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 7 eep there are awful dreams to the wicked-dreainy > I say? they are horriblo realities. God grant lat I may not find—” “It's a lie!" interrupted 3 with a dreadful oath, “I'll no believo it-sae ye cdna preach to me." Mr Thomson, finding he buld do no good by continuing tho conversation, ft the room; and it was not long after this he arned that the wretched murderer died, still har- hned and impenitent.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON. URING my residenco in the country, I used fre- hently to attend at the old villago church. Its adowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark ken pannelling, all reverend with tho gloom of fparted years, seemed to fit it for tho haunt of lemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country so holy in its repose-such a pensive quiet reigns er the face of nature, that every restless passion charmed down, and we feel all the natural reli- jon of the soul gently springing up within us: "Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridle of the earth and sky." do not pretend to bo what is called a devout man; at there are feelings that visit mo in a country hurch, and the beautiful serenity of nature, which experience no where else ; and if not a more re- sious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, than vi any other day of the seven. But in this church I felt myself continually thrown ck upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of poor worms around me. The only being that Memed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate