62 MEMORIALS OF THE DEPARTED. vengeance, we could at least understand the voluntary deafness of the world. But it is strange that men will not listen to their best Friend; strange that the lost should shut their ears against a voice which publishes salvation. In the Scriptures, alternating with the whispers of mercy, the thunders of judgment resound. The terrors of the Lord are as thickly strewn on the surface of the word as His invitations; but it would be an inexcusable and fatal misreading of the Spirit's mind to combine these two so that they should neutralize each other, and leave upon a human heart the vague impression that there is in the Bible about as much to drive us back, as to draw us near. There are in the word kind encouraging invitations; so far you will acknowledge. But there are also many stern denunciations, and those you think greatly modify the mercy of other parts. These are the crowning marks of mercy. A shepherd foreseeing a snow-storm that will drift deep in the hollows of the hill, where the silly sheep seeking refuge would find a grave, prepares shelter in a safe spot, and opens its door. Then he sends his dog after the wandering flock to frighten them into the fold. The bark of the dog behind them is a terror to the timid sheep; but it is at once the sure means of their safety, and the mark of the shepherd's care. Without it the prepared fold and the open entrance might have proved of no avail. The terror which the shepherd sent into the flock gave the finishing-touch to his tender care, and effect to all that had gone before it. Such precisely in design and effect are the terrible things of God's word: not one of them indicates that He is unwilling to save sinners. They are the overflowings of the Divine compassion. They are sent by the good Shepherd to surround triflers on the brink of perdition, and compel them to come into its provided refuge, ere its door be shut. The terrors of the Lord are not the salvation of men; but they have driven many to the Saviour. No part of the Bible could be wanted; a man shall live by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.-Rev. W. Arnot, PROCRASTINATION IN RELIGION. MEN are ever beguiling themselves with the dream that they shall be one day what they are not now; they balance their present consciousness of a low worldly life, and of a mind heavy and dull to spiritual things, with the lazy thought that some day God will bring home to them in power the realities of faith in Christ. So men dream away their lives in pleasure, sloth, trade, or study. Who is there that has not at some time secretly indulged the soothing flattery, that the staid gravity of age, when youth is quelled; or the leisure of retirement, when the fret of busy life is over; or, it may be, the inevitable pains and griefs which are man's inheritance, shall one day break up in his heart the now sealed fountain of repentance, and make, at last, his religion a reality? Who has not allayed the uneasy consciousness of a meager religion with the hope of a future change? Who has not thus been mocked by the enemy of man? MEMORIALS OF THE DEPARTED. dangers to which young men, in his circumstances, were exposed. Throughout a long life, he was remarkable for "diligence in business;" and in this respect Divine Providence crowned his welldirected efforts with great success. Nor was he unmindful of religion. For many years, when at home, a portion of each day was spent in retirement; domestic worship was established in his house; and he strictly observed the Christian Sabbath. He hospitably entertained the ambassadors of Christ; he unostentatiously supported the funds of the Connexion; and, as many Ministers can testify, it was no ordinary thing which kept him from the house of God, either on the Sabbath or on the week-day evening. He may have been a silent, but he was not an inattentive observer of the movement in favour of popular education; and, in conjunction with his surviving brother, H. B. Pooll, Esq., he decided on the erection and endowment of a public school for the village. In the spring of 1856 he was seized with a severe illness. Physicians were in constant attendance, and little hope was entertained of his recovery. By the blessing of God on the means employed, and more especially, perhaps, on the assiduous attention of devoted sisters, he slowly improved. As his strength increased, he became deeply conscious of the necessity of some further inward change, and with great fervour he sought it, often saying, "I am a penitent at the foot of the cross." Nor did he seek in vain. He was enabled to believe with his "heart unto righteousness," and his soul rejoiced in God his Saviour. His own fetters broken, he was anxious for the emancipation of others, and one at least of his personal attendants attributed her salvation to the instrumentality of her afflicted master. His sufferings were considerable and long-continued, but they were borne with patience and resignation; and when the last enemy approached, he was not unprepared. On February 11th, 1859, he fell asleep, to awake no more, till a slumbering world shall be aroused by the blast of the archangel's trump. He bequeathed to the Wesleyan Missionary Society, £10,000; to the Bible Society, £5,000; and to the Worn-Out Ministers' Fund, £1,000. He also re 63 membered those who had served him with fidelity, whether in the house, garden, stable, or field. His entire dependence for salvation was on the Crucified. A short time before his decease, he said to a beloved sister, "O! sister, I have such power to trust in Christ;" thus adding to the number of those who, having "died in faith," have escaped to the "mountain of God." DIED, April 14th, 1857, ELLEN HARDING, of Farnworth, aged thirty-seven years. She was convinced of her state as a sinner, under the preaching of Mr. Broadbent, more than twenty years ago. For some time she sought the Lord with strong cries and tears, and was at length enabled to call God "Abba, Father!" From her conversion, she felt anxious that all around should enjoy what she did; and especially did she endeavour to lead her younger sisters and brother to love the Saviour. She became a Sabbath-school Teacher, and took great delight in her work. She sought nothing short of the salvation of each scholar, and her efforts were greatly owned of God. She was also engaged as visiter of the sick, and as a Tractdistributer, and availed herself of every opportunity to get the people whom she visited to purchase Bibles. Visiting the sick was a favourite employment with her. For nine months before her death, her sufferings were great; but she murmured not. "It is my greatest consolation," she said, on one occasion, "that I have an Advocate with the Father. I know I have an interest in the blood of Jesus, and I shall soon sit down at His table. O, how sweet it is to know that there remaineth a rest for the people of God!"" At another time she said to her mother, "I derive all my consolation from a firm, confident trust in the atonement of Jesus." A few moments before she died, she requested her father to pray for her; and then repeated, before speech failed, "Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, O receive my soul at last!" MRS. ELIZA FRENCH was born at St. Helen's, Isle of Wight, in the year 1803; and was converted to God in the year 64 TABULAR RECORD OF MORTALITY. 