a zealous puritan minister, came into town, and young Love was led by curiosity to go and hear him preach. The sermon made a deep impression upon his mind. He returned home (to use his own expression) "with a hell in his conscience." father thought he was seized with a strange fit of melancholy, and advised him to seek amusement, especially his favourite one of gaming. This he declined doing, and begged permission to attend church on the next lecture-day. This was refused. In order to prevent his attendance at church, his father locked him up in a high chamber, intending to confine him there till the service was over. Christopher procured a cord, and, suspending it from the window, he let himself down by the side of the house and went to the lecture. His convictions were deepened. On his return home, he found his father very angry with him. This distressed him, but not so much as did the thoughts of an angry God. He had no friend to whom he could make known his troubles.

At length he met with Mr Erberry, who gave him further instruction, and the result was the conversion of his soul to God.

Many who had been his companions in vice were converted about the same time. They who had been associates in gambling now became associates in prayer. That they might not displease their parents, they met in the night season, when their parents supposed they were in bed. For many months they met thus, two nights in each week.

The young man's father began to look upon his son as a hopeless youth, and to withdraw his affection from him. In consequence, Mr Erberry obtained leave for him to come to his house. Mr Erberry sent him to Oxford. In due time he became a very popular and useful preacher.-American Paper.

DON'T GET ANGRY.

Ir does no good. Some sins have a seeming compensation or apology, a present gratification of some sort; but anger has none. A man feels no better for it. It is really a torment; and when the storm of passion has cleared away, it leaves one to see that he has been a fool.

And he has made himself a fool in the eyes of others too. Who thinks well of an ill-natured, churlish man, who has to be approached in the most guarded and cautious way? Who wishes him for a neighbour, or a partner in business? He keeps all about him in nearly the same state of mind as if they were living next door to a hornet's nest or a rabid animal.

And as to prosperity in business, one gets along no better for getting angry. What if business is perplexing, and every thing goes "by contraries ?" Will a fit of passion make the winds more propitious, the ground more productive, the markets more favourable? Will a bad temper draw customers, pay notes, and make creditors better natured? If men, animals, or senseless matter cause trouble, will getting "mad" help matters-make men more subservient, brutes more docile, wood and stone more tractable?

An angry man adds nothing to the welfare of society. He may do some good, but more hurt. Heated passion makes him a firebrand, and it is a wonder if he does not kindle flames of discord on every hand. Without much sensibility, and often

Contrast with the angry, vindictive, revengeful spirit that of David when he says, "They rewarded me evil for good, to the spoiling of my soul; but as for me, when they were sick, my clothing was sackcloth, and I behaved myself as though he had been my friend and brother.”

What a lovely temper of mind this, and what a close imitation of Christ, who, when he suffered, threatened not; and of Paul, who blessed when reviled, and when defamed, returned entreaty.

Since, then, anger is useless, needless, disgraceful, without the least apology, and found only "in the bosom of fools," why should it be indulged at all ?— Boston Reporter.

BURKE wrote as follows to his captious friend Barry, while studying his art at Rome:-"That you have just subjects of indignation always, and of anger often, I do noways doubt; who can live in the world without some trial of his patience? But believe me, dear Barry, that the arms with which the ill dispositions of the world are to be combated, and the qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and we reconciled to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence to others, and a great deal of distrust of ourselves; which are not qualities of a mean spirit, as some may possibly think them, but virtues of a great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature, as much as they contribute to repose and fortune; for nothing can be so unworthy of a wellcomposed soul as to pass away life in bickerings and litigations, in snarling and scuffling with every one about us. Again and again, my dear Barry, we must be at peace with our species, if not for their sakes, yet very much for our own.'

Fragments.

BEAUTY is like an almanack-if it last a year, it is well.-Adams.

THE CHRISTIAN.-"Tenant of a hovel for a day, thou art heir of the universe for ever."-Tupper.

