necessity of going to church, the necessity of hearing the Bible read by my pupils, was to me a painful and degrading task, which could not but betray itself, though words they heard not from me about the matter. I held them, I fear I treated them, who only admired and pitied me, in sovereign contempt. Without a shade of real religion themselves, they were of course shocked at my manifest disregard of what they called so; but they never spoke to me upon it. At this time, I violently attached myself to a lovely young woman of my own age, daughter of a neighbouring clergyman. After my manner, I wrap ped myself up in this one satisfaction-my idol for the time being. I invested her with all the excellencies she had or had not; no matter what she really was (about which I have no clear opinion), quite certain it is that she had no knowledge of true religion at all, and never pretended to have, and despised the gospel of Christ to the full as much as I did. But she had a religion-a sentimental desire for a better world, such as comes simply of disappointment in this. My inferior mentally, she surpassed me in the very thing I prided myself upon-philosophyin the conduct of ordinary life, to be above circumstances, misfortunes, disappointments, and all manner of "this world's wrongs," which we used to set ourselves to abuse, while we read Young's Night Thoughts, to avenge ourselves. In short, she always behaved well, and acted properly, and spake wisely; while I, with all my knowledge and philosophy, was "a wild ass's colt," with a mind beyond my own control, or that of any body else, and too artless to wear the guise of any thing I was not. I saw her advantage, and spoke often to her of it, lamenting my own want of self-control and submission to circumstances. This finally occasioned her, not having courage to speak to me of my want of religion, to write me a letter, remonstrating with me upon it, and assuring me it was religion alone that gave her that advantage over me which I so admired and coveted. Now I can fully say that in this letter was no mention of Christ-no reference to the Spirit-no one word of the gospel method of salvation, or any thing that might not have been said by a Socinian or a Deistby any one who believed in an over-ruling God, or a future state of happiness or misery.

On my first reading it, my indignation knew no bounds. It was an insult upon my understanding, a presumption upon my friendship. I sat down and answered in all the bitterness of wounded pride and unrestrained contempt. It happened the letter could not go that day; it was some miles of. The next day-O what a day that was!-I must not make remarks, but merely state facts. 1 felt that I was moved, shaken. What shame, what degradation! I, even I, moved by such things!-impossible. I could have buried my head in the earth for shame and humiliation. The only comfort was nobody could ever know it. But this changed my purpose; if I was to seem unmoved, why should I be angry? I burned the letter and wrote another, very kind, very dignified, very philosophical and high-minded, but quite indifferent, of course. It happened again the letter could not go, but my conflict was now with God; I loathed, I scorned, I refused, I told the blessed Redeemer, who by his Spirit was contending for me, that I would not yield, I would not have him, I would not be his. Words are not adapted to describe things like these that pass between spirit and spirit without voice or word; and yet are more real than words could make them. I hated my friend for telling me; hated myself for caring about what she said; but O! I hated most the blessed One who was thus trying to force upon me the degradation of his name. It was soon over; on the third day I wrote another letter. I owned

the precious truth of what she had reproached me with; avowed my altered purpose, and acknowledged my obligation to her. Beyond that, I said nothing to any body at the time; they would only have mocked and wondered, and taken me for mad, and my friend would have been foremost in that opinion. All that they saw was, that I had become religious; that is, I read the Bible. I became ill, and was almost immediately removed. But from that third day, all was changed to me: I read, I praised, I prayed, I rejoiced with joy unspeakable. I had nothing to learn as to the nature and manner and meaning of the change. I knew all that before as a fiction; it was now an experimental truth. From that time Jesus was mine, and I was his; but O what a soil it was for the seed to grow in! what a time before it could be wrought upon to profit! all to do, all to undo, and every thing in the natural character against the work. However, you know the issue; it was hard work he undertook at first, and has been hard to the last. I have defeated him, dishonoured him, denied him, practically, never professedly, a thousand, thousand times; but from that hour to this I have never doubted him. How could I? Had Paul himself more evidence than I had ? No, for he had never been what I was, and he made no resistance. The recital is long, I leave you to make the comment on the bare text; but it may interest you to know, that my friend subsequently married a dignitary of the Church, of high birth and indifferent character; forgot, in her change of fortune, her preference of another world; affected fashionable life, derided all I said to her and wrote to her about the change, of which she had been the instrument, till, as my religious profession grew, being really unac-, ceptable to herself, and offensive to her worldly, irreligious husband, our acquaintance was broken off; and I know only by common report, that she died, last year suddenly while dressing for a ball. Thus God has secured the whole glory to himself; there was none to the creature on any side.

