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DESIRING TO LOVE.

rock, among some dried heather and fern. And now she resolves, at all hazards, to brave the storm, and return home, in order to get assistance for her babe, or to perish in the attempt! Clasping her infant to her heart, and covering his face with tears and kisses, she laid him softly down in sleep, and rushed into the snowy drift.

That night of storm was succeeded by a peaceful morning. The sun shone from a clear blue sky, and wreaths of mist hung along the mountain-tops, while a thousand waterfalls poured down their sides. Dark figures, made visible at a distance on the white ground, might be seen with long poles, examining every hollow near the mountain path. They are people from the village, who are searching for the widow and her son. They have reached the pass. A cry is heard by one of the shepherds, as he sees a bit of a tartan cloak among the snow. They have found the widow-dead; her arms stretched forth as if imploring for assistance! Before noon, they discovered her child by his cries. He was safe in the crevice of the rock. The story of that woman's affection for her child was soon read in language which all understood. Her almost naked body revealed her love.

Many a tear was shed, many an exclamation expressive of admiration and affection were uttered, from enthusiastic sorrowing Highland hearts, when on that evening the aged pastor gathered the villagers in the deserted house of mourning, and, by prayer and fatherly exhortation, sought to improve for their soul's good an event so sorrowful.

More than half a century passed away! That aged and faithful pastor was long dead, though his memory still lingers in many a retired glen among the children's children of parents whom he baptized. His son, whose locks were white with age, was preaching to a congregation of Highlanders in one of our great cities. It was on a communion Sabbath. The subject of his discourse was the love of Christ. In illustrating the self-sacrificing nature of that "love which seeketh not her own," he narrated the above story of the Highland widow, whom he had himself known in his boyhood. And he asked, "If that child is now alive, what would you think of his heart if he did not cherish an affection for his mother's memory, and if the sight of her poor tattered cloak, which she had wrapt round him, in order to save his life at the cost of her own, did not fill him with gratitude and love too deep for words? Yet what hearts have you, my hearers, if, over those memorials of your Saviour's sacrifice of himself, you do not feel them glow with deeper love, and with adoring gratitude ?" A few days after this a message was sent by a dying man requesting to see this clergyman. The request was speedily complied with. The sick man seized the minister by the hand, and, gazing intently in his face, said, "You do not, you cannot recognise me. But I know you, and knew your father before you. I have been a wanderer in many lands. I have visited every quarter of the globe, and fought and bled for my king and country. I came to this town a few weeks ago in bad health. Last Sabbath I entered your church-the church of

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my countrymen-where I could once more hear, in the language of my youth and of my heart, the gospel preached. I heard you tell the story of the widow and her son "—here the voice of the old soldier faltered, his emotion almost choked his utterance; but, recovering himself for a moment, he cried, “I am that son!" and burst into a flood of tears. "Yes," he continued, "I am that son! Never, never, did I forget my mother's love. Well might you ask what a heart should mine have been if she had been forgotten by me! Though I never saw her, dear to me is her memory, and my only desire now is, to lay my bones beside hers in the old churchyard among the hills. But, sir, what breaks my heart, and covers me with shame, is this-until now I never saw, with the eyes of the soul, the love of my Saviour in giving himself for me-a poor, lost, hell-deserving sinner. I confess it! I confess it!" he cried, looking up to heaven, his eyes streaming with tears; and, pressing the minister's hand close to his breast, he added, "It was God made you tell that story.. Praise be to his holy naine, that my dear mother has not died in vain, and that the prayers which, I was told, she used to offer for me, have been at last answered; for the love of my mother has been blessed by the Holy Spirit for making me see, as I never saw before, the love of the Saviour. I see it, I believe it; I have found deliverance in old age where I found it in my childhoodin the clift of the rock; but it is the Rock of Ages!" and, clasping his hands, he repeated, with intense fervour, "Can a mother forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? They may forget, yet will I not forget thee!"-Edinburgh Christian Magazine.

DESIRING TO LOVE.

O LOVE Divine, how sweet thou art!
When shall I find my willing heart
All taken up by thee?

I thirst, I faint, I die to prove
The greatness of redeeming love,
The love of Christ to me.