NEVER be afraid of dazzling the world with too much light, but plainly show them that they are wholly sinful, wholly ruined, wholly helpless; and speak of a present, immediate, free, full pardon in the Saviour. This is our time for shining. When Jesus comes, his light will dim ours; we shall shine with him, but our privilege of lighting others shall be ended.-A. Bonar.

THE envious man is an enemy to all God's favours if they fall beside himself. He cannot endure to be happy if with company.-Adams.

ETERNITY'S vast ocean lies before thee:
Give thy mind sea-room; keep it wide of earth,
That rock of souls immortal; cut thy cord;
Weigh anchor; spread thy sails; call every wind;
Eye thy great pole-star; make the land of life.
Young.

FAITH AND HOPE.-Faith looks to the word of the thing; hope to the thing of the word.-Adams.

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UPON THE BLOWING OF THE FIRE.

WE beat back the flame, not with a purpose to suppress it, but to raise it higher, and to diffuse it more those afflictions and repulses which seem to be discouragements, are indeed the merciful incitements of grace. If God did mean judgment to my soul, he would either withdraw the fuel, or pour water upon the fire,

or suffer it to languish for want of new motions; but now that he continues to me the means,

and opportunities, and desires of good, I shall misconstrue the intentions of my God, if I

shall think his crosses sent rather to damp than to quicken his Spirit in me.

O God! if thy bellows did not sometimes thus breathe upon me, in spiritual repercussions (repressings), I should have just cause to suspect my estate: those few weak gleeds (coals) of grace that are in me might soon go out, if they were not thus refreshed: still blow upon them till they kindle; still kindle them till they flame up to thee.

UPON A MAN SUDDENLY STRUCK DEAD IN HIS SIN.

I CANNOT but magnify the justice of God, but withal I must praise his mercy. It were woe with any of us all, if God should take us at advantages. Alas! which of us hath not committed sins worthy of a present revenge? Had we been also surprised in those acts, where had we been? O God! it is more than thou owest us, that thou hast waited for our repentance. It is no more than thou owest us, that thou plaguest our offences. The wages of sin is death, and it is but justice to pay due wages. Blessed be thy justice that hast made others examples to me: blessed be thy mercy that hast not made me an example unto others.

UPON A CLOUD.

WHETHER it were a natural cloud wherewith our ascending Saviour was intercepted from the eyes of his disciples upon Mount Olivet, I inquire not: this I am sure of, that the time now was when a cloud surpassed the sun in glory. How did the intentive eyes of those ravished beholders envy that happy meteor! and, since they could no more see that glorious body, fixed themselves upon that celestial cha

The angels

riot, wherewith it was carried up. could tell the gazing disciples (to fetch them Jesus should so come again, as they had seen off from that astonishing prospect) that this him depart; he went up in a cloud, and he shall come again in the clouds of heaven, to his last

judgment. O Saviour! I cannot look upward, but I must see the sensible monuments, both of thine ascension and return; let no cloud of worldliness, or infidelity, hinder me from following thee in thine ascension, or from expecting thee in thy return.

UPON HEARING OF MUSIC BY NIGHT.

How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season! In the daytime it would not, it could not, so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness. Thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation: the gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of persecution, or of our own private affliction: it is ever the same, the difference is in our disposition to receive it. O God! whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful.

UPON A DEFAMATION DISPERSED.

WERE I the first or the best that was ever slandered, perhaps it would be somewhat diffiGrief is cult to command myself patience. wont to be abated either by partners or precedents; the want whereof dejects us beyond measure, as men singled out for patterns of misery. Now, whiles I find this the common condition of all that ever have been reputed virtuous, why am I troubled with the whisperings of false tongues? O God! the devil slandered thee in Paradise. O Saviour! men slan

Idered thee on earth more than men or devils can reproach me; thou art the best, as thou art the best that ever was smitten by a lying and venomous tongue: it is too much favour that is done me by malicious lips, that they conform me to thy sufferings; I could not be so happy if they were not so spiteful. O thou glorious pattern of reproached innocence! if I may not die for thee, yet let me thus bleed with thee.