SONG FOR THE SAILOR.
WHEN the parting bosom bleeds-
When our native land recedes-
While the wild and treacherous main
Takes us to her breast again-

Father, view a sailor's woe-
Guide us wheresoe'er we go!
When the lonely watch we keep,
Silent on the mighty deep-
While the boisterous surges hoarse,
Bear us darkly on our course---

Eye that never slumbers, shed
Holy influence on our head!
When the Sabbath's peaceful ray
O'er the ocean's breast doth play,
Though no throngs assemble there,
No sweet church-bell warns to prayer,
Spirit, let thy presence be
Sabbath to the mustering sea!

When the raging billows dark,
Thundering toss our threaten'd bark,
Thou, who on the whelming wave
Didst the meek disciple save,

Thou who hear'st us when we pray,
Jesus! Saviour! be our stay!

When in foreign lands we roam,
Far from kindred and from home,
Strangers' eyes our conduct viewing,
Heathen bands our steps pursuing,

Let our conversation be
Fitting those who follow thee.

Should pale death with arrow dread
Make the ocean wave our bed;
Though no eye of love might see
Where that shrouded grave might be,
Thou who hear'st the surges roll,
Deign to save a sailor's soul!

PREVALENT DISHONESTY.

187

ALAS for poor, selfish human nature! How much fraud and over-reaching in buying and selling! A man goes out to buy a horse. He finds one that he likes, and that the owner wants to sell; but he is determined, if possible, to get him under what he is worth. Accordingly he sets himself to depreciate the animal, by pointing out what he calls his defects and blemishes. "I like your horse in some respects, but he is too old. The man you bought him of must have deceived you. He called him eight, you say. He must have been nearer twelve. See him how his teeth are worn down. I can't afford to give you any thing like your price. Besides, his pace is slow and heavy, and he trips, I see, as if he had been foundered. He is raw-boned too, and carries his head badly, and is too hard upon the bit, and I do not like the colour. If he was a bright bay, I would give you a good deal more for him." Thus he cheapens the animal as much below his real worth as he can, and when he has got so far away that he thinks the owner will not hear of it, boasts what a good bargain he has made. “I would not sell the animal for twice the money. He is of the right age, and just what I want." But then you must have cheated the man you bought him off." "Oh no, it was a fair bargain. It is true he asked more at first, but he wanted the money, and at last came to my terms, which was the best thing, probably, he could do."

Another man wants to buy a yoke of oxen. He goes to somebody who is obliged to sell, puts on an honest face, is willing to give all they are worth; but "they don't quite suit him; they are not heavy enough for the work he wants to put them to; the price is more than he can afford to give. He has seen another pair that he likes better, which he can have for less money." Thus he runs on, beating the seller down to the lowest notch; then drives the cattle home, invites his neighbours to look at them, and boasts of his good bargain.

Another wants to buy a house, and adopts a similar course to get it for less than it is worth. "I don't like the location," he says, " it is too far from church; the ground is too low; it stands too near the street; it is badly planned; the rooms are too small or too large; the hall is too wide, or not wide enough; the kitchen is inconvenient; it was slightly built,

seller by crying down, and he knew it at the time. But "a bargain is a bargain," and every one must look out for himself! It is his "heart's ease!

And so I might instance in a hundred other cases, where the buyer taxes all his ingenuity to run down the article, and when he has got it in his possession, boasts how cheap he bought it. Now, what is this bnt sheer fraud, cheating, swindling, or by whatever synonymous name you may please to call it? It is heaven-wide from the golden rule.

No doubt the buyer has a right to examine what he wants to purchase carefully, and to judge for himself whether he can afford to give the price. If he thinks it too high, though he should be mistaken, he has a right to offer the seller less, and to induce him to take less if he can. No doubt the buyer may and often does make very advantageous bargains for himself, without doing any injustice to the seller. Nay, the exchange of property may be for the advantage of both, as it ought, as far as possible, to be in all bargains.

The seller is sometimes obliged to part with his property for less than it is worth, if any body chooses to take advantage of his necessities; but the case of the buyer is different. He may take it at the price) or not, as he pleases; and no one has a right to complain. He must be his own judge what he can afford to give. But if he take advantage of the ignorance or necessities of his neighbour; if he beats) down a poor man who must sell below what he knows in his own conscience the thing is worth, and worth to him, it is dishonest; it is cheating the seller out of so much money. And if he "goeth his way and boasteth," he is condemned out of his own mouth. You have made a great bargain, have you? You have got the property for half or two-thirds its value; then you have defrauded your neighbour to that amount. It will not do to plead, that if you had not taken advantage of him, somebody else would. If you wanted the property, then you could afford to give what it is worth, and why did you not to prevent its being sacrificed?

Some men, who are noted for making good bargains, in the way above pointed out, are too worldly wise to boast of their skill and success. It might get abroad and injure their reputation. And so they maintain that they gave as much as the property was

worth, when every body knows that they got it much below its true value, and nobody better than themselves. But in the eyes of Him who "trieth the heart and the reins," it amounts to the same thing whether, when they have gone their way, they boast or not. It is a dishonest way of making money; it is cheating; it is taking so much out of the seller's pocket. If one man, by crying down another's property, gets it for a quarter less then it is fairly worth, he defrauds him to that amount just as truly as if he had swindled him out of it in any other way.

To what extent this dishonesty in dealing is practised is known only to God; but that it is very com'mon admits not of a doubt. It is practised more or less in every community; and by some we fear, who, not having looked at the matter in its true light, would resent the least insinuation that they have ever been guilty. Let every man, when he is making a bargain, think of it, and not take any advantage which will give him trouble on his death-bed, or at the bar of his final Judge.

A SHORT FIRESIDE STORY ABOUT
HONESTY.

ONE evening a poor man and his son, a little boy, sat by the wayside, near the gate of an old town in Germany. The father took a loaf of bread, which he had bought in the town, and broke it, and gave the half to his boy. "Not so, father," said the boy, "I shall not eat until after you. You have been working hard all day, for small wages, to support me; and you must be very hungry. I shall wait till you are done." "You speak kindly, my son," replied the pleased father; "your love to me does me more good than my food; and those eyes of yours remind me of your dear mother who has left us, and who told you to love me as she used to do; and indeed, my boy, you have been a great strength and comfort to me; but now that I have eaten the first morsel to please you, it is your turn now to eat." "Thank you, father; but break this piece in two, and take you a little more; for you see the loaf is not large, and you require much more than I do." "I shall divide the loaf for you, my boy; but eat it I shall not; I have abundance; and let us thank God for his great goodness in giving us food, and in giving us what is better still, cheerful and contented hearts. He who gave us the living bread from heaven, to nourish our immortal souls, how shall he not give us all other food which is necessary to support our mortal bodies!" The father and son thanked God, and then began to cut the loaf in pieces, to begin together their frugal meal. But as they cut one portion of the loaf, there fell out several large pieces of gold, of great value. The little boy gave a shout of joy, and was springing forward to grasp the unexpected treasure, when he was pulled back by his father. "My son, my son!" he cried, " do not touch that money; it is not ours." But whose is it, father, if it is not ours?" "I know not as yet to whom it belongs; but probably it was put there by the baker, through some mistake. We must inquire: run.' "But, father," interrupted the boy, "you are

