besides himself, and the hopes of ultimately being enabled to assist his darling mother in her difficulties inspired him with ardour, and gave him renewed energies. He entered the college as a sizer, a petty tutorship aiding him in preserving a proper seeming; struggled manfully to keep his head above water, and minister to the few comforts of the widow's fireside.

Two years passed by-two years of patient labour, of incessant application, midnight study, and self-privation. Two of those years that oftentimes leave the wrinkles of twenty on the brow, sear up the heart, wither the affections, and metamorphose the spirit as well as the appearance of a man. Such had they been to him-but his darling object was attained, the goal reached, his ambition gratified. He was ordained.

A short time subsequent to his ordination he was appointed to a curacy in a country village, at the annual salary of seventy pounds. He was a faithful steward, toiled incessantly in his vocation, and was soon universally beloved. Now, a greater preacher than the Reverend Thomas Morton ever was, has said, that "it is not good for man to dwell alone;" doubtless he felt the truth of that doctrine, and availed himself of the advice given by St. Paul to Timothy in his first epistle, as though it had been written especially for his own guidance, where he says, "Let the deacons be the husbands of one wife, ruling their children and their own houses well." One deacon only to each wife of course was meant, and one wife took honest Tom Morton to his own bosom and fireside. A neighbouring clergyman officiated in my friend's little church, and before its altar knelt its godly curate by the side of as pure and lovely a young creature as ever joined in the sacred responses, or blushed at the first wedded kiss.

She was dowerless; but what of that? Her heart was a fortune in itself, and he would not exchange his confiding Lydia for the wealth of a thousand Golcondas.

Poor curates who marry dowerless young ladies have, however, an unhappy knack of fulfilling, too literally, one of the first commands given to man-viz., "Grow fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth." Be that as it may, my friend regularly, for some years after marriage, about Christmas time, opened the Church's prayer-book at that part of its liturgy headed "Baptism of Infants," an unconscious cherub requiring the sacred rite at his hands, and as surely, when the ceremony was concluded, leaving the church with the curate's surname. It seemed unaccountable to Tom, yet so he went on, Christmas after Christmas, reading in public, "Blessed is the man who hath his quiver full of them," and at each occasion of the kind, another Morton was added to his family, and another mouth required a spoon.

Some nine years after his marriage, his aged mother and sister, having no other resources left, gave up their home in London and went down to reside with him. The news of their arrival fell upon the occupants of the little cottage like an avalanche. Tom was sorely puzzled: few of life's necessaries, and not one of its luxuries, were at his disposal. He knew not how to manage, but his wife was an angel. So, leaving the matter in her hands, he looked upon it as a sacred duty, and never murmured. They mutually resolved to make the widow welcome, and they succeeded, for two upright hearts went with the resolution.

Five sons and four daughters, in regular gradations, bloomed beside the parent trees, depending for the means of existence upon the curate's beggarly stipend. Another year rolled over, and his sister earned some trifle by teaching the children of the working classes, so that her earnings, with his salary as aforestated, was the wherewithal the poor fellow had to feed and clothe thirteen souls. But he had a good heart, worked ever indefatigably in his holy calling, and with a firmly-rooted trust in Providence, hoped on, but never repined:

And bless'd are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well comingled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please.

Notwithstanding the straitened circumstances of my friend, and the desire that his amiable wife had ever shown to reduce expenses, the advent of a little visitor was prognosticated. The oracle proved faithful to the letter, for in the autumn following the baptismal service was again read, and half a score juvenile Mortons were to be found congregated around his humble board.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHARITY AND RESIGNATION.

A FEVER, immediately after the circumstance I have just related, broke out in the neighbourhood, and many fell victims to that fearful scourge and desolater. Tom's mother was the first who died of it; and soon afterwards three of his little ones slept beside her, beneath the fading daisies in the churchyard that they had tended but a week before. Heavy was the poor curate's heart, but courage was in his soul; and yet nothwithstanding his own private calamities-no weather ever hindered him from ministering to the stricken amongst his flock, preaching to them the "glad tidings of great joy." Night after night, day after day, in sunshine or in rain, did he leave his mourning family for the chamber of contagion, bringing comfort to the poor traveller bound for the dark valley of the shadow of death. His senior in the parish had fled at the outbreak of the malady, throwing upon the shoulders of the righteous Morton all its duties and consequent dangers. Still he struggled on manfully, cheerfully, faithfully-always at his post, like a trusty sentinel, and never deserting it.

