his last in the arms of his nephew. I never left him, except for the necessary purposes of refreshment, from the time of his first seizure, and have the happiness of believing that my presence afforded him comfort. As the short period of his indisposition spared him any great exhaustion of strength, he spoke without uneasiness, and in the most collected manner adverted to the nature of his hopes. Nothing could be more deeply interesting than his discourse, during the few latter hours which preceded the closing scene. “Oliphant,” said he, “I have never in my life, been an unbeliever; but how small is the difference between infidelity, and a mere nominal Christianity: a meagre religion of form and habit! Nay, of the two, is there not a better chance, that the avowed scoffer, terrified by the abyss which lies before him, may turn from the evil of his ways, than the self-satisfied moralist, who depends on his miserable, his imperfect works, for eternal salvation? My friend, I was in the latter predicament. I received a commonplace Church of England education, said my prayers mechanically, went to church, gave alms, abstained from travelling on Sundays; and was for years of my life, so entirely persuaded, that as a Christian character, I stood on a high pedestal, removed from the vulgar level of mankind, that the Pharisee’s words, though not perhaps actually expressed by my lips, were never far from my heart; and, ‘Lord, I thank Thee, that I am not as other men,’ was a sentiment continually present to me, whenever I thought upon serious subjects. Oh, how far from God was I in those days, when I thought myself so near Him!” Here he paused, and after the interval of a few minutes, resumed the train of solemn reflection upon which he had entered. “Yes,” added he, “blessed be Heaven, such vain-glorious delusions are far from me now, and I am not ashamed to say, that I owe the change to this young man.” Here poor George was completely overwhelmed. He pressed his uncle’s hand to his lips, and shed a torrent of tears. “George,” continued the dying man, “first taught me the religion of the heart. Of what avail are the cold conclusions of reason? they teach not humility, they do not subdue the passions, they do not improve the temper, nor allay one demoniac ebullition of malice or revenge. My practice has been wretchedly vacillating. I have been continually led away from the right way; but it is something to know this, and to put no confidence in aught but the redeeming mercy of Him who suffered in our mortal form, for guilty man, and died upon the cross to save our souls alive.” My poor friend told me that his worldly affairs were all settled. “My temporal house,” said he, “has been set in order. May the heavenly mansions be opened to receive me!”