poor and needy, and you have bought the loaf, and then the baker may tell a lie, and "——— “ I will not listen to you, my boy; I bought the loaf, but I did not buy the gold in it. If the baker sold it to me in ignorance, I shall not be so dishonest as to take advantage of him. Remember Him who told us to do to others as we would have others do to us. The baker may possibly cheat us; but that is no reason why we should try and cheat him. I am poor, indeed; but that is no sin. If we share the poverty of Jesus, God's own Son, O let us share also his goodness and his trust in God! We may never be rich, but we may always be honest. We may die of starvation, but God's will be done should we die in doing it! Yes, my boy, trust God, and walk in his ways, and you shall never be put to shame. Now, run to the baker, and bring him here; and I shall watch the gold until he comes." So the boy ran for the baker. "Brother workman," said the old man, "you have made some mistake, and almost lost your money;" and he showed the baker the gold, and told him how it had been found. "Is it thine?" asked the father; "if it is, take it away." "My father, baker, is very poor, and ""Silence, my child; put me not to shame by thy complaints. I am glad we have saved this man from losing his money." The baker had been gazing alternately upon the honest father and his eager boy, and upon the gold which lay glittering upon the green turf. "Thou art, indeed, an honest fellow," said the baker, "and my neighbour, David, the flax-dresser, spoke but the truth when he said, thou wert the honestest man in our town. Now, I shall tell thee about the gold: A stranger came to my shop three days ago, and gave me that loaf, and told me to sell it cheaply, or give it away to the honestest poor man whom I knew in the city. I told David to send thee to me, as a customer, this morning; and as thou wouldst not take the loaf for nothing, I sold it to thee, as thou knowest, for the last pence in thy purse; and the loaf, with all its treasure-and certes, it is not small!-is thine; and God grant thee a blessing with it!" father bent his head to the ground, while the tears fell from his eyes. His boy ran and put his hands about his neck, and said, "I shall always, like you, my father, trust God, and do what is right; for I am sure it will never put us to shame."e."—Edinburgh Christian Magazine.

SATAN HINDERED US.

The poor

PAUL intended to make a journey to the Thessalonians, but was hindered by Satan. It were well if his hindrances were confined to journeys. They affect, alas! many other things.

A professing Christian prompted to go to an impenitent sinner, and to remonstrate with him respecting his course. Satan suggests that the effort will be in vain, or that another time will do just as well. In consequence, the sinner goes on unwarned, and becomes hardened to resist subsequent appeals.

A Christian is at variance with his brother. He sees and feels that it is a sad thing for difference to exist between those who are redeemed by the same

blood, and travelling together to the same Father's house. He finds that he cannot offer the petition, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." He resolves to go to his brother, and make confession,

and seek reconciliation. Satan tells him that he has done enough now that he is prepared to confess his fault that the offending brother is bound to come half the way-that it is not wise to make any advances till he is assured they will be well received. Thus he is hindered, and the cause of Christ continues to suffer.

A Christian is sitting by his fireside reading an account of the progress of the Redeemer's kingdom. His heart rejoices, and the petition rises to his lips, "Thy kingdom come." He perceives that there is a call for funds to aid in spreading the word of life. He is ready to meet the call; but while he is considering what sum he shall give, Satan suggests that he will thus diminish his capital, and lessen his profits in a transaction in which he is about to engage that it will be better to secure those profits, and then to make a larger donation to the cause.

Reader, has Satan hindered you in any of your purposes of doing good? Be on your guard. When an opportunity for doing good is presented, beware of giving place to the devil. If you must be hindered by him, let it be by his influence over others, and not by the free consent of your mind.-New York Evangelist.

A BENEVOLENT GOD MUST PUNISH SIN.

THE love of benevolence-good-will towards his 'creatures-requires that God should manifest his disapprobation of whatever has a tendency to defeat their happiness. The relation of God towards his intelligent creatures is not merely that of one individual being toward other individuals; it is that of a moral governor, who should aim to secure the greatest good of the greatest number of his subjects. He must regard each moral being not as an isolated individual, but as a member of the community, whose conduct tends either to increase or to diminish the happiness of the whole. His treatment of the individual, therefore, must be determined by a proper regard for the general welfare.

