soon rifled of any small articles of wearing apparel; and Samuel, without emotion, set before them whatever provisions he had-butter, cheese, bread and milk-and hoped they would not be too hard upon old people, who were desirous of dying, as they had lived, in peace. Thankful were they both, in their parental hearts, that their little Lilias was among the hills; and the old man trusted, that if she returned before the soldiers were gone, she would see, from some distance, their muskets on the green before the door, and hide herself among the brakens.

The soldiers devoured their repast with many oaths, and much hideous and obscene language, which it was sore against the old man's soul to hear in his own hut; but he said nothing, for that would have been wilfully to sacrifice his life. At last, one of the party ordered him to return thanks, in words impious and full of blasphemy; which Samuel calmly refused to do, beseeching them, at the same time, for the sake of their own souls, not so to offend their great and bountiful Preserver. "Confound the old canting Covenanter; I will prick him with my bayonet, if he won't say grace!" and the blood trickled down the old man's cheek, from a slight wound on his forehead.

The sight of it seemed to awaken the dormant bloodthirstiness in the tiger heart of the soldier, who now swore, if the old man did not instantly repeat the words after him, he would shoot him dead. And, as if cruelty were contagious, almost the whole party agreed that the demand was but reasonable, and that the old hypocritical knave must preach or perish. "Here is a great musty Bible," cried one of them. "If he won't speak, I will gag him, with a vengeance. Here, old Mr. Peden the prophet, let me cram a few chapters of St. Luke down your maw. St. Luke was a physician, I believe. Well, here is a dose of him. Open your jaws." And, with these words, he tore a handful of leaves out of the Bible, and advanced towards the old man, from whose face his terrified wife was now wiping off the blood.

Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore; but his sinews were not yet relaxed, and, in his younger days, he had been a man of great strength, When, therefore, the soldier grasped him

by the neck, the sense of receiving an indignity from such a slave made his blood boil, and, as if his youth had been renewed, the gray-headed man, with one blow, felled the ruffian to the floor.

That blow sealed his doom. There was a fierce tumult and yelling of wrathful voices, and Samuel Grieve was led out to die. He had witnessed such butchery of others, and felt that the hour of his martyrdom was come. "As thou didst reprove Simon Peter in the garden, when he smote the high priest's servant, and saidst, The cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?' so now, O my Redeemer, do thou pardon me, thy frail and erring follower, and enable me to drink this cup!" With these words, the old man knelt down unbidden, and, after one solemn look to heaven, closed his eyes, and folded his hands across his breast.

His wife now came forward, and knelt down beside the old man. Let us die togetner, Samuel; but, oh! what will become of our dear Lilias?" "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," said her husband, opening not his eyes, but taking her hand into his: " Sarah, be not afraid." "O Samuel, I remember, at this moment, these words of Jesus, which you this morning read-'Forgive them, Father; they know not what they do?'" "We are all sinners together," said Samuel, with a loud voice; "we two old gray-headed people, on our knees, and about to die, both forgive you all, as we hope ourselves to be forgiven. We are ready be merciful, and do not mangle us. Sarah, be not afraid."

It seemed that an angel was sent down from heaven to save the lives of these two old gray-headed folk. With hair floating in sunny light, and seemingly wreathed with flowers of heavenly azure; with eyes beaming lustre, and yet streaming tears; with white arms extended in their beauty, and motion gentle and gliding as the sunshine when a cloud is rolled away-came on, over the meadow before the hut, the same green-robed creature, that had startled the soldiers with her singing in the moor; and, crying loudly, but still sweetly, "God sent me hither to save their lives," she fell down beside them as they knelt together; and then, lifting up her head from the turf, fixed her beautiful face, instinct with

fear, love, hope, and the spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about to shed that innocent blood.

They all stood heart-stricken; and the executioners flung down their muskets upon the green sward. "God bless you, kind, good soldiers, for this!" exclaimed the child, now weeping and sobbing with joy. "Ay, ay, you will be happy to-night, when you lie down to sleep. If you have any little daughters or sisters like me, God will love them for your mercy to us, and nothing, till you return home, will hurt a hair of their heads. Oh! I see now that soldiers are not so cruel as we say!" "Lilias, your grandfather speaks unto you; his last words are—Leave us, leave us; for they are going to put us to death. Soldiers, kill not this little child, or the waters of the loch will rise up and drown the sons of perdition. Lilias, give us each a kiss, and then go into the house."

