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calculating faith could have carried him on so far. Headache and sickness and constant fever, increased by a drenching on the Menai Bridge, were his companions; he had battled with them all along, gallantly if not wisely; now inducing active perspiration by violent riding, and now anticipating the boldest of hydropathists by such an experiment as follows:

"I counted the hours as they chimed out from the clock on the staircase; and so I lay, parched with thirst and inward heat, and yet chilly, my head full of pain, my heart of fainting, but my faith steadfast. I felt that there was much of nervousness in it, and that by some strong act I must dissolve it. The footpan, with the water that had been hot, but was now wintry cold (for last night was very chill), stood by the bedside, and a little jug, which had contained boiling water to keep up the temperature, was standing by its side. It was the breaking of the morning. I threw off flannels and stockings, and stood with my feet in the cold water, and poured with the jug the cold water from my shoulders downward, at once was a changed man, and had some winks of sleep.'

and all

At Liverpool, after "three days and nights of the sorest trial that ever he had," he sends for his wife to be his nurse and companion. But as soon as the suffering abated, he set his face towards Scotland, and together they sailed, in spite of stormy weather, for Greenock, and so reached Glasgow. A letter from Mrs Stewart Ker describes him as he appeared there :

"To human appearance, he is sinking into a deep consumption. His gigantic frame bears all the marks of age and weakness; his tremendous voice is now often faltering, and when occasionally he breaks forth with all his former feeling, one sees that his bodily powers are exhausted. Add to all this the calm, chastened dignity of his expression, his patient waiting upon God for the fulfilment of His purposes to himself and his flock through this affliction,--and it is exceedingly edifying."

But that which to all other eyes was now become evident enough, he himself refused to acknowledge.

He had adopted some time before, in common with others of his communion, the notion that disease itself was sin, or of the nature of sin; that, as he expresses it in a letter, "the standing of the members of Christ was to be without disease;" and he there records, in a very remarkable narrative, how he had himself fought against a distinct attack of cholera, which he regarded as a trial of the Great Enemy's, and how the steadfast spirit had carried the body, racked as it was with pain, through the long ministerial duties of the Sunday, though his head swam, and "the cold sweat stood in drops" upon his forehead as he clung to the pulpit sides. So it should be also, he trusted, with the help of Heaven, even now; disease should not have the dominion over him. It was not because he had that he thus determinedly shut his any shadow of the fear of death eyes against the prospect; but, true to the great purposes which he thought Heaven had in store for him, he clung to life to the last. To him, too, it must be remembered, the Christian's crown would seem somewhat shorn of its glory, if he lived not to see the Coming for which he looked.

"He still smiled with a heartbreak

ing confidence over the daily dying of the wonderful moment when God should his own wasted frame, and waiting for send back the vigorous life-current to his forlorn and faithful heart.

way,

For a few weeks he is visible about Glasgow now appearing against the sunshine in a lonely street, his horse's hoofs echoing slowly along the causefeeble against the light; his gaunt gigantic figure rising walking home after the worship is over, fain to lean upon the arm of the elder, who has come hastily from London to be near him, while his wistful wife goes mournful by his side, carrying the stick, which is now an insufficient support to his feebleness sometimes pausing, as they thread the street in this sad fashion, to take breath and gather strength-a most sorrowful, pathetic picture. He came back to the house of the kind

stranger and enthusiastic disciple who had taken him in, in Glasgow, and, nature refusing longer to keep up that un

reasonable conflict, lay down upon the bed from which he was never to rise."

Those sudden flashes of revival which, in cases like his, so often which, in cases like his, so often cheat the sufferer into the hope of recovery, were to his mind the tokens that the prayer of faith had been accepted.

"He assured the compassionate spectator, whose skilled eyes saw the golden chords of life melting asunder, how well he knew that he was to all human appearance dying, yet how certainly convinced he was that God yet meant to raise him; and again, and yet again, commended the work of the Holy Ghost to all faith and reverence; adding, with pathetic humility, that of these gifts he himself had never been thought worthy."

Up to the last few days before his death, this faith in his recovery was shared by the few personal friends of his own communion who watched by his deathbed; especially by Mr Taylor, at whose house he lay, and by his wife, who, until the Thursday morning (he died on Sunday) "never had a doubt of it." But then she, too, consented to believe," with such pangs of natural love and disappointed faith as it would be hard to estimate, that the word of the Lord "must have had some other interpretation." For himself, it was only in the very last hours that the veil was lifted, and he saw the end as it was to be. Even then, it was through mists that half-obscured the intellect, in witness of its mysterious sympathy with the exhausted body. But the One Light that had been his guidance never grew dim or failed; whatever shadows had clouded it, whatever bewildering refractions had dazzled him, it shone on him to the end. The listeners to the dying man's wandering monologue heard a low sonorous chant, which, at

first, they could not interpret. But it was no "unknown tongue." It was the Hebrew words of David's

psalm-"The Lord is my Shepherd." And the last thing like a sentence that could be made out was, "If I So, at midnight on Sunday, the die, I die unto the Lord.-Amen." 7th of December 1834, after "life's fitful fever" of forty-two years, he fell asleep. It was the only solution for the momentous questions which had vexed his soul. The Wisdom which had appointed such trials for such a spirit seems inscrutable to our limited comprehension; not so when it shortens the days. "It will be well with the just man at the last," were the words with which he closed his last letter to his wife. If he had received all those gifts he piously coveted-if he had spoken with "all tongues of men and angels"he could have uttered no revelation truer than that.