The love of a father for his family demands that he should not show partiality for any of his children, and that he should not suffer one child to impose upon or tyrannize over the rest. A true regard for the welfare of the family will lead the father to punish the child who disturbs the peace of the family, who annoys and injures the rest, though that child may be dear to him as his own soul.

The civil magistrate is bound to protect the community against the depredations of individuals, and he must inflict the penalty of the law upon those whose conduct militates against the public good, even though they may be allied to him by the closest ties of kindred and affection. The magistrate who should refuse to do this, who, through favouritism towards an individual, should suffer the community to be wronged and the law to be violated with impunity, would be denounced as unfit for his station, and as an enemy to society. There is no difference of opinion as to what benevolence requires of men in such relations. Benevolence and justice are not opposed to each other; on the contrary, he who sacrifices justice cannot be benevolent. A regard for the general welfare requires that justice be maintained.

Now, sin is the greatest evil in the universe. It is

189

a violation of the law of love. It puts self-interest above and before the general good. God has manifested his love for his creatures by requiring them, and to seek the happiness of all. Universal obedience under pain of his displeasure, to love one another, to this law would produce the highest conceivable happiness. If, then, any transgress this rule, the very love of God for his creatures as a whole must call forth his strong disapprobation of the conduct of such-must make him a "consuming fire" to burn up every thing that would injure the purity and the happiness of his kingdom. His law would be worthless without a penalty, and the penalty would be an idle threat if it were never to be inflicted.

Benevolence requires that law and justice shall be maintained. To do otherwise would be infinitely "dishonourable to God." The infliction of punishment upon the wicked is no more proof that God "delights in the misery of his creatures," than the sentencing of a criminal is proof that the judge delights in inflicting pain. In both cases it may evince a benevolent regard for the general good. And what evil, short of the eternal misery of the regard for the happiness of the universe, and of His wicked, could be an adequate expression of God's disapprobation of conduct which would destroy that happiness by overthrowing law and government? So, too, the love of complacency-delight in moral excellence, the approbation of goodness-involves a hatred of impurity and sin. Can he who loves virsociety of the pure, delight also in that of the imtue, love vice also? Can he who delights in the pure? The very feeling of pleasure in that which is right involves a feeling of repugnance toward that which is wrong; and the intensity of the one feeling will be the measure of the intensity of the other. God hates sin because he loves holiness. If the eyes of the Lord regard the righteous with favour, then "the face of the Lord" must be "against them that do evil." The love of holiness and the hatred of sin are one and the same state of mind.

And

That which makes God "a consuming fire" to the wicked, is that very moral purity and benevolence which cause him to be characterized as LOVE, it will be "a fearful thing" for incorrigible transgressors "to fall into the hands of the living God," not merely because of his justice, nor yet because of his power, but because of the infinite purity of his character, because of his unchangeable love of holiness, as the indispensable means of happiness to his moral kingdom.

He is a "consuming fire" to the wicked because of the instinctive, the intense, the unconquerable repulsion between holiness and sin-between a mind that loves purity and goodness, and a mind that loves iniquity.

The doctrine of the future punishment of the wicked is, therefore, philosophically a credible doctrine. So far from being contradicted by the known character of God, it is rather a direct inference from his benevolence and integrity as a moral governor.— Independent.

THE CHAPLAIN'S STORY.

A CLERGYMAN who was chaplain of a little squadron stationed in the Mediterranean for five years, related the following interesting anecdote, which occurred during that time :

"The Commodore was a frank and generous man, who treated me with marked attention, and I used to preach in all the ships but one. This was a small frigate, and its captain was an irreligious and profane man. He used to say he wanted no Methodist parson

666

Well, well, 'tis an odd whim; but if, on reflection, I can grant your request without prejudice to his Majesty's service, I will do it.'

"The next day I renewed my petition. "Well,' said he, "if Captain S― will make a public apology, I will overlook his conduct.'

