insist upon walking two or three miles on the way home with those of the happy party who could not find room for riding in the well-filled carriage; for though uncle John was an old man then, he was as active as many a young one. Those were pleasant days. But this is a changing world; and year after year, when these visits were paid, it was seen that the lively kind host and hostess were less active. The lady was very lame and feeble, and her memory began to fail; and the gentleman contented himself with shorter walks, and did not like to be prevented from his afternoon's nap, which sadly encroached upon the time of the young visitors. At length the aged wife died, and the pretty cottage had lost more than half its charm. A few more years, and uncle John The cotwas no more seen; he, too, died. tage was sold, and pulled down, to make room for a grand street, which quite covers over the pretty garden in which the children of forty years ago delighted to roam; for the little quiet town in which uncle John lived is now become a fashionable watering place. Though uncle John was kind by nature, and his young relations loved him for his good temper and benevolence towards them, there were times in which he was a terror to evil doers; for uncle John was a magistrate. I can fancy how grand he looked in his brown wig-he wore a wig-when seated on the bench of justice; and how the deep tones of his voice would startle the young culprits who were brought before him for garden-robbing or window-breaking. But I am pretty sure "his bark was worse than his bite," and that he was not the man to execute judgment without mercy. He had learned the lesson, and loved it, and practised it, "Be ye merciful, as your Father also is merciful," Luke vi. 36. And uncle John's sister-yes, that picture has a little history of its own. It is a portrait drawn from memory. Years had passed since the aged woman had been lost to sight for ever in this world; and the remembrance of F her features became more and more faint as those years increased in number. But there was one upon whose memory those features were impressed too deeply to be easily forgotten. When his grandmother died, the child mourned her loss; and when, in after years, he aspired to write "artist" against his name, the first successful effort of his pencil was to transfer to canvass the image which had so long been fixed on his mind. Not many years elapsed, and the spirit of the youthful painter had joined that of his aged relative, to serve Him more perfectly in heaven, whom, we believe, they had loved and served on earth. Let me here turn from my pictures, and ask you, youthful reader, whether you have ever thought of death as likely to put an end soon to all your pleasures, your pursuits, and your prospects in this world? Are you, do you think, prepared, if death should soon and suddenly take you away from them? Are you ready to die ?—or "Does the monitory strain, Oft repeated in your ears, Seem to sound too much in vain? Can a truth, by all confess'd, Of such magnitude and weight, Pleasure's call attention wins, Death and Judgment, Heaven and Hell- When some stranger is interr'd. Oh then, ere the turf or tomb Cover us from every eye, Spirit of Instruction, come, Make us learn that we must die." Now, what story has that large painting to tell us? First let us describe it; and then for the story. Sitting on a high-raised seat, under the canopy of a tent, is a personage whose crown upon his head and robe on his shoulders show that he is a king. Behind and around this seated monarch are groups of men, most of them in armour, except one or two, who, from their shaven heads and loose garments, appear to be priests. The eyes of all these attendants are fixed upon a lady who kneels before the king, and with uplifted hands seems to be begging a favour which he is not disposed to grant, for his face is turned from the lady, and his looks are very stern. From the rich dress which this lady wears, and |