The soldiers conversed together for a few minutes, and seemed now like men themselves condemned to die. Shame and remorse, for their coward cruelty, smote them to the core; and they bade them that were still kneeling, to rise up and go their ways: then, forming themselves into regular order, one gave the word of command, and, marching off, they soon disappeared. The old man, his wife, and little Lilias, continued for some tim on their knees in prayer, and then all three went into the hut; the child between them, and a withered hand of each laid upon its beautiful and its fearless head.

LESSON CXXXIX.

Hopes and Fears of Parents.-FRANCIS

around the relation in among the strongest and By a spontaneous move

THE hopes and fears, that cluster which we stand to the young, are most intense feelings of the heart. ment of the mind, we connect these objects of affection with the future. We pass rapidly onward, in thought, from what

they are to what they may become. And the progress, which thus stretches out before the imagination, is, in truth, a wonderful scene. Mark the series of changes from early infancy to established maturity,—from the simple feelings, the cheap pleasures, the artless plans and purposes, the little joys and little disappointments of childhood, to the time when each one goes forth, as an individual agent, on his own path, and with his own responsibleness,—and you will see how wide and indefinite may be the range of conjecture on this subject.

From the feeble beginnings of these early days, may come the man of strong frame, who bends himself to his daily task with untired endurance; or the enterprising devotee to business, who plunges into the midst of the crowded cares of the world, and does his part to keep in ceaseless motion the vast machinery of active life; or the enlightened scholar, who traverses the fields of knowledge, to bring thence his contributions to the general treasury of improvement; or the hardy navigator, who rides upon the ocean waves, as it were in the chariot of his glory, and fearlessly throws himself into combat with the storm; or the statesman, who bears up, with an unwearied arm, the weight of a nation's welfare and a nation's rights. Amidst the success and defeat, the honor and the shame, the strengthening of virtue, and the growing ascendency of vice, which may find a place between the first and last points of such a progress, how many combinations may imagination make, in attempting to cast the destiny of

a child!

The hopes and promises of coming time, are interwoven with all the serious and thoughtful affections of parents; and some of the most precious interests of life, are involved in the calculation. And, generally, the vision, which thus floats before the mind, is a pleasant one. The propensity is to see good in the prospect, to gather around these young germs of immortality, fair and bright anticipations. The everlasting principle, which is implanted in every little breast, and which shall live when systems of worlds shall have been hushed in silence, and when "the host of heaven" shall have faded away, we are prone to believe, will be an ever-increasing principle of beauty and improvement. We hope, at least, that the dark lines of guilt will never be traced on the spirit,

that now blooms in innocence and loveliness; that the thirst for knowledge, which now animates the youthful bosom, will never be displaced by the corrupting and leaden influence of ignorance and sensuality.

Yet how often do these fair promises fail of their accom plishment! how often are these pleasant expectations turned to shame and bitterness! how often does the man prove faithless to the pledge given by the child! The visions we cherish with regard to our offspring, may prove as deceitful as the summer clouds, which stretch along the horizon, and which, we are told, the mariner not unfrequently mistakes, in the distance, for firm and pleasant land. The hopes, that flourished in all their freshness in the school, or at the fireside, may be crushed or blasted amidst the struggles and conflicts of manhood. Where expectation was looking for a bright development of honorable and useful talent, we sometimes find nothing but the dull level of ordinary attainments. The promise of purity and improvement, which the opening of life gave, is falsified amidst the toils and strivings of later years, reminding us of the fanciful, but beautiful notion entertained by some of the ancient nations, that the light of the dawn was an uncreated being, which gleamed from the throne of God, and returned thither when the terrestrial sun arose.

LESSON CXL.

Scene from Hadad.-HILLHOUSE.

An apartment in ABSALOM's house. NATHAN and Tamar.

Nathan. THOU'RT left to-day, (would thou wert ever left Of some that haunt thee!) therefore am I come To give thee counsel.-Child of sainted Miriam, Fear not to look upon me; thou wilt hear The gentle voice of love, not stern monition. Commune with me as with a tender parent, Who cares for all thy wishes, hopes and fears,