Stronger his love than death or hell, Its riches are unsearchable;

The first-born sons of light Desire in vain its depths to see; They cannot reach the mystery,

The length, the breadth, and height.

God only knows the love of God;
O that it now were shed abroad
In this poor stony heart!
For love I sigh, for love I pine,
This only portion, Lord, be mine!
Be mine this better part!

O that I could for ever sit
With Mary at the Master's feet!
Be this my happy choice!
My only care, delight, and bliss,
My joy, my heaven on earth, be this,
To hear the Bridegroom's voice!

O that, with humble Peter, I
Could weep, believe, and thrice reply,
My faithfulness to prove!
Thou know'st-for all to thee is known-
Thou know'st, O Lord, and thou alone,
Thou know'st that thee I love.

O that I could, with favour'd John, Recline my weary head upon

The dear Redeemer's breast! From care, and sin, and sorrow free, Give me, O Lord, to find in thee My everlasting rest!

Thy only love do I require,
Nothing in earth beneath desire,

Nothing in heaven above:

Let earth, and heaven, and all things go, Give me thy only love to know,

Give me thy only love.

-Charles Wesley.

THE RED SEA PASSAGE.

BY J. T. HEADLEY.

THE last fearful night had come-the night of alarm, dread visitation, and death. The succession of terrible judgments sent on the haughty monarch of Egypt had failed to subdue his imperious nature.

The rivers, streams, and rills of Egypt had been turned into blood, bearing on their crimson bosom masses of dead and dying fish. Insects and vermin had swarmed into every chamber and closet, dying where they had gathered, till an intolerable stench arose from the fetid heaps. Disease had seized on the cattle, sweeping them away by tens of thousands, a grievous plague smitten the people, and the voice of lamentation filled the air. A storm of thunder, hail and fire, commingled, had burst on the land, the flames breaking in angry billows along the streets, and consuming every green thing in their devastating flow. A cloud of locusts, darkening the heavens in their endless flight, followed, devouring every tender blade that had shot forth since the passage of the storm, till a vast desert spread away where smiling fields had been. Darkness such as could be felt for three days covered the earth, and the decimated, diseased, and starving population trembled in affright, thinking that the last hour of time was about to strike. Amid all this desolation and death, this wreck of his empire, amid the prayers and maledictions of his suffering and distracted subjects, the iron-hearted monarch stood firm to his purpose. The captives that lay bound to his throne should not go forth free. Sternly defying God, he bore up under these accumulated woes with a resolution and will that astonish us. But now, he was to be struck nearer home, the iron was to enter his own soul, and wring from thence the bitter cry of anguish and entreaty. The firstborn in every house, from the first-born of the beggar to the heir-apparent to the throne, was to be smitten. Death in his grimmest form was to darken the door of every dwelling of Egypt; and the night of his dread visitation had now come. In the solemn hour of midnight, the angel of doom was to tread the

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quiet hamlet and the thronged city, and his icy hand be laid on one beating heart in every family, and its marble pressure force a death-shriek that should startle every sleeper there; and lo! twelve o'clock was striking. Three bright blood spots on the two door-posts and the lintel of each door of the Israelites, showed that within dwelt a Hebrew, and said to the passing angel, “ Enter not here." Humble tenements they all were, on which these crimson stains were placed, but they contained dwellers nobler and more sacred than the royal palace. It was midnight, and, as the last hour struck, a deep silence rested on the vast city. The tumult of the day and evening was over-the crowd had forsaken the streets, across which dim lights were swinging, and nought broke the solitude save the measured tread of the sentinel walking his nightly rounds, or the rumbling of a chariot as some late reveller returned to his home, Here and there a light was seen in a solitary sick chamber, giving to the gloom a sadder aspect, and out from a narrow alley would now and then burst the sounds of folly and dissipation. All else was still, for the mighty population slumbered as the sea sometimes sleeps in its strength. But suddenly, just as the "ALL'S WELL" of the drowsy sentinel echoed along the empty street, piercing shrieks rent the silence; and passing rapid as lightning from house to house, and blending in with each other, rung out on the night air with strange and thrilling distinctness. And then came a wail, following heavily after, and rolling up around the palace, surged back over the trembling city. Unseen by mortal eye, the angel of death was treading with noiseless step the silent avenues and lanes, putting out one light in each household, and dismissing one spirit thence to its long home. In a moment the city was in an uproar; lights danced to and fro; the rapid tread of urgent messengers made the streets echo; the rattling of wheels was heard on every side; but still the wail of desolated houses rose over all like the steady roar of the surge above the crash of the wreck.