UPON THE FIRING OF A CANNON.

How witty men are to kill one another!

What fine devices they have found out to murder afar off! to slay many at once, and so to fetch off lives, that, whilst a whole lane is made of carcases with one blow, nobody knows who hurt him! And what honour do we place in slaughter! Those arms wherein we pride ourselves are such as which we or our ancestors have purchased with blood. The monuments of our glory are the spoils of a subdued and slain enemy, where, contrarily, all the titles of God sound of mercy and gracious respects to man. God the Father is the Maker and Preserver of men; God the Son is the Saviour of mankind; God the Holy Ghost styles himself the Comforter. Alas! whose image do we bear in this disposition but his whose true title is the Destroyer? It is easy to take away the life; it is not easy to give it. Give me the man that can devise how to save troops of men from killing his name shall have room in my calendar. There is more true honour in a civic garland for the preserving of one subject, than in a laurel for the victory of many enemies. O God! there are enough that bend their thoughts to undo what thou hast made; enable thou me to bestow my endeavours in reprieving or rescuing that which might otherwise perish. O thou who art our common Saviour! make thou me both ambitious and able to help to save some other besides myself.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A DORMOUse.

AT how easy a rate do these creatures live that are fed with rest!-so the bear and the hedeghog, they say, spend their whole winter in sleep, and rise up fatter than they lay down. How oft have I envied the thriving drowsiness of these beasts, when the toil of thoughts hath bereaved me of but one hour's sleep, and left me languishing to a new task! and yet, when I have well digested the comparison of both these conditions, I must needs say I had rather waste with work than batten with ease; and would rather choose a life profitably painful than uselessly dull and delicate. I cannot tell whether I should say those creatures live which do nothing, since we are wont ever to notify life by motion. Sure I am their life is not vital; for me, let me rather complain of a mind that will not let me be idle, than of a body that

will not let me work.

UPON THE SOUND OF A CRACKED Bell.

WHAT a harsh sound doth this make in every ear! The metal is good enough; it is the rift that makes it so unpleasingly jarring. How too like is this bell to a scandalous and ill

lived teacher! His calling is honourable; his noise is heard far enough; but the flaw (which is noted in his life) mars his doctrine, and offends those ears which else would take pleasure in his teaching. It is possible that such a one, even by that discordous noise, may ring in others into the triumphant church of heaven; but there is no remedy for himself but the fire, whether for his reforming or judgment.

MEMOIR OF MONTAGUE STANLEY, A.R.S.A.* MOST of our Scottish readers must have heard the name, and must be acquainted with the chief event in the history, of Montague Stanley. His conversion to Christ, and his consequent abandonment of the stage, in connection with which he was rapidly rising into eminence, were circumstances which at the time excited much interest, and became extensively known. This interest followed him in' his subsequent short career; and we remember well the deep feeling with which the intelligence of his last illness and death was received by many in Edinburgh, both among the religious and the worldly. The Memoir of his life which has recently appeared from the pen of the Rev. D. T. K. Drummond, will go far to deepen and perpetuate the interest which was thus felt in him. And it will accomplish even a more important purpose, in the presentation to the Church and the world of a singularly striking and impressive protest-embodied in living example-against the ungodliness of the stage; a protest to which it will not be easy to take exception, presented as it is by one who knew the stage well, its secrets, and management, its actual condition, its individual influence and tendencies, and who had every worldly inducement, in extensive popularity or large emolument, to continue in its connection.

We regard the

Memoir as an eminently valuable production, and readers, especially to the youthful portion of them. would earnestly recommend it to the attention of our How often does theatre-going prove to the young a curse and a snare, and "the path of the destroyer!"

