testimony. Perhaps there is no place in England in which the evils of the race-course are so mixed up with the population of the place as the city of Ches. ter: the race-course may be said to form part of the place. There is no need, as in other towns, to go even a short distance to be a spectator of the proceedings: a person standing on the western walls of the town has the whole race-course spread out at his very feet. During the last few years, owing to the exertions of a worthy magistrate of the place, at the time that he was a mayor, the first day of the race was altered from the Monday to the Tuesday, to avoid the awful profanation of the Lord's-day with which that week commenced. Before that change took place, the tumult of the streets, even during divine service, was so great, that it was a continual interruption to the congregations assembled in the churches. I have been jostled almost off the steps which led from my own church-door, as I descended them, by a crowd of ill-mannered fellows who came up arm in arm, one of the party puffing the smoke of his cigar in my face: and the Sabbath evening, in that ancient Christian city, presented, on every side, scenes that would have been disgraceful even to a heathen land. Carriages of all sorts came rolling into the town during the whole of the Lord's-day; and there were sights and sounds on every side, as the night drew in, ill suited to the Christian Sabbathdrunkards reeling and shouting about the streets, and the inns and public-houses of all sorts filled to overflowing with noisy and ungodly revellers. There was, a few years ago, one room in my own parish which has been so crowded by the mixed multitude of gamblers assembled there, that the men sat on one another's knees; and there hundreds and thousands of pounds were betted and taken; and not only there, but in every quarter of the old city, the gambler and the black-leg of high and low life might be seen, with care-worn brow and eager look, intent upon their close calculations-the bold and reckless gambler ready to stake his all upon the favourite horse-the selfish and the cautious,exercising all his skill in "hedging," to secure and to enrich himself.

Year after year it seemed as if some advancement was made in winning souls to God, and, humanly speaking, this was the case: many an individual began to manifest a desire to walk in the ways of godliness, and to take delight in the things of God; but perhaps at the very time that the snare of the fowler seemed broken, and the soul about to escape, the snare was again set, the temptation again presented, and the captive again secured. I believe that this is not only my testimony, but that of several other earnest and anxious ministers of Christ in Chester. How often have I seen some individual in whom I had begun to take a deep interest, and by whose apparent consistency in attending the means of grace. I had been led to hope that he was indeed strengthened, stablished, and settled, fall away, and prove that he was utterly unable to resist the influence of the periodical mania of the Chester raceweek! With his eyes fully opened to the folly and the sin of the way which he was about to take, he has started aside from his new profession, like a

broken bow, and realized the strong expression of the apostle Peter, by returning, "like the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire." Many an ingenuous youth well known to me has deplored, with shame-stricken countenance, and fast-falling tears, the gross immoralities of that season. I have before me the instance of two young men especially, in whom the consistent godliness of several years was totally overthrown. I rejoice to think they have been both, by the grace of God, brought back to the paths which they had forsaken, wiser and humbler from their fall, and have since been enabled to stand in a strength which they had not earnestly sought before. But, alas! how many there are who have not returned, and who have ended by hardening their own conscience, after having begun by resisting its checks.

There was a fine manly fellow of eight-and-twenty, apparently a steady, sober-minded man, a constant attendant for some time with his godly sister at my Church. He was a kind son, an affectionate brother, a good workman, and high in the confidence of his employers. He had joined my Bible class of young men, and had won my esteem by the simple frankness of his disposition and the plain manliness of his whole bearing. But gradually he withdrew himself from the Church and from the Bible class, and all my remonstrances, seconded by those of his widowed mother and sister, were civilly and quietly received, but steadily and inflexibly resisted. And yet there was no apparent immorality to be discovered-nothing in his life or conduct which either I or his relations could censure, except his utter disregard of the Lord's-day, and of all other means of grace. He was still the same affectionate son and brother; he brought faithfully to his mother at the end of the week, the sum of money-not a small one -which he had agreed to give her for his board and lodging. But his anxious mother sighed in secret, and felt that there was something wrong, though she hardly liked to own it to herself, while his pious and exemplary sister openly deplored to me the sad change in her beloved Charley. He was seized with an illness, which filled them with alarm. He had worked to the last moment; and one morning about eleven o'clock, he came in from his work quite exhausted, and throwing himself on a chair, said, with a countenance of deep sadness, "I must give it up; I can work no more." He took to his bed. His illness was of a lingering character, and at times he seemed to rally; but although his apparent recovery filled their hearts with more hope, still he was but the shadow of his former self; and at last he returned to his bed, never to leave it again. They wished him to see me; and I went to him immediately. The poor fellow was pleased to see me; and many an hour did I spend at his bed-side. It was impossible not to be pleased with him; but though as his friend I loved him, as the minister of Christ I could never feel satisfied with his state. He owned to me that he had given up every hope of recovering his health. He said that he knew he should die; but there was something-I could not discover it-which made me feel that there was no