In the midst of this scene of excitement and terror the children of Israel took their flight. Nearly a million of them, their muffled tread shaking the carth, streamed through the darkness and emerged into the open country. And when the morning dawned in the east, there lay the city before them, its towers and domes flashing back the beams of the rising sun in redoubled splendour. But what a change had passed over it since that sun last looked upon its magnificence! Sobs and cries arose from every door, for the dead lay in every dwelling.

In solid ranks the hundreds of thousands of Israel took up their line of march, and night found their tents spread on the edge of the wilderness. Far as the eye could reach, they dotted the open country around, and fringed like a ridge of foam the dark forest beyond. And when night fell on the scene, suddenly a solitary column of fire shot into the heavens, lighting up with strange brilliancy the forest and the encampment. There it stood, lofty as a tower that beetles over the sea, and inherent with light from base to summit. The white tents grew ruddy in its blaze, and the upturned countenances of

THE RED SEA PASSAGE.

the innumerable host that gazed awe struck on its splendour, shone as if they were standing under a burning palace. All night long it blazed there in their midst and above them, illuming the desert, and shedding unearthly glory on hill, valley, and forest.

And when the morning came, it turned into a column of snowy whiteness, revolving within itself like a cloud, yet distinct and firm as marble. No voice shook its thick foldings, yet it had a language more potent than that of Moses, and its silent command of "FORWARD " caused every tent to be struck, and set the vast host in motion. Over the wide plain it moved in advance of the army, and through the deep gorges it rose far above the mountains, the strangest leader that a host ever followed. When the sun struck it, its long shadow fell across the massive columns in one unbroken beam, filling every heart with fear and dread. At night it stopped and stood still, like a single marble shaft, till darkness came down, and then it became again a shaft of fire. Thus, day after day, they continued their march, plunging deeper and deeper in the wilderness, until at length word was brought that the enraged Pharaoh, with his entire army-chosen chariots and all-was in full pursuit. Consternation then filled every heart, and each eye turned anxiously to that mysterious pillar. But no change passed over its silent form-steady and calm as ever, it moved majestically forward, heedless of the thunder and tumult that were gathering in the rear. Perchance at night it did not stop as before, but moved on in the darkness, blazing along the desert, lighting it up with more than noontide splendour. On, on swept the weary host, while every moment nearer and louder roared the storm on its track. Still hoping, yet fearing and trembling, they followed that calmly moving column, until at last it stopped on the shore of the sea. As they pressed up, despair seized every heart, for far away nought but a wide waste of water met their gaze, while the unchecked billows broke heavily along its bosom, and behind, rushing on, came the tens of thousands of their foes, panting for the slaughter. That fearful pillar of cloud and fire, then, was only sent to delude them to their ruin. O what lamentations, and prayers, and murmurings, went up from the despairing host! They were on the desolate shore, against which the restless sea beat with a monotonous roar, while from the solitude arose the deafening roll of countless chariot-wheels rushing to the shock. All that night the only obstacle between them and their enemies was that pillar of fire; yet, slight as it seemed, it was more impregnable than a wall of adamant. Still it was a wild and fearful night—the morning must bring the onset and the slaughter; while, as if to heighten the terrors of the scene, a terrific wind arose, driving the sea into billows that fell in thunder on the shore, and sounding as if God also was about to fight against them.

Thus passed this night of anguish and dread to the Israelites; but when the morning dawned, lo! there opened the sea, like a mountain gorge, the green and precipitous sides standing in massive walls on either hand. "Forward," spake the cloud, and the stern command rolled in startling accents along the

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mighty column, and it descended slowly into the fearful depths. Like an army of insects they moved below, while the billows that broke along the surface of the deep, crested over the edge of the watery cliffs above them, as if looking down on the strange spectacle, and the spray that fell on their heads was the "baptism of the sea." The pursuers plunged into the same watery gorge; and as their rapid chariots drew near the fugitive host, it seemed for a while that the sea had been opened on purpose to entrap them, and make them full easier victims to their foes. But at this critical moment, that strange cloud rose up, and, moving back over the long line, planted itself in front of the Egyptian host. Its solemn aspect and mysterious form troubled the monarch and his followers; the wheels rolled from the axletrees of the chariots, the solid ranks became disordered and broken, and terror and tumult took the place of confidence and strength.