The following extracts-the first containing an abridged statement of the circumstances which led him to abandon the stage, and the second giving an furnish our readers with some idea both of the character of Mr Stanley, and of the interest and value of his Memoir. We merely state, by way of preface, that he was born at Dundee, in January 1805-that he joined the theatrical profession at York, in 1824 -went subsequently to Dublin and Edinburgh—and that in 1838, when he left the stage, he was at the height of his popularity in that city.

account of his last illness and death-will suffice to

1. HIS ABANDONMENT OF THE STAGE. "The circumstances which led to this step on the part of Mr Stanley are very important, and demand particular attention. This was, indeed, the deeply

*To the Memoir is added a considerable number of original pieces-chiefly poetical-from the pen of Mr Stanley; all of which, although of course their inerits are various, evince the taste, devoutness, and deep feeling of their author.

interesting era in his life, and his principles and conduct at this time have left a testimony on record which is very momentous, and ought not to be suffered to pass into oblivion. Between the years of 1828 and 1836, a change had taken place in his mind of the most vital character, the solemn and blessed results of which are as boundless as eternity itself. In 1833 he had formed a connexion by marriage with a family of great respectability in Edinburgh. In the gracious providence of God, this alliance was made instrumental in conveying unspeakable blessings to Mr Stanley. One member of this family had proceeded to India as a medical man, and there he was led to seek after, and to find, the Lord God of his fathers. In his own land he had been rebellious, even as others; in the land of the stranger, he had the heart of a child given him, and he became a willing servant in the day of his Master's power. The love of Christ in his soul not only opened up before him new prospects, filled him with new desires, and satisfied his own soul with good things-it sent forth the energies of his new-born spirit in earnest longings, intercessions, and zeal, on behalf of his relations according to the flesh, whose captivity he now desired with intense eagerness to see turned as the rivers of the south, so that they, with him, might be glad in the Lord, and be joined with him in an everlasting covenant unto the Lord. Many were the earnest and affectionate appeals which he made to his family at home. Letter after letter arrived, breathing the ardour of a heart which had been taught to flee from the wrath to come, and whose sole objcct now was to cry aloud to those dear to him, lest they should perish in their sins, " Escape for thy life; tarry not in all the plain, but flee unto the mountain."

"As regards the effect produced upon his own relations by his faithful and affectionate testimony in favour of his gracious Master, it would appear as if, out of a large family circle, not one remained uninfluenced. The flame sped on from heart to heart. Let this be recorded to the praise of Him who giveth liberally, and as a wondrous token of the power of that Divine grace which can change the valley of death into the valley of life, and make the desert rejoice and blossom as the rose.

"For some time Mr Stanley resolutely resisted the influence that was now bearing upon him, not only from his beloved relation abroad, but also from many around him. He met it all with a spirit of firm opposition, at one time arguing against it as wrong, and at another ridiculing it as foolish. He spoke of his brother-in-law as indulging in the rhapsodies of Methodism, as being righteous overmuch, and as assuming an air of sanctity which was both unreasonable and absurd. By an attentive observer, however, it might be clearly seen, that frequently the very vehemence of his opposition indicated a secret misgiving in his own heart, that after all he might be wrong, and Dr E right. Gradually the stoutness of the natural heart gave way, and breach after breach was made in the strong defences which sin had raised around his soul. The strong man armed had kept possession of his heart for many a year, but now the stronger than he had entered in, and with His presence had brought liberty to the captive, and recovery of sight to the blind.

"Mr Stanley's first perceptions of divine truth were vague and indistinct. Like the poor man, whose history is found in the gospel narrative, who, when first the benignant Saviour touched his eyes, and asked him if he saw ought,' replied, that he saw men as trees walking: so was it with Mr Stanley; his spiritual eye was opened, and he saw as he had never seen before, but the proportions and the harmony of