reality about his repentance, nothing genuine in his faith. It was no immorality in the common sense of the word to which he had yielded. I questioned him plainly but delicately on all such points. There was, however, a holding back of something, a coldness, a want of heart in all that he said, when replying to my earnest appeals on the one point of vital importance.

One evening on entering his chamber, I found him in close and earnest conversation with another man, a grave, middle aged man, who seemed to be as steady and respectable as himself; his dress showed that he was well to do in the world, and his manner was more than commonly civil and respectful. He continued to converse with the sick man for a few minutes in a calm quiet voice; but I saw a look exchanged between them, and he rose up and took his leave. I remained with my poor friend about my usual time; but the visit was, as before, unsatisfactory, and yet I could hardly tell why. After I had left him, I was again suddenly summoned to the house. The mother met me with looks of alarm: poor Charley, she said, had suddenly been taken much worse: she feared he was actually dying at that very time. I hastened up to the chamber, and his sister quitted it as I entered. I think her brother had requested to be left alone with me. He was indeed to all appearance a dying man. Never have I witnessed so profuse a death-sweat in any dying person— his hands, his face, his hair, his own linen, and that of the bed, were reeking with the cold and heavy moisture, its chillness when I touched his hand alarmed me. I placed my finger on his pulse: it was scarcely perceptible. I spoke to him: his manly voice had died almost to a whisper. I said no more-I saw what was needed; and instantly quitted the room. "I must have strong hot brandy and water immediately for him," I said to his mother. "But he is forbidden," she replied, "to take wine or spirits of any kind. The doctor has ordered nothing but gruel." "He must have brandy, or he will sink at once," I answered, "and I will take the risk upon myself." The cordial was given; and he gradually revived. I continued sitting by his bed-side. I soon felt his pulse returning to its strength, and not long after, he was enabled to speak to me. "I must tell you, sir," he said, "what is the cause of all this. It is not bodily illness; it is not death; it is the state of my mind. I must tell you every thing. If I keep my secret any longer, it will kill me. I have made up my mind to speak to you in confidence, as my friend. But you will promise me not to tell my mother and sister: it would break their hearts to know what my course has been, and how shamefully I have deceived them. Ah, sir, those races! they have been my ruin! I had given up for a time-when I came to your Church, and to your young men's class-my gambling and my betting; but I did not know my own weakness; and by degrees, I fell back again: and the worst of it all is, sir, the secresy with which I have been going on in my bad ways. I have had my betting-books at many of the public-houses, not only in Chester, but in Liverpool. The man you saw in my room to-night is just such another as

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myself, a respectable, industrious workman, but as entirely given up as I was to that wicked gambling. I He came to speak to me on the subject to-night; but I had told him, just before you entered the room, never to come to me again, for that I had done with the thing for ever. And now, sir, let me tell you what have been the ways of our set. We were all of us sober men, men of good character, industrious, and well-respected, but given up secretly to this betting and gambling. And it was on the Lord'sday that we made our plans and settled our books. We used to go quietly one by one from our own houses, taking a round by some of the back-streets of the town, to our place of meeting at the riverside, and there take a boat and go up the Dee for a few miles; and then, when we were out of sight and hearing, we settled our business. You would scarcely believe, if I were to tell you, the large sums that we have lost and won from our calculations and our bets on the various races throughout the country. We made it a matter of downright business, and carried on the work with the same coolness and steadiness that we gave to our regular calling. Oftentimes I have trembled to think of the risks I have run, and the difficulties in which I have been entangled, and the sums that were at stake, and the ruin that stared me in the face. The wonder has been, how I have been able to bring my mother my weekly pay, and to deceive her and poor Mary as I have all along done;" but it is the secret deceit of the whole that has cut me to the heart; and as I lay and thought upon it tonight, it took me in such a way, that I think I have gone through all the pains and all the dreadful weakness and faintness of a dying hour. Ill as I am, sir, it was not my illness that reduced me to the state, you saw it was this, and only this-the horror that came over me, and the shame, when I thought how I had taken you all in; and, sir, I have never been in earnest-you must have seen it-I have never been in earnest-though I am all but a dying man— notwithstanding all the pains you took with me, and all the kindness you showed me, till now. I have never cared, really cared, for my soul, never loved my blessed Saviour. How could I, sir, keeping back my sin, and hiding my secret in my heart as I have done? But I am glad that I have told you; and that I have been open and plain-spoken at last. Ah! sir, perhaps you never knew till to-night what a curse these races have been to many a respectable man like myself, in a secret way. Only let me beg that what I have told to you, you will not let my poor mother and sister know; for I cannot bear to think of the grief which they would feel."