At length, the fugitives, with their bleating flocks and lowing herds, ascended the opposite shore, and when the last one stepped upon the beach, that dripping cloud also moved after them, and then, like a clap of thunder, the sea smote together, and the wave rolled smoothly on as before. Swift-circling eddies and whirlpools, and huge bubbles of air bursting on the surface, alone told where the mighty host was buried, and where and how they struggled in the depths. At length the wreck began to heave upward; and O what an overthrow it revealed!chariots and horses, and spears and shields, and myriads of corpses, darkened the sea as far as the eye could reach.

But what a spectacle that shore presented! the beach, the rocks, the hills were all black with the living masses, as they stood trembling and awestruck, and looked back on the deep. For a long time not a sound broke the death-like silence that reigned throughout the vast throng. Each heart was full of dread and awe, as the heavy swells fell at their feet, casting on the beach, with every dash, broken chariots, whole ranks of men, now pale in death, and horses and weapons of war. There, too, stood the cloud, and looked on the scene, while on its white and lofty form the eyes of the multitude ever and anon turned reverently from the piles of the dead below. But at last joy and gratitude, and triumph at their great deliverance, gave way to the terror that had oppressed them; and suddenly there arose a shout louder than the thunder of the sea:

Sing unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea. The Lord is my strength and song, and he is become my salvation. Who is like unto thee, O Lord! among the gods? Who is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?" From rank to rank-from ten times ten thousand lips rolled on the mighty anthem, till the shore shook with the glorious melody, and the heavens were filled with the strain. And Miriam, with her prophetic face and eye of fire, separated herself from the multitude, followed by a throng of dark-haired maidens, on whose cheeks the glow of joy had usurped the pallor of fear; and as they moved in shining groups

and graceful dances, their silvery voices rung out, over the clash of timbrels and roar of the waves, in triumphant bursts of music; and "Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously: the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea," arose and fell like melody along the rivers of Paradise. Fearful had been the pursuit, and great was the deliverance!

THE USES OF TEMPTATION.

"My brethren," says St James, "count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations." A singular congratulation truly ! It would have come like vinegar upon nitre to poor Christian and Hopeful, that terrible night of their distress amidst storm and darkness. And yet, it had been all joy if they had passed that stile of temptation without going over it, according to their "brave" conversation about Lot's wife. James does not say, Count it all joy when ye enter into temptation. Entering into temptations is a very different thing from falling into them by the providence of God for faith's trial. "Blessed is the man that endureth temptation," says James, and the endurance is supposed in the first text, where we are to count the meeting of temptations all joy. Be it, that in that case the temptations mainly mean trials,

and not allurements to sin; yet even temptations to wander from God are blessings, if resisted, for they issue in greater grace and firmness. But the enter ing into temptation is a very different thing, as different as Christian's going to the stile and getting over was different from Demas' calling to him out of the way, and being refused.

The endurance of temptation is good for two things for the discovery of the wickedness there is in ourselves, and the grace there is in our Saviour. We do not know how to value Christ aright, till we find how sinful we are ourselves; and we do not learn to rest upon Christ's strength, till we find we have none of our own but weakness. If we did not see and feel our own sinfulness and wretchedness, we should not feel his preciousness at all; and so, if God kept us from all circumstances and conjunctions which would bring out our sins, and disclose the hidden evils of our hearts, we might go on with a fair form of piety, and, without falling into any particular snares, be all the while going further and further from Christ, and becoming more and more ignorant both of him and of ourselves.

"Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation." "Lead us not into temptation." The prayer is not, Let us not be tempted, suffer us not to endure temptations; but, Let us not enter into temptation. There is something very emphatic in those words enter into. A man may be exposed to temptation, and by the grace of God come off victorious, and be the stronger for the temptation if he resists it promptly, if he flies trembling to Christ. But if he dallies with it, if he dwells upon its circumstances, if he is not watching and praying, if he undertakes to see how far he may go in it without falling, if he but half rejects it, and half entertains it, then he is entering into temptation, then he is in fearful danger. He is entering into it as in a cloud, surrounded by which he ceases to behold eternal realities, or sees them so dimly as not to feel their force. And the deeper he enters into it, the farther he is from God. It is a stupifying as well as a darkening cloud, an atmosphere that paralyses the spiritual energies. Let a man once enter into temptation, and Satan has great power over him. Let a man play the part of Parley the Porter, and the fees of his soul are soon within the citadel. It is a Latin maxim of great

wisdom in regard to evil habits, Obsta principiis— resist the beginnings; and this is of infinite importance in regard to temptation. Resist it wholly at once, take not a step upon its borders, enter not into it at all, but turn from it with supreme decision. Go not up to the stile to look over, and see how inviting the enclosure; for when you do this you are entering into temptation, your next step will probably be over the stile, and there, while you think you are keeping in sight of the king's highway, and can return to it in a moment, you may wander from it fatally, and, almost before you are aware, find yourself fast locked in Giant Despair's castle. The temptation to neglect prayer is one of those temptations in the Christian life, which, if a man gives way to it, So our opens the door to all other temptations. blessed Lord says, "Watch and pray," and "Watch unto prayer," for while that is done, the door of other temptations is shut-the soul neither enters into them, nor they into the soul. But if prayer be neglected, the soul is in an exposed condition, ready to be overcome even by slight temptations.

In that very beautiful and instructive allegory by Hannah More, entitled Parley the Porter, there is mention made of a pleasant garden surrounding the castle, which had been committed by the lord to his servants to keep, and a thick hedge separating by robbers. The master of the castle charged his this garden from the wilderness, which was infested limits; and he told them that they would consult servants in his absence always to keep within these their own safety and happiness, as well as show their love to him, by not even venturing over to the extremity of their bounds; "for that he who goes as far as he dares, always shows a wish to go further than he ought, and commonly does so." So it was found that the nearer these servants kept to the castle, and the farther from the hedge, the more ugly the wilderness appeared. But the nearer they approached the forbidden bounds, their own home appeared more dull, and the wilderness more delightful. And this the master knew when he gave his orders, for he never did or said any thing without a good reason. desired an explanation of the reason, he used to tell them, they would understand it when they came to the other house; for it was one of the pleasures of that house, that it would explain all the mysteries of this, and any little obscurities in the master's conduct would then be made quite plain.

And when his servants sometimes

Thus it is, that the nearer we keep to God, and the is the life of holiness and the more hateful does sin farther from sin and temptation, the more delightful appear. But when we venture near the hedge, and endeavour at first to peep over it, and then begin to open it, taking off at first a handful of leaves, then a little sprig, then a bough or two, we are entering into temptation, and holiness seems difficult, and sin more and more tempting. Every glance that is taken through the broken hedge makes the thoughts of the master's castle more irksome, and increases the desire to get out into the wilderness. The only way to deal safely with temptations is not to enter into them, but to keep them as much as possible at a distance, and Temptations to sin are very different from trials and to keep as far as possible even from the hedge. afflictions for the removal of sin. We ought not to be too much afraid of these last; but we cannot well be too much afraid of the first.-Cheever.

FOR MOTHERS.

THE influence which mothers exert over their children is mainly through the affections; but as sons advance in years, they become very keen-sighted. A

PRIDE OF MAN'S HEART.

mother must maintain her ground by being sensible and self-governed-and, more than all, by keeping before him constantly a high standard of Christian character, and acting up to it as nearly as possible. A strong-minded, consistent Christian woman, who knows and feels the dignity and authority which are attached to her position, will maintain her supremacy. Thousands have done so. Look at their testimony in the lives of great and learned men.

Of his mother, the late Bishop Griswold, wrote: My case so far resembled Timothy, that my mother's name was Eunico, and my grandmother's Lois, and that from both of them I received much early instruction. By their teaching, from a child I have known the holy Scriptures, which were able to make me wise unto salvation. To the care of my mother especially, instilling into my mind sentiments of piety, with the knowledge of Christ, and the duty of prayer, I was much indebted."

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quered. God had tried his child, and found that, like Abraham, she would not withhold even her beloved son.

In two days a letter came from this wayward boy. The father opened it, and burst into tears. The mother seized it, but her tears would not let her see. The son-in-law was compelled to read it, and strange to say, on the very night of that mother's wild agony, and in the very hour when her faith triumphed over maternal anxiety, the light and forgiveness of Heaven visited him.-Mother's Magazine.

MR ABBOT relates, in his "Mother at Home," that a gentleman in one of the most populous cities of America was once going to attend a seaman's meeting in the Mariner's Chapel. Directly opposite that place there was a sailors' boarding-house. In the doorway sat a hardy, weather-beaten sailor, with arms folded and puffing a cigar, watching the people as they gradually assembled for worship. The gentleman walked up to him, and said, "Well, my friend, won't you go with us to meeting?" "No," said the

The Rev. Dr Stone, the biographer of the Bishop, remarks: "A noble record this, to be added to the many which have already been made, of the value of a mother's early influence over the religious charac-sailor bluntly. The gentleman, who from the appearter of her children."

A Sox who had been wept and prayed over from his earliest years, till he had passed from his father's house to the great world of strife, became at length dissipated and sceptical. Resisting the influences of a revival in the town where he lived, he rapidly grew worse and more desperate. At length his mother received word that her profane and wayward son, for whom she had never ceased fasting and praying, exhibited some signs of feeling. This letter was received in the morning, and that day became one of fasting and prayer. As the shades of evening deepened, her face assumed the expression of one labouring under great mental agony, and she was seen often to retire to her room and remain a long time absent. There was a solemnity and mystery about her that kept us silent and thoughtful. As the evening wore on, the intense mental anxiety and agony depicted on her countenance were painful to contemplate. It was a mental wrestling with the angel of the covenant, that threatened to shake her tender frame to pieces. It was evident her suffering was fast reaching its highest point.

She retired again about nine o'clock, and was gone longer than usual. When she again entered the room, what a change had passed over her! The painful and contracted brow was tranquil as a summer evening-the strained eye, mild and peaceful, seemed gazing on some sweet vision, while perfect peace reposed on every feature. As she sat down, she remarked, "I don't know what to think; my anxiety for I is all gone. I am almost afraid of my indifference. My son is either saved or lost. But one thing I know: if a child can be carried in perfect confidence and laid at the feet of the Redeemer, to be taken back no more for ever, come what may, I have done it. On his faithful covenant to me I have trusted my first-born son-I can do no more!" It was a thrilling spectacle, to see human love struggling with religious faith-but faith con

ance of the man was prepared for a repulse, mildly replied, "You look, my friend, as though you had seen hard days: have you a mother?" The sailor raised his head, looked earnestly in the gentleman's face, and made no reply.

The gentleman, however, continued: "Suppose your mother were here now, what advice would she give you ?" The tears rushed into the eyes of the poor sailor; he tried for a moment to conceal them, but could not; and hastily brushing them away with the back of his rough hand, rose and said, with a voice almost inarticulate through emotion, "I'll go to the meeting." He crossed the street, entered the door of the chapel, and took his seat with the assembled congregation.

WHEN residing among the Choctaw Indians, I held a conversation with one of their principal chiefs respecting the successive stages of their progress in the arts and virtues of civilized life; and, among other things, he informed me that at their first start they fell into a great mistake-they sent only their boys to school. They became intelligent men, but they married uneducated and uncivilized wives; and the uniform result was, that the children were all like the mother; and soon the father lost his interest in both wife and children. "And now," said he, "if we could educate only one class of our children, we would choose the girls, for when they become! mothers they would educate their sons." This is to the point, and it is true. No nation can become fully and permanently civilized and enlightened where the mothers are not, to a good degree, qualified to discharge the duties of the "home work of education."-Rev. S. Dyer.

PRIDE OF MAN'S HEART.

THE heart of man is strangely proud. If men commend us, we think we have reason to distinguish ourselves from others, since the voice of discerning men

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