His biographer calls him "martyr and saint." If intense religious aspirations and spotless purity of life can give a claim to the latter title, he must be a very stern critic, or a very narrow Christian, who can refuse it to Edward Irving. To the term "martyr" we demur. Its common use at least imports, not only that a man submits to death in witness for the truth, but also that he passes to that death in some sort through the furnace of persecution. And this impliesand here seems meant to implysome violence or some injustice on the part of others. It is this which, in Irving's case, we have been unable to see. But we thank Mrs Oliphant at parting for her beautiful and pathetic narrative; hers is a book which few of any creed can read without some profit, and still fewer will close without regret.

CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD: SALEM CHAPEL.

PART V.-CHAPTER XV.

MRS VINCENT came to a dead stop as they passed the doors of Salem, which were ajar, taking resolution in the desperateness of her uncertainty-for the feelings in the widow's mind were not confined to one burning impulse of terror for Susan, but complicated by a wonderful amount of flying anxieties about other matters as well. She knew, by many teachings of experience, what would be said by all the connection, when it was known that the minister's mother had been in Carlingford without going to see anybody-not even Mrs Tufton, the late minister's wife, or Mrs Tozer, who was so close at hand. Though her heart was racked, Mrs Vincent knew her duty. She stopped short in her fright and distress with the mild obduracy of which she was capable. Before rushing away out of Carlingford to protect her daughter, the mother, notwithstanding her anxiety, could not forget the injury which she might possibly do by this means to the credit of her

son.

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Arthur, the chapel is open-I should like to go in and rest," she said, with a little gasp; and oh,

my dear boy, take a little pity upon me! To see the state you are in, and not to know anything, is dreadful. You must have a vestry, where one could sit down a little-let us go in."

"A vestry-yes; it will be a fit place," cried Vincent, scarcely knowing what he was saying, and indeed worn out with the violence of his own emotions. This little persistent pause of the widow, who was not absorbed by any one passionate feeling, but took all the common cares of life with her into her severest trouble, awoke the young man to himself. He, too, recollected that this enemy who had stolen into his house was not to be

reached by one wild rush, and that everything could not be suffered to plunge after Susan's happiness into an indiscriminate gulf of ruin. All his own duties pricked at his heart with bitter reminders in that moment when he stood by the door of Salem, where two poor women were busy inside, with pails and brushes, preparing for Sunday. The minister, too, had to prepare for Sunday. He could not dart forth, breathing fire and flame at a moment's notice, upon the serpent who had entered his Eden. Even at this dreadful moment, in all the fever of such a discovery, the touch of his mother's hand upon his arm brought him back to his lot. He pushed open the mean door, and led her into the scene of his weekly labours with a certain sickening disgust in his heart which would have appalled his companion. She was a dutiful woman, subdued by long experience of that inevitable necessity against which all resistance fails; and he a passionate young man, naturally a rebel against every such bond. They could not understand each other; but the mother's troubled face, all conscious of Tufton and Tozer, and what the connection would say, brought all the weight of his own particular burden back upon Vincent's mind. He pushed in past the pails with a certain impatience which grieved Mrs Vincent. She followed him with a pained and disapproving look, nodding, with a faint little smile, to the women, who no doubt were members of the flock, and might spread an evil report of the pastor, who took no notice of them. As she followed him to the vestry, she could not help thinking, with a certain strange mixture of pain, vexation, and tender pride, how different his dear father would have been. "But Arthur, dear

boy, has my quick temper," sighed the troubled woman. After all, it was her fault rather than her son's.

"This is a very nice room," said Mrs Vincent, sitting down with an air of relief," but I think it would be better to close the window, as there is no fire. You were always very susceptible to cold, Arthur, from a child. And now, my dear boy, we are undisturbed, and out of those dreadful glaring streets where everybody knows you. I have not troubled you, Arthur, for I saw you were very much troubled; but, oh! don't keep me anxious now."

"Keep you anxious! You ask me to make you anxious beyond anything you can think of," said the young man, closing the window with a hasty and fierce impatience, which she could not understand. "Good heavens, mother! why did you let that man into your innocent house?"

"Who is he, Arthur?" asked Mrs Vincent, with a blanched face.

