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7 sleep there aro awful dreams to the wicked—dreams do I say? they are horrible realities. God grant that I may not find—” “It's a lie!” interrupted he with a dreadful oath, “I'll no beliove it—sae yo needna preach to me.” Mr Thomson, finding ho could do no good by continuing tho conversation, left the room; and it was not long after this he learned that the wretched murderer died, still hardened and impenitent.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken pannelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country is so holy in its repose such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us:

“Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridle of the earth and sky.”

I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but there are feelings that visit mo in a country church, and tho beautiful serenity of nature, which I experienco no where else; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, than on any other day of the seven.

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate