support for the calamities of mortal life, and that is, an assured belief "that the procession of our fate, however sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being, whose everlasting purposes embrace all accidents, converting them to good." Let us then adore in humbleness and sincerity of heart, and keep the commandments of that Being, who has power to make us happy, even amid the many vicissitudes of life; and, when we are called to pass through that dark valley which leads to eternity, we shall be guided by His omnipotent hand, and be welcomed by Him and His angels into that glorious kingdom prepared for the redeemed, from the foundation of the world.

SUMMER EVENING TWILIGHT.

"Now with religious awe, the farewell light
Blends with the solemn coloring of the night."

Wordsworth.

THAT hour in which the garish light of day is mellowed by the shades of evening, has always had a tendency to subdue and soothe the feelings of my heart. There is a mystery about it, which is indescribable, and constitutes its principal charm. I have thought that if I had power to number the days of my existence, I should choose to die at the twilight hour, and at the close of the twilight of life. The heat and burden of our pilgrimage and of the day just closed, would have a kindred influence upon us; and, valuing the former

not more highly than the latter, we should calmly resign ourselves to that sweet sleep, whose morning is without end, and infinitely glorious. How many men have passed a stormy twilight, and died in the darkness of a starless midnight! Was it not so with Lear,

"That poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man?"

This hour reminds me of the humble dwelling where I was born, far away in the west, which stood upon the shore of the gently flowing Raisin. And this it may be is the cause of that thoughtful mood which is wont to steal over me, as the sun sheds his last beams upon our portion of the globe. I love to listen to the dying hum of business, whether it be in the populous city, or the secluded village. The laugh of childhood is now more plaintive than usual, as if it were conscious of the coming on of silence. And does not the farmer close his labors with a more measured tread; the merchant and me

chanic with a more contemplative countenance than they began them in the morning? What hour is so well suited to listen to the tones of the lute, and the songs of the beautiful and young? I have a gentle sister, in whose soul there is an eternal melody. "When twilight gray has in her sober livery all things clad," it is her custom to retire, all alone, to her harp, and, in quick succession, pour forth a series of songs fit for the lips of angels. And often, when through, she looks around, and is surprised to find that her father, and mother, and sisters, even to the lisping babe, have long been listening in breathless attention. And then the laugh of homeborn happiness resounds. Such are many of the twilights of the present time in my present home. It seems to me the twilights of my boyhood were longer, and in many respects more interesting than those of my later years. Is this a delusion of the mind? If it is, let me remain deceived, for there is a luxury in the thought. I love the twilight hour, beits holy and blessed influence was

cause

around me when my lips were pressed by the first kiss of love. The remembrance of that kiss is sweet to my soul, and can never be obliterated while I have my reason.

The evening twilight is a kind of pause in time, in which daylight and darkness struggle for the mastery; and therefore, an appropriate hour to think upon our yesterdays, and our to-morrows. Yesterday! who can recall its precious moments? They are gone, for ever gone. Up to the throne of God, each, a winged spirit, they have ascended to trace upon the Book of Life the manner in which we have employed them here below. And who of us can say, they have thrown a halo around our names there written? Rather than this, have we not reason to fear that the angels of heaven have blotted out our names, and traced them upon another and a darkened page? To-morrow? Who can lengthen out its span? Boast not thyself of to-morrow; thou knowest not what tidings ere then may reach thee from the spirit land. Despair not of the morrow; it may come to thee