"I instantly got into a boat, and rowed to the frigate. The captain met me with a frown upon his countenance; but when I told him my business, I saw a tear in his eye, and taking me by the hand he said, 'Mr, I really don't understand your religion, but I do understand your conduct, and I thank you.'

"The affair blew over, and he pressed me to preach in his ship. The first time I went there, the whole crew were dressed in their best clothes, and the captain at my right hand. I could hardly utter a word, my mind was so much moved, and so were the whole crew. There seemed a more than ordinary

solemnity among us.

"That very night the ship disappeared, and not a soul survived to tell the tale. None ever knew how it happened; but we supposed, as there had been a gale of wind, she had foundered, and went down in deep water."

How cheering the thought, that the men thus suddenly summoned into eternity had listened to the blessed message of the gospel, and that too under circumstances which, through the blessing of God, were so peculiarly adapted to prepare their minds to welcome and receive it!

See, dear young reader, how "example" is more regarded than "precept!" Persons can understand our conduct if they cannot appreciate our principles, and they form their opinion of us more from what we do than from what we say. We should therefore rather strive to live well than to talk well. "Even a child is known by his doings." The religion of Christ teaches us to let our light shine before men; and it is highly important that those who profess to love the Saviour should be careful to "adorn" in all things his doctrine.-Church of England Sunday Scholar's Magazine.

THE AGED IN AFFLICTION.

I ONCE knew an old man whose white hairs were silvered by the frosts of more than fourscore years. He had been active in his sphere, a minister of the cross of Christ. In season and out of season had he

laboured in his Master's cause," in watching, and in weariness oft," but "always rejoicing as became a good soldier of Jesus Christ." But now the infirmities of age had gathered around him. He could no longer go out among the lanes and hedges, to minister to the poor and afflicted. His voice was broken, his eyes were dim, and it was only the loud tones of familiar voices that could reach his ear. And then sickness came and suffering. But still life was spared, and he felt that on him now, as well as in health, rested that great command, " Glorify God with your body and your spirit, which are his." But how should he glorify Him? Every avenue to usefulness seemed closed, for it was only in broken whispers that he could communicate his few wants to those around, and what could he do? It was the subject of many a prayer, the burden of many a thoughtful hour. At length it was suggested to him, that even in his sufferings, if patiently endured, he might show the sustaining power of the gospel. He felt that it was so, that this was the only path wherein he might still pursue that object which had been the guiding star of his long life-the glory of God; and he prayed that suffering, he cared not how severe, might be laid upon him, if thereby Christ's cause might be promoted. In his own words, "It is not enough to say that I submit cheerfully to pain-I rejoice in it, because it is God's will that I should bear it." His prayer was heard, suffering was laid upon him. Death often comes to the aged calmly as slumber to the wearied child; but to him came in pangs, in sorrow, in paroxysms of pain so severe, that it seemed to those around almost too terrible to witness; yet he smiled through them all. His heart was stayed on that God whom he so delighted to glorify, and it was his perfect peace that enabled him to die with that holy smile upon his brow, triumphing over death and the grave, strong in the Lord and in the power of his might.

I have thus recalled the memory of the dear departed, that he, being dead, might yet speak, by his example, to the aged and sometimes desponding Christian, who feels, perhaps, that he is laid aside from his Master's work, and is but a burden in the way. To such it says, the Christian's work is never done but with life. If we are laid aside from its active duties, we may yet glorify our Father by cheerfully suffering-we may yet honour his name by showing that we are partakers of His spirit whose meat and drink it was to do his Father's will; and if we do this, the life of the most infirm is not, cannot be, useless. Let us strive so to live, that when sickness and old age shall come upon us, we may not only not repine, but rejoice that His will, not ours, is done.

YET THERE IS ROOM.

"ALL things are now ready; come unto the marriage." And why should not all comply? Why should any exclude themselves? Let every one resolve for himself, "For my part, I will not make myshut the door of heaven against yourself with your self that horrid exception." Will you, as it were, own hand? I once more assure you, there is yet room, room for all. There are Abraham, Isaac, and