To my father the Sabbath was truly a holy day, -a day of rest from wordly cares, studies, and toil. The first thought that impresses my mind, when I look back upon my childhood, is the Sabbath stillness. I remember that we walked softly about the house; that, with the exception of the morning hymn, -

we did not sing even sacred songs until after sundown. How often on this day did my father read the precious psalm of David, commencing,-

"How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of Hosts! My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth for the courts of the Lord."

And truly he did love the courts of the Lord. Never, in my entire recollection of him, did he absent himself, unless by some providential detention; and by his whole manner he proved to those about him that attending public worship was not a mere form. By his countenance, his voice, he showed that, with David, the language of his heart was, -

"Blessed are they that dwell in thy house; they will be still praising thee."

While in the house of God, my father's appearance was devout. There were times when the heat of the chapel, the length of the services, the exhaustion, and fatigue might have made him drowsy; it is true that many of the sermons by the young students had been revised and re-revised by his pen, and could not, therefore, have had to him the freshness of new discourses, but he resisted the inclination to sleep with all his might. He used to keep a pin stuck on the sleeve of his coat, and when Nature asserted herself too strongly, I have many a time seen him stick the pin into his finger till he drew blood.

In the singing he always joined with his heart and voice. We used to have rare music in those early days, when Schauffler made his flute yeild such heavenly sounds; or when Dana and Gregg and Webster and Cushman were members of the Lockhart Society; but I recollect listening, above them all, for the sweet voice of my father, and the almost rhapsodous, if I may use such a word, chanting of Professor Stuart in the slip next to ours.

In our family devotions on Sunday afternoon, we usually read around in turn, each two verses, sometimes a whole book, like Ruth, or a connected history, like that of Joseph or Daniel. On these occasions, father's prayers were unusually fervent and tender. It used to seem to me that because it was God's own day, my

father drew nearer to the throne, -that he enjoyed more intimate communion with God than on other days. Never were his confessions of sin more humble and abundant than now, when he seemed to feel their effects on his own heart, and on the human race; and when the plan of redemption by Christ appeared so infinitely precious and wonderful. I do not remember ever hearing him pray at the family altar without asking the blessing of God on his children; but on the Sabbath evening, his petitions for the forgiveness of our sins, his pleas that the Holy Spirit might lead us to accept the offers of mercy made us by Christ, were so earnest, so deep and tender, that they often made me quake with fear. "If I do not repent and begin to love Christ, " I used to say to myself, when, in an agony of remorse, I had retired to weep alone, "if I do not become a Christian, these prayers, instead of proving life unto life, will be death unto death to my immortal soul."

Soon after breakfast (we first had family prayers) my father's habit was to go into his study and remain there until the ringing of the second bell for service in the chapel. When he joined us, I have often noticed and wondered at a peculiar elevation of countenance which caused a feeling of awe to steal over me. I know now that he had been enjoying close communion with the Father in heaven; that he had been behind the veil and, with the eye of faith, had caught a glimpse of his sacrificed Saviour, now risen, glorious, sitting upon his throne on high.

When I was about six years old, I recollect that my father and I were both too sick to go to church. We stayed alone, and father, calling me to him, said, -

"Bring your high chair close to me, and we will have a little meeting at home." He read a chapter in the Bible, and then we sang a hymn to the tune of "Mear." When we had finished it, I, after the first line, having carried the treble alone, he turned to me with a smile, saying, "You sing almost as well as your mother, my dear." This was the highest praise he could have given me, and I have never forgotten it. After a prayer, he kissed me and told me I might go back to my book.

I have mentioned the grove of walnut-trees in the rear of our orchard. Here, in pleasant weather, my father used often on the Sabbath afternoon to pace back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, while he meditated on high and holy themes. Occasionally, he used to invite one of us little ones to accompany him. When I was to go, I know not whether there was more of pleasure or pain in the interview. It was indeed delightful to follow him in the narrow path trodden down in the clover field, and see teh grasshoppers jumping and skipping from leaf to leaf, and hear the robins warbling their evening song of praise to God. It was sweet, when we reached the wider path in the shelter of the grove, to take his hand and see his face lighted up with smiles, and hear his voice so loving and tender; but ah! there were emo-

tions also far from joyful. When he told me of the love of my Saviour, who had taken the form of a man on purpose to sympathize with my griefs, who had suffered cold and hunger and every privation out of his tender love and pity for me, how he had hung on the cross, pierced with cruel nails, and the weight of my sins upon him, I was seized with such an agony of grief at my hard and impentinent heart that would not let me love him as I ought, that I could not be comforted. When he, with a father's love, urged me, like Bunyan, to throw my burden at the foot of the Cross, when he repeated the gracious words, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," I could sob until my head and heart were alike ready to burst with grief. Still, I humbly hope that in the last great day, when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, it will be seen that, in my case, my father's prayers and his faithful Sabbath admonitions were not wholly in vain.