at the hour of death. The shadows of
earth are instantly dispelled when we set our affections on things
above.

"Who are these arrayed in white robes, and whence came they? These are
they who have come out of great tribulation, and have washed their
robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb." I remember once
standing at the grave of Richard Cameron, in Ayrs Moss, and as I read
the names of other martyrs engraved on the tomb-stone, I thought of the
general assembly of the Church of the first-born in Heaven, and as I
read God's Word there and sang a sweet Psalm of praise to Jehovah, and
offered a prayer to the Father of lights, the God of Israel, I thought
of the prayer of Peden, the prophet, as he sat on Cameron's grave.
Lifting up his eyes steadfastly to Heaven, he prayed: "Oh, to be wi'
Ritchie!"

"Often at the shades of evening,
When I sit me down to rest,
One by one, I count them over,
They who are in glory blest."

Dearly beloved, I have a _Ritchie_[7] in Heaven, for I have recently
learned of the death of the spiritual guide of my youth, who, in years
gone by, at the close of a cottage prayer-meeting, requested me, for the
first time in my life, to speak a word for Jesus. Pulling a flower from
the hill-side, he said as he held it up, "I can see God in that gowan."
Taking me to his room, he said, "This is my study; these are my books, I
am going to be a minister of the Gospel, and then go to China."

[7] The late Rev. Hugh Ritchie, of Formosa, China.

Handing me a neat, little, precious volume, he said, "Take this book
and study it, and commence speaking for Jesus, and help me in my
meetings." Surely to such to die is gain.

Who; who, would live alway away from his God--away from yonder Heaven,
that blissful abode where the noontide of glory eternally reigns, and
the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul?

Dearly beloved, we may well ask, "Who are these arrayed in white
robes?" Oh, what celebrated personages are above! The prophets, the
apostles, the reformers, and the martyrs of Scotland are there. For in
a dream of the night I was wafted away to the moorland and moss, where
the martyrs lay. When the minister's home was the mountain and flood.
When they dared not worship God in daylight. Only at the dead of night,
when the wintry winds raved fierce, and the thunder-peal compelled the
men of blood to crouch within their den. Then the faithful few--true
followers of t