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EVERY HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS.

full-blown flowers are laid fading together in the household grave. How often it happens, as we journey on in this vale of tears, that we are called to bid a sad farewell at the gate of the grave to those whom we might have expected would have closed our weary eyes in their last long slumber! The King of Heaven issues forth his command, and youthful heads are laid low in the dust.

At another time, we weep over the parents leaving their families desolate and alone to struggle through the cold unfeeling world, weeping, as they travel onward, that they find so few who sympathise with the orphan. Again, the widow in her sable garments meets us in our path, clasping her fatherless children to her wounded heart, while she bids them remember Him who has passed the dark valley, and directs them to look up to their father's God. "You shall surely see that beloved face again," she exclaims; "see that you are able to meet him without shame at the judgment-seat of Christ." Mothers, how are you training your children? How did you train those who are gone? You shall surely meet them again!

"They were-and, having been, they ARE,-
Earth but contains their mouldering dust;

Their deathless spirits, near or far,

With thine must rise to meet the just.
Thou know'st not but they hover near-
Witness of every secret deed—
Which, shunning human eye or ear,
The spirits of the dead may heed.
It is a thought so dread—so high—
And one to wake a fearful thrill,

To think, while all who live must die

The dead-THE DEAD ARE LIVING STILL!”

Some of us have watched with deep and anxious solicitude the blanched cheeks of those to whom our hearts were clinging, and listened with breathless attention to the failing voice and how did we long to know more of the spirit-land, as they sailed away from our view over Jordan's river.

EVERY HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS.

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How did we look, and weep, and tremble, and wonder! -Who stands beside the bed,

Where rests the icy corpse within its shroud,

Nor feels a secret dread,

With which his soul ne'er to the living bowed!
The lowliest son of earth-

The veriest babe that death hath smitten down-
Hath to a realm gone forth,

To those who gaze upon them all unknown.

An awful mystery, sealed

From their sad eyes who weep beside the bier,
To them hath been revealed,

To their imprisoned souls made plain and clear."

And after we have gone to the gate of the city of souls, and as those we watched have entered in, how we turned back to our own earth to weep, exclaiming, "Every heart knoweth its own bitterness." The mother, who has had an infant taken from her bosom, looks upon us with streaming eyes, and says, "See my sorrow,—if I had not lost my child at its most tender age, it would not have been so very distressing!" Ah! "Every heart knows its own bitterness!"

Again, we look upon the mother who follows to the grave the lisping child of three or four years, and she tells us it is more painful to see the earth cast on such a bright young head-for she has more to remember than the mother who lost the babe of a few months old-but Every heart knows its own bitterness!"

We look again, and we see another mother weeping over one who knew evil from good, and she in her anguish asks us,-"Was my child an accountable being? Oh! this it is that presses so heavily on my heart; I am not sure about his responsibility ?" "Every heart knows its own bitterness."

But yonder stands the mother who has laid one in the tomb who was accountable, and who knew the fact, and she cannot remember anything like such a devoted life as the Bible requires; although she saw anxiety for the safety of

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SUNDAY OCCUPATIONS.

the soul and the salvation of others in the last hours of life, still she does not feel quite sure that all was right. She hopes-she must hope-but a doubt will arise-a cloud will hang over the grave till all the dead shall arise, and as we look at her, we say,-" Every heart knoweth its own bitterness."

Then, again, the mother who has lost one of whose glorious state in immortality she has NO DOUBT; she, in her heart's anguish, tells us hers is the deepest sorrow, for she had most to lose; one so good-so affectionate-who had never caused her a moment's pain by his conduct-might have been the stay of her weary, tottering steps as she went down the hill of life and bent over the tomb. Ah! but Every heart knows its own bitterness."

If there is one sorrow more heartrending than another to look upon, it is the sorrow of that mother who saw her child cut down in the midst of his sins, and who left her no scriptural hope that angels carried the departing spirit to the bosom of Abraham. She, like David, exclaims, "Oh! my son, my son, would that I had died for thee, that thou mightest have had a little time to repent and seek thy God." We turn from the painful picture, exclaiming,

-"Every heart knows its own bitterness." We sometimes, perhaps, feel inclined to think our own sorrow the most poignant, but when we hear and read of other sufferers in this tearful valley, we find we had formed a wrong estimate of our own trouble. Yet, we are inclined to turn away and say, "Ah! every heart knows its own bitterness!"

SUNDAY OCCUPATIONS.-No. IV.

OUR present subject, dear friends, will be in the form of a question, which we recommend you to put to your children," If you might have been present at one scene mentioned in the Bible, which one would you have chosen?" No doubt you will have varied answers,

SUNDAY OCCUPATIONS.

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One,

according to the dispositions of your children. perhaps, will reply,-"Daniel in the lion's den," or "the three Jews in the fiery furnace;" another," Peter in prison," or "Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane.” They will then write those answers in their books; then find the passages, and read and talk a little over them.

Now, Christian mother, lead their minds onward; say to them," Dear children, these scenes are passed away; I will tell you of some yet future, at which you and I shall surely be present, whether we will or not." Then picture to them, by the aid of God's word, some of the events mentioned in prophecy. Tell them of the opening graves-of the great white throne, and the assembled multitude of the Lamb on Mount Zion, with His blessed company-and the harpers harping with their harps. Do not close your conversation without speaking personally to your children.

General instruction is very good, but sometimes let an affectionate appeal be made individually, thus,—“ Anna, dearest, shall you sing the new song with your mother?” "James, my boy, will there be a white robe for you?' "I hope my little Ellen will have a golden harp too." Pray with and for them also, in the same manner. It may be that your boy will soon leave your side;-you look anxiously, yet vainly, on into the dark future, to see what lies before him, and which way he will go. Let him carry away with him blessed and holy memories. Sometimes, when far away from home and friends, let the pleasant exercises of the Lord's day come before his mind, calm and peaceful, when, at evening, he bade his mother "Good night!" with his arm around her neck-when she pressed him yet more closely to her side, and whispered her blessing in tones so earnest that he seems to hear them still. He will not be the first son who has been thus kept from the paths of the destroyer. Perhaps you can remember some similar instance. I know one, at least :

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A PRIMITIVE CHURCH.

In the midst of temptation and away from home-home, where anxious hearts were busy for him, and anxious eyes waking in the silent night-such memories came back to his heart, and there he stood firm, and now lives to testify to the truth as it is in Jesus, and to proclaim it to others. Were you to ask him what kept him from the forbidden paths, he would tell you, as he once told me,—that it was just the thoughts and remembrances which he had of his home. Yes, and I saw written in his Bible, by his mother's hand, these beautiful verses :—

"Remember, love, who gave thee this,
When other days shall come;

When she, who had thy earliest kiss,
Sleeps in her narrow home.
Remember 't was a mother gave

The gift to one she 'd die to save."

I think I have seen them in the Mothers' Friend. Mother, copy them in the Bibles of your sons and daughters. Oxford.

A PRIMITIVE CHURCH.

FAMILY WORSHIP.

MARY.

In the autumn of 184- we found ourselves suddenly located on the margin of one of Scotland's loveliest lakes. Our domicile consisted of four rooms, two of which we occupied, and two our hosts; it was situated in a pretty little garden, directly opposite that object of universal admiration-the magnificent Ben Lomond. The quiet, the beauty, the grandeur of the scene around was so in contrast with what we had left behind, and, withal, was so in unison with all the sensibilities of our heart, that we were fairly overcome, and sat down like the prophet, as one astonished; we could not move, but kept gazing and gazing on, till twilight crept slowly over the scene and gradually wrapt the whole in a misty outline.