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truth were not yet comprehended by him. His heart, quickened by the spirit of God, condemned him before the righteous Judge of all the earth. Immediately, then, he attempted to take the sting from these convictions, by the strictest attention to all the demands of the moral law. The works of the law became paramount; religion was not only respected, but its observances were attended to; family worship was begun in the evening, and every oath or expression of irreverence was expunged from the parts which he had to commit to memory for the stage. From tolerating he was led to hate and condemn sin.' But the same Spirit which had quickened him into a sense of the guilt of sin, left him not to the vain attempt of justifying himself before God. It was not self-righteousness, but Christ's righteousness, that would bring peace to his mind; and soon was the stricken soul led, in the deep exercise of godly sorrow and lively faith, to the cross of that Saviour who died to save, and rose to justify. The disease was felt, and the remedy was exhibited. Sin, with its deadly wound, was recognised by this poor sufferer in his inmost soul; but even as the Israelite looked to the brazen serpent in the wilderness and lived, so he looked to Him who was nailed upon the cross, and life and immortality flowed as from a fountain into his perishing soul. He had been apprehended by Christ,' and he now apprehended Christ;' and from the moment that light first dawned in his heart, it was indeed like that of the morning, for it increased 'more and more unto the perfect day.'

"The time, however, at length arrived when, in the real and desperate conflict between light and darkness in his soul, he was to find the gracious power, goodness, and love of his Master, leading him by a way which he knew not-deepening every conviction of his soul-constraining him to a faithful and decisive choice between Christ, and the world which is at enmity with Christ. As the reality of this struggle pressed upon him, it became painful indeed. He could not conceal from himself, that his position was inconsistent with the high and heavenly principles which the life-giving Spirit of God had revealed to him. His conscience told him that he could not hold them, together with those he had formerly cherished. He saw that he could not serve God and mammon. Yet what was he to do? His livelihood-the support of his family-all depended upon his professional exertions. Was he to throw away the only means apparently within his reach of providing for them? Was he prepared to step down at once with them, from a state of comfort to one of straitened means, perhaps of penury?

"It is deeply interesting to trace the working of Mr Stanley's mind at this period. His simple faith-his strong confidence-his humble hope-his singleness of purpose-the promptness in decidirg which he exhibited, are most remarkable. No sooner did his mind open to the clear and calm conviction, that his path of worldly ease and reputation was inconsistent with his views of the spirituality and holiness which God requires in his servants;-no sooner did he, by the grace of God, discover that he was not honouring God by the course he was pursuing, than 'immediately he conferred not with flesh and blood,'-he threw aside every other consideration than that of child-like submission and obedience to the Word of God, and at once resigned his situation, with all its present advantages, and all its future hopes. He proceeded without hesitation in the way of that Divine precept-Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you.' The too common method with man is to endeavour to add the kingdom of God to these things;' but he had not so learned Christ,

and so he chose the better part,' in the full assurance that it would never be taken away; and that He to whom he committed himself was a faithful God, who, inasmuch as he had not spared his own Son, but given him for his soul, would assuredly with him also freely give him all things.

"The following extracts from his journal, at the time when he had resolved on retiring from the stage, will be read with interest, and will show how happily he took up his cross to follow his Divine

II. HIS ILLNESS AND DEATH.

[After abandoning the stage, he at first devoted himself to the conducting of private classes for the support of his family. Thereafter he set himself chiefly to painting, of which he had previously known something; but his unremitting labours, persevered in against all the force of inclement seasons, soon began to tell on him, and in April 1844, he was compelled by the prevalence of easterly winds, which greatly aggravated his sufferings, to relinquish his labours and return to his home at Ascog, in the island of Bute.]

"On the 5th April, Montague returned to his home at Ascog. So sensibly had his weakness increased, that even the anticipation of rejoining his family failed to excite or elevate his spirits; and instead of the eager delight with which he was wont to hasten to receive his children's welcome, and participate in the joy of a reunion, it was with difficulty that he could ascend to the nursery to gaze upon them as they slept. He did not gain strength as he anticipated; and feeling himself inadequate to the physical and mental labour required to finish some paintings for the Dublin exhibition, resigned, though much against his will, this labour, and sought amusement and relaxation in the remodelling of his garden-the cultivation of which was always a source of enjoyment to him, and in the progressive improvement of which he now felt an additional interest.