1822, among the Wesleyan Methodists. She immediately joined the Society in that place. In 1823 she married. Her husband, being in the coast-guard service moved from place to place; but wherever for the time her lot was cast, she zealously seconded his efforts to spread the knowledge of the Gospel among those with whom they were stationed. At the commencement of the war, in 1854, they were removed to the island of St. Martin. There being no Methodists on that island, she at once joined herself to the only Christian society to be met with there. In the spring of 1855 she was seized with the disease by which she was gradually brought down to death. But all the while, by God's grace, she manifested most beautifully the strength and glory of Christian principle. The language of murmur or complaint never fell from her lips, but she continually expressed herself in the language of prayer and praise; often catching a view of the heavenly world, and longing to be there, while singing and making melody in her heart unto the Lord. Thus she lingered, growing weaker and weaker, until eight o'clock on the morning of April 20th, 1857, when voices whispered, "Sister spirit, come away;" and she sweetly fell asleep in Jesus. On April 30th, 1857, died at Kingsbridge, Devon, aged sixty-nine years, SARAH HUMPHRIES. She was converted to God at the age of twenty-one years; was a member of Society about fifty years. She was one of the first members of the Wesleyan Society in Kingsbridge, and remained consistent and upright to the day of her death. Divine grace shone remarkably in the patience with which she passed through many trials. She was ever kind and hospitable to the Ministers of Christ. Her piety at home was conspicuous. She frequently took her children apart into a room for prayer and earnest conversation with them about their souls. One of her sons, a member of our Society, says he fears he should have been lost but for these prayers and efforts. Another died triumphantly in the faith. Her own end was eminently peaceful. WE had been nearly four weeks tossing on the restless bosom of the Atlantic. Dreary, desolate weeks they were, in which not a single sail had crossed our path, and scarcely sun or stars had appeared to light us on our way. Fierce winds had assailed our frail bark from every quarter, and huge billows had risen in their majestic wrath, as if to swallow her up. Now, a "tremendous squall" had nearly capsized us; then, a waterspout shot by within ship's length of her stern; and again the heavens gathered blackness, and poured down for days a torrent of rain. We began to feel as if we had left all the world behind us, and we, the eighteen souls in that ship, were the last of creation; and a kind of apathy was settling down upon some of us,-a feeling as if we always had VOL.VI.-Second Series.-MARCH, 1860. F been, and always should be, in that lonely vessel, tossing about on that stormy ocean. But now we were fast approaching the Straits of Gibraltar; and though no land had been seen, and the weather continued dark and squally, we felt "a newer life in every gale," however rough, which was speeding us on to the fairer skies and smoother waters of the Mediterranean. In the midst of these joyous anticipations, another trouble awaited us. For some days our steward had been lying in a burning fever and wild delirium, but we had hoped he might recover. Now we were appalled by the unmistakable approach of the grim messenger. Poor steward! He was a stranger to us all. Silent and gloomy from the time of our sailing, there had been nothing about him to interest us, until we saw him suffering from that fever; but that had awakened our tenderest sympathies; and now, as the cold dews of death stood on his brow, and his heavy breathing grew shorter and shorter, and the film gathered over his glassy eyes, we felt almost as if a friend were departing. But the thought of his soul was what gave intensity to the feeling of some of us in that solemn hour. It was evident that he had been a wicked young Dreadful oaths and curses had burst from his lips in the mad ravings of delirium, and during the first part of his sickness no intervals of reason had been allowed him to think on his awful condition; or to turn his imploring eyes to the merciful Saviour of sinners for the pardon he needed. Repeated and importunate prayer had been offered for him: had it been heard with favour? There had been some hours when it was supposed the poor wandering mind had recovered its balance. Though unable to articulate, the eye had given that hopeful indication. Had the man repented? Had he put a penitent trust in Christ? Had he been forgiven? No man could tell. All was gloom. A horror of thick darkness enshrouded his death-bed, which the up-lifted veil of eternity could alone dispel. man. Never shall I forget the feelings with which I paced the solitary deck that evening. The night was dark and threatening. Scowling clouds bent over us, through which, now and then, the moon struggled, only to be hidden in deeper gloom. The agitated waters, with their sullen roar, and the wind moaning through the shrouds, seemed chiming together a melancholy dirge; while a loose yard swinging back and forward overhead with a strange creaking noise, caused for a moment an almost superstitious terror to creep over me. Death, under all circumstances, is an awful and dreaded guest; but in such as these, peculiarly so. There, in our solitary ship, amid those boundless watery wastes, he who has all seasons and all places for his own, had tracked us, and from the little number that had for so many weeks composed our world, had borne off one; and here before me lay his victim, not clad, as I had been accustomed to see, in the decent habiliments of the grave, but the lifeless form rudely sewed up in a quilt, with a sail thrown over to protect it from the threatening rain. I turned away with a shudder, and, leaning |