paringly
bestowed on him--perchance to crown him more abundantly with glory and
honour in that which is to come. Succeeding each other, the antiphonal
chant--venerable with the port of near eighteen centuries; yea, with the
hoar of Jewish, as well as Christian antiquity--the exuberant anthem
with its ponderous chorus, and again, the joyous, melancholy, choral
response, wherein blend the voices of childish innocence, strong
manhood, and plaintive age, hear us on to the close;--that threefold
blessing which none may hear unmoved, and whose magnitude seems to
transcend our poor belief, as we reverently bow, in awed silence, musing
on its unfathomable import; while the deep, mellow voice that pronounced
it still lingers on the ear.

How imposing is the sight! One kneeling throng around--the indistinct
light, that clothes with mysterious grace the beautiful lineaments of
the Gothic structure--the bright gleam on the white and flowing
vestments;--and the _stillness!_ broken at length by a low, sad melody,
in accordance with the subdued tone resting on all, gradually rising
into the more swelling chords of the solemn organ, that, earthly strains
though they be, seen not unmeet to mingle with those exalted ones that
have gone before--rousing the heart from its more celestial
contemplations, and by gentle transition--like a descending
dove--bringing it down from its heavenward flight to that earth with
which its present daily and active duties are concerned, the more fitly
and cheerfully performed when thus hallowed; for, be it remembered, the
preparation for that unseen world to which we are tending, is the best
preparation for our continuance in this.

But the last wave of harmony has died away in the sounding aisles; one
by one the lights are extinguished, throwing the varied beauty of arch,
and niche, and pillar, into indistinguishable and fast deepening shade;
and, last of the train, we, with heart tranquillized and elevated by the
service of that evening hour, slowly follow the departing worshippers
into the still, clear night.

M. J.

MARTHA BROWN.

BY AN ANCIENT CONTRIBUTOR.

TO THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

Sir,--It is twenty years since I first contributed to your Magazine;--it
was rather a brief article, and was not inserted in the early part of
the work. In short, it consisted of a few lines in the Obituary at the
end of the Number, and was as follows:--"Died at Bunderjumm, in the East
Indi