I said but little to him that night. There was now no cause to impress upon him the greatness of the sin, of which he was so deeply conscious. But in the little that I did say, I gravely assured him how fully I concurred with the view that he took of his sin, how thoroughly I agreed with him in the abhorrence he felt at the course of continued deceit which he had pursued; and kneeling down beside him, we poured forth together our solemn and humble prayer to Him who alone had the power and the will to forgive him, in that prevailing name by which only

the guilty sinner can hope to find pardon and acceptance with an offended and heart-searching God.

When I went to him on the following day, his sister begged to speak to me before I went up to his chamber. Charles had told her and his mother every thing. On quietly thinking the matter over, he had judged it right to do so; and though they had not said a word in excuse of his sin, he had met with nothing but tender affection from those two loving

hearts.

I found him much better-the burden which from the beginning of his illness had oppressed his spirit had been removed, and he had been enabled, not only to confide it to his earthly friends he had laid the whole weight on that gracious Saviour who has borne our own sins in his own body upon the tree, and who is as willing as he is able to receive the returning and repentant sinner. He was enabled to rejoice in that great assurance, that, "if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins." He was strengthened in spirit, for he was now rejoicing in hope; and his bodily health, though he was unable to quit his chamber or his bed, had apparently improved. The short interval thus graciously granted to him proved a season of great blessedness. There could be no doubt that the Lord had put away his sin, and had accepted him; and when his strength once more failed him, and his redeemed spirit departed, it seemed to all around him as if the Lord had said unto him, "Go in peace."

I am well aware that the worldly reader may say, that, after all, his sin was not a flagrant one. But those who have been brought to know that the dealings of God are with the heart, will take the same view as poor Charles did of the course of conduct which he had pursued, and will see in the peculiar tenderness of his conscience, and the anguish of mind which he suffered, a proof that he had at last entered into a true conception of the character of God and the evil of sin. All, however, must see from his case how fatal a snare those races had proved to him.-Facts in a Clergyman's Life.

THE FIDELITY OF THE PHYSICIAN. [This article forms the greater portion of a chapter in a very excellent little work which we are anxious to introduce to the notice of our readers. It is entitled "Christian Fidelity in the House of Mourning." By the Rev David Mitchell, of Free St Luke's Church, Glasgow-an excellent and devoted minister of Christ. It contains a large number of valuable statements and suggestions, and is fitted to be eminently useful in stirring up and directing those who wait upon the afflicted]

THE medical practitioner stands on high vantage ground in the field of philanthropy and Christian fidelity. Admitted as he is, on all occassions, into the chamber of sickness and to the bed-side of the diseased, he has opportunities of doing good where others are excluded. It will be readily granted, that many, when they are seized with bodily pain, never think of applying for spiritual consolation until they have consulted the physician. They send for the medical practitioner in whom they have the greatest confidence, and to him they relate their tale of woe. Their great object is to find out a cure for their present malady, and obtain deliverance from their

