successive pastors of that church, of the first organization of that church, dating as far back as the year 1670, and particularly of the interesting locality itself, where he and his friend (whom he hoped one day to call his minister) were then sitting. It need scarcely be added, that the time soon came, after a few recitals of this kind were given, when they fell down together in united supplication, before the Hearer of Prayer. And never, while the writer retains the proper use of his memory, will he forget that prayer of the venerable elder; and never will the impressions made by it be effaced from his mind. It was not loud; it was not fervent, in the customary sense of that term; it was not pronounced with a choked or broken utterance; it was not accompanied with tears; nor was it indicative of any such emotion as is usually evinced by tears. It was calm. It was solemn. It was eminently scriptural, both in its phraseology and its spirit. It bespoke a mind familiar with Bible truth in Bible language, and at home in urging that truth as an argument before God in prayer, and it was singularly appropriate, as were the prayers of this good man at all times, and in all circumstances. More than a quarter of a century has elapsed since that prayer was offered: and yet many of the thoughts and expressions employed in it, seem, even now, to be trembling on the writer's ear, as if they had scarcely ceased to be heard by him, and as if he had scarcely felt

the solemn and glorious audience-chamber of the Most High, when that prayer was offered. It began thus, or in expressions something like them: Our fathers worshipped in this mountain. But the fathers, where are they? and the prophets, do they live forever? We all do fade as the leaf. Thou carriest us away with the flood We spend our years as a tale that is told. But Thou art the same; of thy years there is no end. Thou hast been the dwelling place of Thy people in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God. The mountains are Thine, the strength also of the hills is Thine." In this strain of sublime scriptural reference and quotation, did he continue for some time to exalt God, and to sink the creature in the dust before Him, until that mountain might almost seem to one's imagination, as the mountain of Israel seemed to the prophet's servant 'full of chariots of fire, and horsemen of fire.' And then, there followed a few words of entreaty for the Divine guidance in difficulty, and for the resolving of doubts as to the path of duty, and for a heart to do the will of God whenever known, and whithersoever it might lead. There the prayer closedAnd from that hour the burden of anxiety on the writer's mind began to roll off. That visit to the mountain Bethel was, probably, the turning point in his life. That prayer seemed to dispel the cloud, and to make the path of duty plainer to him than it had ever appeared to him before.

"Now step forward a few months from that time. In the sueceeding autumn of the same year, the writer became the pastor of that people. And on the afternoon of the day on which he had taken upon himself his ordination vows, and had become the pastor of that people, another little company was gathered together at the same spot. It was a part of the ordaining Council by whom he had been consecrated to his work. From the temple made with hands, where the ordination services had been performed, these members of the Council had repaired, with the young pastor, to the mountain-temple already described, and were now hifting up their hearts in thanksgiving and praise to God. They shook the depths of the forest's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer;' a pleasant sequel to the good elder's prayer, made at the same spot, but a short time before. Some of the words which were sung, and with which the "sounding aisles of the dim woods

rang," were those sprightly and beautiful lines of Watts;-

Several of that little company, whose voices were blended in that song of praise, are now resting from their labors. The others will follow at no distant day. And if they are but faithful unto death, is it any matter how soon? Of the departed ones of that little company, the writer vividly calls to mind the names which follow. May he be allowed to pay this passing tribute of esteem and love to their memory. The judicious and excellent Rev. Mr. Langdon, of Bethlehem; the warm-hearted and interesting preacher, the Rev. Mr. Clark, of Southbury; the beloved and successful pastor, the Rev. Mr. Hart, of Plymouth. Among the still surviving members of that little company, were the Rev. Dr. Beecher, now of Cincinnati, Ohio; the Rev. Dr. Tyler, of South Britain, now at the head of our New England theological institution, and some others. If the eye of any one of these dear brethren should chance to fall upon these humble reminiscences of by-gone days. they will doubtless recollect the scene above referred to, and possibly it may seem to refresh them, like a well-spring in the wilderness if, perchance, they ever feel weary in their Master's work. Nearly thirty years have gone by, and yet how beautifully fresh and clear that glad song of praise, from those who loved Zion, and who loved one another, seems now to be going up on the mountain air to Heaven, from under the shadow of that rock in a weary land. Here was prayer too, as well as praise, in that little circle. And such prayer! The love of Christ constrained them. They were dear to each other for their works' sake. And when they went down from that Mount of Transfiguration, shall we call it, to their respective fields of labor, because, like the primitive disciples in the holy mount, they might not be allowed to build tabernacles there, they were doubtless the better prepared, by the little incident here recorded, for their future trials, and would long remember the refreshing scenes of that day. Such, at least, has been the case with the writer of these 'Pleasant Remembrances.' Now, such incidents as the foregoing, little in themselves, and almost unnoticeable, as they may seem to a careless eye to be, are in truth, green spots in the wilderness; beautiful passages in one's history; golden threads in life's changeable, many-colored tissue; sweet poetry, blessed music to man's often