unfortunate one! He cannot enjoy it!” Another time, as I was told, lie entered his church with an expression of profound sorrow, with bowed head, and without looking to the right and the left as is his custom (N.B. He must pass through the church in order to reach the pulpit), and without nodding kindly to friends and acquaintances. All wondered what could have come to Father Taylor. He mounted the pulpit, and then bowing down, as if in the deepest affliction, exclaimed, “Lord have mercy upon us because we are a widow!” And so saying he pointed down to a coffin which he had had placed in the aisle below the pulpit. One of the sailors belonging to the congregation had just died, leaving a widow and many small children without any means of support. Father Taylor now placed himself and the congregation in the position of the widow, and described so forcibly their grief, their mournful countenances, and their desolate condition, that at the close of the sermon the congregation rose as one man, and so considerable was the contribution which was made for the widow, that she was raised at once above want. In fact our coldly moralising clergy who read their written sermons ought to come hither and learn how they may touch and win souls.
After the service I was introduced to Father Taylor and his agreeable wife, who in disposition is as warm-hearted as himself. The old man (he is about sixty) has a remarkably lively and expressive countenance, full of deep furrows. When we thanked him for the pleasure which his sermon had afforded us, he replied, “Oh! there's an end, an end of me! I am quite broken down! I am obliged to screw myself up to get up a little steam. It's all over with me now!”
Whilst he was thus speaking, he looked up, and exclaimed with a beaming countenance, “What do I see? Oh my son! my son!” And extending his arms he went
