beside?-Dear relations? Yes! human hearts will turn to lovers and friends, that he has put away from us, and to acquaintance that he has hidden out of our sight. But the broken chain shall, I well believe, be linked again. Shall we not all in safety meet again? and shall not some such inscription as this be suitable for our monument, " And so it came to pass that they escaped all safe to land?" Acts xxvii. 44.

We all on life's rough sea were cast;
All we were toss'd by trouble's blast:
But Christ did on the vessel stand,
And brought us home, all safe to land.
He took the infants in his arms,

He sooth'd the old man's weak alarms;
Made the youth's rashness and his pride,
Before his look of love subside;

And though temptation's waves were strong,
Guided the vessel safe along.

The waves were high, the wind was loud,
Toss'd the white foam round mast and shroud;
We reel'd, we fainted, were dismay'd :
"Tis I," he said, "be not afraid!"
His smile illum'd our life's rough sea,
Brought us to port where we would be;
He on our tossing bark did stand,
And so we came all safe to land.

December 7, 1836.

181

THE CHOLERA.

"Thou shalt not be afraid

.... for the pestilence that

walketh in darkness, nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noonday."-PSALM Xci. 5, 6.

I Do not mean to write a long, melancholy chapter on that sad time, but to gather up, as I may, a few recollections of interest; and to remind my own heart of some causes of thanksgiving to Him who yet holdeth our soùls in life. The present has been a sickly and gloomy season; all the autumn and all the winter so full of mist and snow, now so piercingly cold, and then again so relaxingly damp, that we could not but expect much disease and mortality, and such there has been. What long lists of deaths in the newspapers!-what melancholy accounts from the metropolis!-what numerous funerals in the country! but it has not been so appalling as the time of the cholera. There seems cause now for

the sad sickness and mortality that hang over us; and when the cause is removed, (and spring and sunshine, we naturally believe, will, with God's blessing, remove it,) we hope the judgment may be removed also. We own the weakness of our reasoning, perhaps, yet thus we reason still; but then, in the summer of 1832, our hearts sunk, because the weather was so very bright and beautiful, so apparently calculated to inspire health and vigour: for it was early summer when first that awful visitation appeared amongst us.

It was on a clear, quiet evening, when we gathered sadly on the upper ground of the churchyard, to watch the first funeral that took place in that low melancholy corner, where none had ever been interred before, and where those who were laid were to rest, apart from kindred and friends. It seemed pure and healthy air that stirred the green boughs of the ash trees, and the evening sun cast their long shadows, as it set on the summer weeds that were yet in gay blossom on that undisturbed spot. It was a thrilling feeling of awe, with which we had heard, only a few hours before, that the deadly disease had indeed cut down its first victim in our parish. Week after week we had been

expecting the news, for it was spreading amongst the dense population of the neighbouring city parishes; and with so much intercourse as our poor had with the city, so little prudence, and such deep poverty, what but the mercy of God had preserved us so long? Yet week after week passed; we trembled, yet we hoped; and turning-ah! how very apt, how sinfully apt, are we to turn to second causes, we comforted ourselves because the situation is so healthy and the air so fresh. At last a message came officially. A man at Crew's Hold had died of cholera, and the funeral, according to the necessary arrangements in the case, must take place the same evening. I knew the name, and with the vain determination to hope, rejoiced to remember that it was that of a young man who had been for some time in consumption. "It is not cholera," I said; "that person has been ill for months." "No!" was the answer, "it is the father of that young man; he was at this door only yesterday." I turned into the house and said no more. He was here yesterday; he is gone-cut down in the strength of his manhood, without time for prayer, without leisure for repentance; and all haste was to be made to carry him away from

N

the living, and to separate him from his kindred: —and "Who is to go next? and where?" were questions that seemed to force themselves with a sickening weight on every heart. O that we had all been wise, that we had understood this, that we had duly considered our latter end.

From this time our anxiety increased. We woke every morning listening for the bell to toll; and we looked at friends and neighbours when we parted, with a recollection of the possibility -the possibility always exists, whether we recollect it or no-that we should never meet again. Blessed be God for his undeserved mercy to us. Notwithstanding the many reasons why it might have been expected to rage at its utmost,-poverty, and carelessness, and intemperance-the disease, though it attacked many, was fatal comparatively but to few. But those few were cut off, with so little warning, in such variety of age, under such diverse circumstances, that all felt for the time that the message spoke individually to them, "Be ye also ready; in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh." The funerals were more than usually melancholy. There was a strong dislike, amongst the lower orders especially, to lay the bodies of their de