unhappy condition. They reflect not on their dangerous position as travellers to an eternal habitation. They think not on the peril of an immortal spirit-they reflect not on the breaking up of the constitution, as long as the physician continues to give them any hope of recovery; and, during this critical period, they treat the means of grace as unsuitable companions. In these circumstances, the Christian integrity of the medical attendant will appear highly valuable. We speak not at present merely of the opportunities he has of dropping an instructive and seasonable hint to the distressed. We dwell not on the precious moments which many of the profession, to their honour, fail not to improve. We dwell not on the profitable turn which may be given to conversation in an hour when danger is near. We refer especially to the conduct of the physician in giving facility to the admission of a minister of the gospel to the bed of sickness. Some are in the habit of giving such peremptory injunetions to the household of the distressed as amount to a prohibition of every one, except the nurse, from the precincts of the chamber where the patient resides. Now, we have yet to learn why a pastor may not be admitted into the presence of the sufferer, as well as the medical practitioner. He will not hesitate to take along with him a brother of the profession at the worst stage of the disease, and we do not see why the visit of a clergyman should be more agitating to the mind of the patient. We see no reason why the visit of a pastor should be considered as an emblem of sadness. We see no ground for considering his call as an infallible intimation that death is approaching. We do not see why his visit should not be conducive to the improvement of the health of the body and the vigour of the soul. A clergyman, from the nature of the discipline through which he must pass, has many qualifications calculated to fit him for acting a prudent and faithful" part in the abode of mourning. Not to mention his experience as a Christian, his nervous system has to submit to a severer training during his education than in that of any other of the learned professions. He is also daily coming in contact with people labouring under mental depression, whose case he must study and thoroughly investigate before he can be successful in the discharge of duty. We cannot see, therefore, why he may not be trusted to use his discretion at all times in the chamber of sorrow. comes armed with his Master's authority. He comes with a message of peace to man; and, if he follow the example of Him who came to heal the sick and the broken-hearted, no man has any thing to dread from his call.

He

We are aware that some are ready to assert that these visits are often very unseasonable and unprofitable that they cast a shade over those who are already perplexed-that they cast a gloom over the mind which is already depressed, and that they tend to hasten the end of the sufferer. Such sentiments as these are the productions of a mind vitiated by the prevalence of sin. They are the polluted streams which flow from the pernicious fountain. They proceed from an understanding where darkness reigns. The religion of Christ is only gloomy to those who are ignorant of its power. It is forbidding only to those who are aliens to the principles and the joys it imparts; for the reception of it begets a peace, the experience of it a strength, and the contemplation of it a hope, which supports its subjects under all their griefs-enables them to rejoice in tribulation-bears them up under the agonies of disease, and prepares them to contemplate death with calm and devoted serenity. Even admitting, for the sake of illustration, the consequences which these men anticipate,

we ask, Would their advice furnish a safe line of conduct? When we consider the awe-inspiring eternity which is the final destiny of man-when we remember that after death he enters upon a state of perpetual bliss or endless misery-can we for a moment place the danger of hastening his death for a few moments, or sending him a few hours sooner to his everlasting habitation, in competition with the danger of allowing him to depart insensible of impending ruin, ignorant of his gir tual malady, with a soul unredeemed, unclothed with the righteousness of Christ, and unprepared for appearing before that Judge, whose gospel he had neglected, and whose mediation he had despised? Surely the one danger will appear, when compared with the other, as the drop in the bucket, and as the small dust in the balance.

We believe the faithful physician does much more in the discharge of his professional duties to promote the gospel cause, than merely to give facility to the admission of a clergyman into the abode of affliction. We can bear our humble testimony to the Christian and upright conduct of many of this valuable class in society, who, while they use every exertion for the good of the body, are equally anxious for the good of the soul. They deal prudently and candidly with the sick. They do not ensnare their patients with delusive hopes of recovery when they are clearly sinking under the pressure of disease. But we regret we have reason for asserting, that there are some who belong to this profession that withhold from the patient the true state of his case. We regret to be compelled, by a faithful relation of facts, to mention, that there are some who hold out hopes of recovery, when each successive visit furnishes no doubtful testimony that the sick person must, erelong, take farewell of objects to which he is inordinately attached, and bid a final adieu to a world from which his affections have never been weaned. We refer not to the case of the nervous and debilitated man, who views every thing through a distorted medium, and puts the darkest construction on every sensation he feels. We allude not to the trembling invalid whose whole system shakes at the appearance of the physician, and whose spirits are deeply affected, not only by the conversation which passes, but also by the tone in which it is delivered. We refer not to cases of mental depression, where great caution and prudence are requisite to qualify for the faithful and successful discharge of duty. We allude to cases where disease has taken violent and powerful possession of the constitution, and the body is rapidly sinking into the dust. We refer to the condition of those, where the physician can tell, better than any one else, that death is in the cup, and that his harbingers are hastening apace. We have known cases of confirmed consumption, and that, too, in the last stage, where the medical attendant has carefully concealed the danger of the deluded victim, and given hope of returning health, when the most superficial observer could discover rapid decay and speedy dissolution. This has a baneful effect on the mind of the sufferer, especially in those cases where there is a deadness and an insensibility to the value of religion in the soul. The physician is the person who possesses the confidence of the distressed; he is the oracle of health, whose communications are received unhesitatingly; and, whenever pious friends and clergymen hint the dangers which are hanging over the sufferer, they are immediately set down as irksome intruders, who venture upon a subject of which they are unqualified to speak, and agitate his mind with unseasonable forebodings. Medical advisers, then, who, through a false delicacy, withhold the truth on these occasions, incur a fearful responsibilty. And we

