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 sleep there are 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 believe it—sae ye needna preach to me.” Mr Thomson, finding he could do no good by continuing the conversation, left the room ; and it was not long after this he learned that the wretched murderer died, still hardened and impenitent.

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:

I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man, but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, and the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience 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