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,

Where sorrow, grief, and sin, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood,

and knelt, and prayed, and comforted, until

Mercy came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered-praise.

The malady slowly abated. Hope once more plumed her ruffled wings in the village. Smiles, long cast aside, again bloomed in the cheeks of youth, and health, and rustic beauty. But, alas! the sexton had been busy. Many of the pews in the little church were empty, their owners sleeping the sleep that knows no waking. Many well-known faces ceased to present themselves; the damp earth was their pillow, and the green turf their covering. Often, often, often had the curate read "I am the resurrection and the life" over the body of a dear brother or sister just

departed. "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," with its melancholy accompaniment, had daily been echoed by the last hard beds, hollowed out from the breast of earth, as lasting niches in the catacombs of eternity.

The Sunday immediately succeeding the retreat of the fever poor Tom preached his last sermon. I was present. How striking his deliveryhow fervent his prayers-how absorbed his flock. "Work while it is called to-day, for the night cometh when no man can work," was his text. Skilfully he handled it-ably, eloquently; few dry eyes were there. Mine were like fountains overflowing.

When he retired to the vestry he complained of fatigue, and as we returned to his little home he leaned heavily upon my arm, holding the hand of his dear wife in his own. Many times during our short walk I felt his hand beat gently upon my arm, as he said again and again, "Work while it is called to-day." "James," he said, addressing himself to me, "I was for some time last week of two minds.

"About what, Thomas ?" I inquired. "About this day's sermon.

I was divided between two excellent texts. I wished to improve the occasion-to show the uncertainty of life-the certainty of dissolution-the only narrow path to the ladder of life eternal and the righteous mercy and long-suffering of our God." He paused, so I asked:

"What was the other text ?"

"Behold, I stand at the door and knock.' I shall preach from that, God willing, this evening."

But poor Tom did not preach that evening, for he was stricken. That night the fever parched up his flesh and tortured his active limbs. The good, the pious, the benevolent Thomas Morton raved, ere long, in all the frenzy of delirium. He knew no one-not even his wife, who never, even for a moment, during the fourteen days of his distempered reason, was absent from his chamber. There, like some pure spirit delegated by Omnipotence to cherish a suffering servant, was she day and night to be found, watching his slightest movements with the jealous eyes of augmented affection-moistening his pallid lips, or bathing his burning temples, ever praying for his recovery fervently, yet with that perfect resignation which always characterises the truly pious, closing each heartfelt supplication with "not my will, but Thine, be done." His face was as a book to her, wherein she constantly studied, anticipating every change it expressed ere the wish connected with it was born, and shedding a halo of peace and holiness around the sick man's pillow.

When the fever had passed away and he awaked to consciousness, meeting those dear eyes that had always been bent over his, fondly searching for returning recognition, the first words that greeted her ravished ears were "God bless you, my darling Liddy." He could not articulate more, but his heart went with them; and then, for the first time, she wept-wept big tears of thankfulness, and devotion, and love, kneeling by his bedside, and kissing his wasted hand.

Well, poor Morton recovered slowly from the disease, but the hardships he had previously undergone, when in the exercise of his vocation, enervated his constitution. Consumption ensued: a harassing cough, accompanied by the rupture of some vessels in his lungs, brought him daily lower and lower, until the bed again became his portion. His mind

VOL. XXXIX.

G

was fearfully harassed about the welfare of his young family, which soon must be both widowed and orphaned. But, thank Heaven! his fears for its welfare were soon quieted, and his mind was set at ease. The lord of the manor, who had, when in the country, sat beneath his ministry, and to whom the church belonged, had long been an admirer of his exemplary conduct and excellent qualities. He had been informed of his illness, of his late indefatigable zeal, and visited him frequently, presenting, at one of his friendly calls, the cottage to his family, and settling upon the heart-broken wife an annuity of a hundred pounds a year. The cup of poor Morton's earthly happiness was, by that generous gift, o'erflown, and he lingered but a short time longer. The vanities of the world never fettered him; his future mansion was already prepared in "that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." What had he to live for? His wife and children were provided for-his earthly race run-the prize in view-the bitter cup that may not pass from any of us already at his lips-and the sure and certain hope before him.

At sunset, upon his last Sabbath evening on earth, he lay, as was usual, in his bed, the latter being placed beside the window which looked towards the west. He was very low, but very calm. His little ones were standing at his feet, whilst his sister and wife knelt, weeping, by his bed. He had been dozing; upon opening his eyes he made an uneasy movement. The jealous eye of his wife at once detected it.

"What can I do for you, my poor suffering Thomas?" she whispered, amid her sobs.

"Dry thy tears, my well-beloved, and let not our short parting grieve thee. Has the sun set?"

"Not yet," replied his weeping sister.

"Turn my head, my love," he said, faintly, to his wife, "and let me look for the last time upon the eternal seal of my Creator as it stamps the western horizon with a symbol of that glory of which the prophet at Patmos wrote."

They propped him up with pillows, his face towards the sun, who was swiftly sinking in the sky.

"Do you feel easy, dear Thomas ?"

"Happy! happy! happy!" he said, audibly. "Sophy, dear, turn to the first epistle of Paul to Timothy, the first chapter, and the fifteenth verse. Read slowly-slowly."

And his sister read in a broken voice:

"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief.''

"Of whom I am chief-of whom I am chief," repeated the dying man; then slowly, but with great precision: "Fight the good fight of faithlay hold of eternal life, whereunto thou art also called, and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses." After a slight pause: “Liddy, my love, let me feel your pure breath again upon my cheek. Kiss me, my beloved. Place my hand upon your forehead. Be also faithful; establish your hearts, for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh.'"

ye

His breathing became painfully oppressive, and his voice less distinct. Yet calm as a placid lake, upon which the glories of noontide are cast, was his worn countenance.

"Where are our children ?"

They were crying around his bed; at his call they surrounded him more closely. He kissed them one by one, and said:

"To the Father of the fatherless I bequeath them-one mighty to God bless you, my children. Remember, that of such is the kingdom of my Father. Liddy, where are you?"

save.

"Here, dear Thomas." She could scarcely speak, but his hand was spangled with her tears.

"The chamber is dark. Thy sweet face is hidden from me, but I feel thee. Thank God for that blessing. I know thy works-and charity -and service-and faith-and thy patience-and thy works-and the last to be more than the first." "

A violent fit of coughing ensued. Still flickered the lamp of waning life -flickered on the verge of eternity.

He had previously kept time to the words with his attenuated hand whilst he spoke. It now sank, nerveless, on the counterpane. "Liddy!-Liddy! Have you left me ?"

"No, dear-no, dear. I am still beside you." "Where, my true one?"

"My arm is beneath your head, my husband.".

"I do not feel it. Place your hand in mine, sweet wife-and yours, my sister. God bless you both! He will be a husband to the widow, and a father to the orphan. Do you weep, my love?"

"Oh, Thomas-beloved Thomas-I cannot help it," sobbed the agonised wife.

6

"Not for me-not for me, my love. I go where there shall be no night, and they need no candles, neither light of the sun. For the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign for ever and ever.' "Are you in pain, my dear husband ?”`

"No, no-all peace-all peace." Then, at intervals, and clearer than before, "And the spirit and the bride say, Come! and let him that heareth, say Come, and let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely.''

Poor Tom Morton obeyed the summons. As he finished, the veil of futurity was lifted to his spiritual gaze-the last links that fettered his noble soul to perishable earth were dissevered-the flame flickered no longer--the silver chord was loosed-the golden bowl was broken, and his spirit ascended to the God who gave it.

When the story of the poor curate was ended, each man continued silently absorbed in his own reflections. Our president was the first to

break it:

"There is a lesson in the life and death of your friend, Mr. Cripps, for the dignitaries of our much-abused Church. I fear that his is not an isolated case of neglected merit."

"True, true," answered Cripps, dejectedly.

"Would to God it were

an exception; but, alas! it is not. Many a holy man carries to the pulpit, beneath his sacerdotal robes, a heart brimful of woe-many a poor curate sits down amid his family to a meal that a peasant would almost scorn to share, whilst his bishop and rector loll lazily over their wines and rich confections. Lazarus and Dives! Lazarus and Dives! But Lazarus went to Abraham's bosom."