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advert to their false delicacy the more cheerfully, that many of the most distinguished of the medical profession coincide entirely with our views. These men are careful in the prescriptions for the body, and their sense of responsibility to the God whom they serve gives them fortitude to be faithful on the most trying occasions. They yield to none in their anxiety for the temporal comfort of the patient. They feel for the exhausted body and the feeble mind. They have no wish to cause unnecessary pain to those who are already bowed down with suffering. Let not those, therefore, who avoid plain dealing at the couch of the dying, bring an accusation against those who act upon more enlightened principles. Those persons who discharge their duty merely with a reference to this world, may accuse us of the want of sympathy, and the want of tenderness, but we repel the charge, and assert, that their boasted regard for the dying is based upon a false foundation. They say, Why should we disturb the already distressed with sorrowful alarm-why should we add uneasiness to the case of him who is already broken down?" We would reply, that we have no wish to add a pang to the grief of the sufferer, or do any thing to increase the pain of him who is sick and ready to die. He is labouring as in the furnace, he is tried as by fire. He spends the day in weariness, and the night in continual tossings. When sleep overtakes him he is scared by dreams and terrified by visions; and cold and unfeeling would be the heart which could increase such sorrow. But, while we yield to none in our sympathy for the body of the dying, we have a duty far more important to perform. We desire that corporeal suffering of every kind may be alleviated, and, if possible, be removed, but we have a stronger desire that the immortal soul may be prepared for entering an everlasting dwelling. And the physician who conceals the truth, from whatever motive, raises a powerful barrier against spiritual improvement, and pursues a course in opposition to what Scripture teaches. The grand lesson which we should learn in the school of affliction, is to turn the mind to Jehovah, that we may meditate on the administration of his justice, and also of his mercy. When disease, therefore, presses heavily upon those who are the subjects of it, and produces symptoms of death, the person who explains these away, and endeavours to turn the mind to some created object of interest, is doing what in him lies to thwart the designs of Providence, for the sake of a few moments' respite to a dying body-he is bartering away the most precious privileges of an ever-existing soul.

It is quite a possible thing for the physician to express his apprehension for the safety of his patient, and yet act an unfaithful part. He may give his opinion as to the termination of the disease, and yet explain away every fatal symptom so dexterously, as to lead the mind of the sufferer to entertain a lingering hope of life. We have a masterpiece of this kind of death-bed juggling in the case of King George IV. In an essay written by Sir Henry Halford, physician to that monarch, we thus read: "In the case of his late Majesty, the king's government and the royal family were apprised, as early as the 27th April, that his Majesty's disease was seated in his heart, and that an effusion of water in the chest was soon to be expected. It was not, however, until the latter end of May, when his Majesty was so discouraged by repeated attacks of the embarrassment in his breathing, as to desire me to explain to him the nature of his complaint, and to give my candid opinion of its probable termination, that the opportunity occurred of acknowledging to his Majesty the extent of my fears for his safety. After this, when he had set his house in order, I thought myself at

