THE IVY. 309 



while seared leaves, wafied from liie tall Irees 

 above my head, were v^iiikii)g at mv feet, never 

 more to ri^se from their parent earlh — all these 

 things gave a realily to the conlemplalion not to 

 be felt under other circumstances; and I record 

 my feelings without expecting any reader to enter 

 into their deplfi. 



The Ivy, as I have formerly observed, is to me 

 a lively representation of the work and the power 

 of faith, [is strength consists in the tenacity with 

 which it clings to something foreign to its own 

 substance, identifying itself, by a wonderful pro- 

 cess, with what it adheres to. Alone, it cannot 

 stand : if you tear it from its prop, down must fall 

 every branch, at the mercy of any trampling foot 

 of man or beast. The analogy in my mind was 

 perfect: there stood the two plants, one, rooted in 

 distinct individuality, needing no prop, fearing no 

 foe, adorned with a white, a beauteous robe, woven 

 by the finger of God ; the other, strong only in 

 conscious weakness, sombre in line, its very fmit 

 clad in the mourning lint of affliction, yet tending 

 upwards, clustering in fulness proportioned to its 

 growth, and braving every blast in the confidence 

 of its firm fixture to that which could not be 

 moved. — Wliat had I before my eyes, but one 

 glorified member of the triumphant church above, 

 and the afflicted, yet highly privileged body of his 



