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my flesh and my heart faileth, I desire that God may be the strength of my heart, and my portion for


But, when Jordan is passed through, and the promised inheritance is mine own, have I aught beside to ask of the Lord? I have. The soul is safe ; but I am careful of its deserted mansion. I would have this earthly tabernacle kept in the Lord's remembrance. When

years have come and gone, and no man knoweth of my sepulchre, I would have my dust still cared for by the Lord. Which of us can tell, where he will be laid to his long sleep? In our own churchyard, among kith and kin; or, in some remote part of our isle, among strangers; or, in the caves of Ocean, among the tangles of sea-weeds and corals; or, in a far-distant land, far away from human habitations ? Reality will show that a last resting-place may be found in a spot, the farthest away from one's own conceptions. Some of my brightest hours are associated with an old vicarage, in the county of Durham ; and now, as at a far distance I write, its brick walls and tiled roof, its pleasant gardens redolent with roses, its undulating lawns and embosoming woods arise before me. What quieter nook on earth is there than a retired country parsonage; or what man can more reasonably hope for a grave, dug by loving hands, than the minister who inhabits it? Yet, where now sleeps the late occupant of this vicarage? Beneath the shadow of Mount Sinai, where Death overtook him in his travelling. Dr. Bonar,*



“The Desert of Sinai.” By Horatius Bonar, D.D. 1857.

writing from the Wady Mokatteb in the wilderness, describes his solitary grave:

“Just then we were shown the grave of 'The English Minister,' Mr. Ewbank, of Grindon. Our guide had met his widow at Howarah returning home, having left her husband's dust behind her in the wilderness. The grave was on the side of a mound of sand. No tree, no flower! No stone, nor epitaph. No mourner, to sit down and weep. How solitary did it seem, and how sad, to die and to be buried here! An oppressive sense of loneliness seemed to cover us, as we looked at the unmarked tomb, and then turned our camels' heads to the journey onwards.

“ Yet He who is “the Resurrection and the Life,' is in this desert, as truly as in our own land. He has His eye here upon the dust of His saints, as well as in our own churchyard, where the united in life are joined together in death.” (Isaiah, xxvi. 19.)

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints. Precious, too, are their mortal tabernacles, in whatsoever region they be laid. Earth will keep safely her sacred deposit, until the set time cometh, when she shall yield it up again. And the Lord shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto His glorious body, according to the working whereby He is able even to subdue all things unto Himself.

Once more, but that for evermore, I ask for my Redeemer's remembrance

III. In Eternity. My supplication is that earnest cry, which came of old from dying lips

, “Lord ! remember me, when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.” And the answer to that petition will be

grace consummated in glory. How marvellous, in the Lord's great day, to find that He will acknowledge His servants individually! How blessed to hear Him

saying—“Thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things.” How rapturous to see the King in His beauty, to walk with Him in white, and to be for ever with the Lord !

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And now I hear the conclusion of the whole matter. These strong desires for a place in Memory

. were not given to me without a purpose; for, in Redemption, they can find their full accomplishment. I cannot hold a page in History; but I can have my name written in the book of Life. I cannot aspire to the dignities of earth; but I can be a fellowcitizen with the saints, and of the household of God. In the world I live unknown; but my Redeemer will confess my name before His Father, and before His angels. This recognition from Him is enough. Every yearning of my soul will be satisfied, when with the Lord I shall be "in everlasting Remembrance."

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“The Past is like a book closed : and here and there, with uncertian hand, does Memory, unclasping the volume, peruse in its mystic pages, records of things which are gone by, and have become passages of our history. Some portions of this strange book open more readily than others; and upon these are written the events, which (we say) have made the deepest impression upon us.



in other years.

ANKIND, for the most part, are the willing

thralls of the Past. Not all the busy doings

of the Present, nor the bright expectations of the Future, can divest the heart of fetters forged

We delight in re-ascending the stream of our by gone life. In fancy, we are children again. On our sight comes, gleaming in the warm sunshine, our early home. We cross its threshold, and find within, its living and loving inmates. Once more, are we gladdened by a father's manly greeting. Once more, are we the objects of a mother's unutterable tenderness; and the voices of gentle sisters are heard again, and we stand within a group of frolicsome brothers.

We renew

our wild excursions. We are free-booting gipsies of the green lanes, or adventurous Crusoes of an imaginary isle. The


forest gloriously calls us to nutting expeditions. The broad, smooth river invites us to cleave its glassy surface.

“Ridet annus, prata rident,

Nosque rideamus :
Domum, domum, dulce domum !”

We are youths, strong of nerve and firm in purpose. The portal of Alma Mater has received us, and Science is wooing us to her arms. She proffers for our meed the philosophy of Newton, the piety of Boyle, the profound sagacity of Bacon. We weep with the muse of Grecian tragedy ; we live again, in olden Rome, with the delightful Livy. Our wits are sharpened by Aristophanes and Menander ; and our imagination is attuned to the highest poesy by the numbers of Homer. We are even impelled to try our ’prentice hand upon essay and verse ; nor is it long ere we bedaub ourselves with the printer's ink. Our first interview with a publisher is marked in our diary by a red line, and a private communication from an editor goes into our collection of autographs. The world is to ring with our fame. The galaxy of Genius is to receive another bright particular star.

But Memory's pictures are not always of sunshine. In the years that are past, there were nights as well as days. Heavy mists arose from our valleys. Lengthened shadows came down from our mountains, and the smiling landscape slowly faded from our sight. Still, we were not left in darkness. In our sky straightway arose the moon and stars. If Memory must paint a night scene, she will do it with

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