liberty to interpret every new symptom as it arose in as favourable a light as I could, for his Majesty's satisfaction; and we were enabled thereby to rally his spirits in the intervals of his frightful attacks, to maintain his confidence in his medical resources, and to spare him the pain of contemplating death until a few minutes before his Majesty expired." The monarch was the dupe of the unfaithful subject, day after day, and his mind was diverted from reflecting upon his approaching end, until a few minutes before the separation of the soul from the body! Are these the blessings of royalty?-are these the privileges of a prince? Is this the fidelity of a subject to a sovereign who swayed the sceptre over the most religious nation of the world?-the king, whose merchants were princes, and whose traffickers were the honourable of the earth-the king, who ruled over the millions of the East, where potentates bowed to his authority, and the governors of the nations did homage to his vicegerents the king, whose sceptre was revered by every distinguished tribe on earth, is treated with less justice than the most outrageous felon that violates the rights of man! Was there ever a British subject, during that monarch's reign, who had the last sentence of the law executed upon him with only a few minutes previous notice? Did ever the king affix his signature to the death-warrant of a culprit who was so ignominiously treated? The royal relatives are told of the situation of the king, the responsible ministers of the crown are not ignorant-and the upper servants of the household, as well as the subordinate authorities, whisper that a change is approaching. From the moment the first bulletin was issued, until the herald proclaimed a successor to the throne, all was activity. Schemes were contrived-plans were laid-intrigues for personal aggrandisement were matured-the British public were informed that the death of their king was near, but the sovereign is more in the dark than any one else: the man who has to give an account of his stewardship must not be disturbed, every dangerous symptom must be explaind away as much as possible! The monarch must not be reminded of the rapid approach of death, nor of the preparation requisite for appearing at the bar of judgment, either as a private individual or as the responsible ruler of a Christian people! He is surrounded by a phalanx of hollow and heartless flatterers, who have neither the integrity nor the manliness to tell him the truth. They insinuate, indeed, their apprehensions for his safety, but these they contrive to counterbalance by plausible pretexts and evasions; and they admit they managed the sinful plot with such dexterity, as to conceal from the dying sovereign his real condition until a few minutes before he expired. Truly it may be said of such men that "their throat is an open sepulchre; with their tongues they have used deceit; the poison of asps is under their lips."

We again beg to remind the reader, that we have only advanced on this topic what we believe many of the medical profession daily put in practice. We have only been recommending the example of men who stand at the head of their profession, distinguished alike for their ability and Christian zealmen who are first in deeds of philanthropy and benevolence-men of whom any nation has reason to be proud, and whom people of every age may well admire. These are the persons whom we would hold out as noble examples for others to follow. They are instrumental in promoting the glory of God in the welfare of their brethren around, and they receive the testimony of a good conscience, which is the best reward. Those who do not so discharge their duty cannot be happy. They may go from time to time and endeavour to prop up the tottering fabric

which is falling into decay. They may enter the chamber with affected cheerfulness and strive to rally their drooping patient, but they cannot fail to discern that he is rapidly hastening to his eternal dwelling. The weeds of death are already wrapped about his head, and his countenance declares that he will soon become a fit inhabitant of the tomb. We know not a more pitiable occupation than that of those who pursue such a course. They hold a position which can ill bear a comparison with the condition of those who discharge their duty to their patient as in the sight of God. These men, after they have exhausted all their skill as medical advisers, can still have recourse to Infinite Wisdom; after they have ransacked all their store, and brought forward in vain every mean which their great and capacious minds could suggest, they can still find an imperishable cure; after every ingredient in the practice of medicine has failed to give relief, they can say, "Still there is hope; there is a Physician whose prescriptions never fail, and whose remedies are sure; there is one who will conquer death itself, and triumph over the power of the grave; there is a balm in Gilead and a Physician there."

A PICKPOCKET AT AN ANNIVERSARY. THE first meeting of the Shoreditch Bible Association was held in the church, which was very much crowded. Some weeks afterwards, the collectors for her subscription, which she had always paid very called on a widow, who kept a small grocer's shop, cheerfully. As they were going away, she said, "Gentlemen, I have got a young man, a lodger, who is always poring over the Bible: I dare say he would subscribe." The collectors were introduced to him to solicit his subscription. He answered, "I certainly will;" and gave them a guinea, and desired them to put down his name as a subscriber of sixpence a week. The gentlemen were astonished, and hesitated at taking so much, and wished to return a part. He answered, "No, I owe my all to the Shoreditch Bible Association." About a month afterwards, the committee wished to increase its number. This young man was proposed and accepted. But when the matter was mentioned to him, he warmly replied, "No, gentlemen, you must pardon me—I am not worthy to form a part of your committee. If you want more money, I will gladly give it; but to act on your committee, I cannot." They in vain pressed the matter, and wished to know his reasons. About a year after, he requested his landlady to desire the gentlemen to wait upon him when they called (he had regularly paid his subscription through the medium of his landlady), as he wanted to speak to them; which they did. "Now, gentlemen," said he, "my lips are unsealed. I take my departure for America this week. Here are five guineas. I will now tell you my short history. Two years ago, I was one of the most profligate young men in the city of London. I was a common pickpocket. At your anniversary, seeing the church crowded, I, with several of my companions in iniquity, entered, in order to pursue our sinful practices. From the crowded state of the church we were separated. I got into the middle aisle, just in front of the speakers. The first words I caught were, 'Thou shalt not steal.' My attention was fixed; my con.