"A few days after his return to Bute, Montague consulted Dr M'Lauchlan of Rothesay, conceiving that that gentleman's opinion would certainly coincide with his own, which was, that the debility arose entirely from the quantity of medicine which he had recently taken, and to counteract the effects of which some tonic could be administered to strengthen him. The doctor, suspecting a more deeply-rooted cause, after an examination, expressed a desire that Montague should obtain the opinion of Dr M'Farlane of Glasgow, on the state of his health.

"The following day, our dear brother was looking out with great eagerness for the return of a boat which he had sent to Loch Striven to load with palings for his garden, and when in sight, anxiously and with much pleasure watched through his telescope its sluggish progress round the point and past the jutting promontories of the coast, till its arrival in the little bay. But ah! how unconscious at the

time that some of those very palings, the possession of which created in his weak state of body an almost childlike delight, would in a few short days form a temporary enclosure for his own grave!

"On Saturday, April 20, 1844, Montague, accompanied by M and Dr M‘L- proceeded to Glasgow. He was enfeebled in body, but under no depression of spirits. His eye was attracted by every object of interest and beauty on the route, and with his usual ardour he was conceiving and forming plans for making short sojourns in the vicinity of the scenes, whose picturesque features and poetic character delighted him, for the purpose of transferring them to his canvass on the spot. In Glasgow he again underwent an examination; and while the medical gentleman retired for consultation, Montague, in saying to M, 'We are in the hands of the Lord; whichever way it ends, I can trust in him,' gave the first intimation that he regarded his case in a serious light. The doctors' opinion was of a most unfavourable nature; but unwilling prematurely to create alarm, their expression was such as to make no particular impression upon their patient, who, when alone with M, said, Ah! you see I have been using too much friction-just what Dr Abercrombie said. But you hear that it is only great tenderness of the chest, and, with care and nourishing diet, I shall soon get round again. It is a great relief to me, for I thought from Dr M'L-'s anxiety that there was inflammation;' and thus flattering himself, he again threw off all apprehension. He returned to Ascog much exhausted from fatigue, but perfectly unconscious of his precarious condition, and even expressing himself greatly annoyed at any indication of anxiety or sympathy on the part of strangers in relation to his state of health. After drinking a cup of tea, he went into his room, and sat beside the fire for a short time previous to retiring to bed-the bed from which he never rose again. Dr M'L, anxious to see his patient after the fatigue of the day, came from Rothesay, and before he departed, dear M felt impelled to ascertain the whole truth, and asked the doctor if the lungs were affected, which was at once admitted; but it was suggested that, as Montague was still ignorant of it, it was better, in the critical stage of his disease, to abstain from acquainting him with the circumstance.

upon

Tuesday, April 23.-(Micah. vii. 8; Ps. iv. 6).— Montague's rest had been less disturbed during the night, but it had not been refreshing, and the doctor found that, in place of recovering from the effects of the fatigue, his patient was rather losing strengththe pulse continuing high, with no abatement of the fever. Montague, unconscious that the command had gone forth, and that he was so soon to meet his God, occupied himself with sketching upon paper the form of paling he wished erected round his garden. Little, indeed, had the idea of danger crossed his mind. In the evening, the Rev. Mr Monteith, having learned from the doctor Montague's precarious state, called and spoke most faithfully to M the painful subject; and upon her expressing good hopes from Montague's naturally strong constitution, told her neither to deceive herself nor Montague as to the issue, or by the indulgence of a false hope, and by allowing trivial matters to engage his attention, lose the precious time which ought to be employed in fixing his thoughts upon eternity, counselling M- not to conceal her emotion upon apprizing Montague of his wish to see him. On her approaching the bed-side, the dear sufferer, perceiving her to be in tears, said, What are you so distressed at, dear? What is all this about P Macquainted him that in the doctor's opinion there was very great danger. Upon which Montague said, 'I do