"He is "Vincent stopped with his hand upon the window where he had overheard that conversation, a certain awe coming over him. Even Susan went out of his mind when he thought of the dreadful calmness with which his strange acquaintance had promised to kill her companion of that night. Had she started already on this mission of vengeance? A cold thrill came over him where he stood. "I can't tell who he is," he exclaimed, abruptly, throwing himself down upon the little sofa; "but it was to be in safety from him that Mrs Hilyard sent her daughter to Lonsdale. It was he whom she vowed to kill if he found the child. Ah!he is," cried the young man, spring ing to his feet again with a sudden pang and smothered exclamation as the truth dawned upon him, "Lady Western's brother. What other worse thing he is I cannot tell. Ruin, misery, and horror at the least-death to Susan-not much less to me." "To you?

Oh, Arthur, have

VOL. XCI.NO. DLX.

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pity upon me, my heart is breaking," said Mrs Vincent. "Oh, my boy, my boy, whom I would die to save from any trouble! don't tell me I have destroyed you. That cannot be, Arthur-that cannot be!"

The poor minister did not say anything-his heart was bitter within him. He paced up and down the vestry with dreadful thoughts. What was She to him if she had a hundred brothers? Nothing in the world could raise the young Nonconformist to that sweet light which she made beautiful; and far beyond that difference came the cruel recollection of those smiles and tears-pathetic, involuntary confessions. If there was another man in the world whom she could trust "with life-to death!" what did it matter though a thousand frightful combinations involved poor Vincent with her kindred? He tried to remind himself of all this, but did not succeed. In the mean time, the fact glared upon him that it was her brother who had aimed this deadly blow at the honour and peace of his own humble house; and his heart grew sad with the thought that, however indifferent she might be to him, however unattainable, here was a distinct obstacle which must cut off all that bewildering, tantalising intercourse which at present was still possible, notwithstanding every other hindrance. He thought of this, and not of Susan, as the floor of the little vestry thrilled under his feet. He was bitter, aggrieved, indignant. His troubled mother, who sat by there, half afraid to cry, watching him with frightened, anxious, uncomprehending eyes, had done him a sharp and personal injury. She could not fancy how it was, nor what she could have done. She followed him with mild tearful glances, waiting with a woman's compelled patience till he should come to himself, and revolving thoughts of Salem, and supply for the pulpit there, with an anxious pertinacity. But in her way Mrs Vincent was a wise woman. She

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did not speak-she let him wear himself out first in that sudden apprehension of the misfortune personal to himself, which was at the moment so much more poignant and bitter than any other dread. When he had subsided a littleand first of all he threw up the window, leaning out, to his mother's great vexation, with a total disregard of the draught, and received the chill of the January breeze upon his heated brow-she ventured to say, gently, "Arthur, what are we to do ?"

"To go to Lonsdale," said Vincent. "When we came in here, I thought we could rush off directly; but these women outside there, and this place, remind me that I am not a free man, who can go at once and do his duty. I am in fetters to Salem, mother. Heaven knows when I may be able to get away. Sunday must be provided for first. No natural immediate action is possible to me."

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Hush, Arthur, dear-oh, hush! Your duty to your flock is above your duty even to your sister," said the widow, with a tremulous voice, timid of saying anything to him whose mood she could not comprehend. "You must find out when the first train starts, and I will go. I have been very foolish," faltered the poor mother, as you say, Arthur; but if my poor child is to bear such a dreadful blow, I am the only one to take care of her. Susan"-here she made a pause, her lip trembled, and she had all but broken into tears-" will not upbraid me, dear. You must not neglect your duty, whatever happens; and now let us go and inquire about the train, Arthur, and you can come on Monday, after your work is over; and, oh! my dear boy, we must not repine, but accept the arrangements of Providence. It was what your dear father always said to his dying day."

Her face all trembling and pale, her eyes full of tears which were not shed, her tender humility, which never attempted a defence,

and those motherly, tremulous, wistful advices which it now for the first time dawned upon Mrs Vincent her son was not certain to take, moved the young Nonconformist out of his personal vexation and misery.

"This will not do," he said. "I must go with you; and we must go directly. Susan may be less patient, less believing, less ready to take our word for it, than you imagine, mother. Come; if there is anybody to be got to do this preaching, the thing will be easy. Tozer will help me perhaps. We will waste no more time here.'

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"I am quite rested, Arthur dear," said Mrs Vincent; and it will be right for me to call at Mrs Tozer's too. I wish I could have gone to Mrs Tufton's, and perhaps some others of your people. But you

must tell them, dear, that I was very hurried-and-and not very well; and that it was family business that brought me here."

"I do not see they have any business with the matter," said the rebellious minister.

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My dear, it will of course be known that I was in Carlingford; and I know how things are spoken of in a flock," said Mrs Vincent, rising; "but you must tell them all I wanted to come, and could not-which, indeed, will be quite true. A minister's family ought to be very careful, Arthur," added the much-experienced woman. know how little a thing makes mischief in a congregation. Perhaps, on the whole, I ought not to call at Mrs Tozer's, as there is no time to go elsewhere. But still I should like to do it. One good friend is often everything to a young pastor. And, my dear, you should just say a word in passing to the women outside."

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