“ And I, of course," said Mrs. Shenfield, “ought to have one ready for the present occasion. With many thanks therefore to you all, for your tender care, I will proceed to prepare myself. That I shall enjoy a ride, I need not say and I think we may aid the home-exigencies also, if you have no objection, by taking two of the little ones."

Away went the happy chaise party; and Fanny and Eliza, though missing their mamma's company, were happy also: the former rather too bustling and self-important; yet not to any such degree, as to ruffle Eliza's easy temper.

They had been sitting nearly two hours, when Maria made her appearance, with a very pretty shaded purse nearly completed. "Where is mamma?" she enquired.

"Gone away, in a chaise," answered Eliza, laughing.

"Where have you been, I think?" exclaimed Fanny, "not to know what has been going on in the house the whole morning."

"I have been netting in the summer-house," said Maria, coloring: “I thought as Mrs. Burton was come, there would be nothing to do. What; have you been attending to all that work! perhaps there is something still for me?"

"O no; we have just finished," replied Fanny. But Eliza, thinking her sister must feel very unhappy, added, "Here is one pair of socks not begun."

"Is there really only one pair ?” was the answer. 'Why, then, I should be hindering myself, and yet scarcely helping you. The time would just last to go to the village before dinner; and I was come to ask mamma, whether I might get my tassels and slides." "O by all means," said Fanny as Maria, with a still deeper blush, left the nursery.

Eliza was just beginning," and I dare say Maria will be delighted," when a very cross look from Fanny silenced her. "Do let her go," she said, "instead of contriving ways by which she may pretend to serve others, when she is pleasing herself. It would only be a proper pride, to refuse her help, if she offered it." Well, dear, don't be angry. Papa says, a proper pride' is a very improper term. For my part, I was only thinking of Maria's dull morning, as she could neither join the working nor the riding party."

6

The work, however, was finished, even in time to give Maria a

walk and by Jane's assistance, the old baby and the new baby, as Maria called the infant and its immediate predecessor, were added to the party.

In the evening, when all-Maria excepted—were looking as happy as the remembrance of a well-employed day could make them, Mr. Shenfield improved these little occurrences in the following manner.

"You will be pleased, dear children, to hear that Ardley's mother is much better: we rode that way and enquired. Her eldest daughter is come to nurse her; so Ardley will return tonight. We must not forget to thank God for this family-mercy. Ardley takes a deep interest in all our concerns, and we are bound in gratitude to feel the same for her. We shall learn, I trust also, to receive the comfort attending her services, as the daily gift of our heavenly Father; instead of looking upon it as a matter of With respect to yourselves, my children," he continued, "I have been gratified by seeing, how cheerfully you fell in with these providential circumstances; and fulfilled the little duties rising out of them. I shall preserve your pictures in my mind, Fanny and Eliza, sitting so diligently at work; and you, Maria, I suppose, were busy somewhere?”

course.

Maria's tears fell fast. "I would, papa, willingly have helped, had I known there was anything to do: Fanny and Eliza might have told me."

No vain excuses, Maria: above all, no blaming your more praise-worthy sisters. You knew just as much as they, only you could not deny yourself, by relinquishing your own little plans. I have long observed with pain, the entire selfishness of your character. Indeed I must not hesitate to tell you, that even your soft-sounding words, devoid of any meaning, are but the result of a selfish desire to gain affection, by that which requires no sacrifice. No one loves warm, affectionate expressions, more than I; they double the value of every kindness. But, if unaccompanied by corresponding actions, they become disgusting. In fact, if the one must be disjoined from the other, I agree with the old proverb, 'A little help is worth a great deal of pity.' But there is no need for the separation. To serve and please at the same time, makes a person lovely and beloved. While sympathy without succour is useless, and succour without sympathy is painful, the union

of the two is soothing, efficient, and valuable. Let the law of kindness therefore dwell on your lips; but let it not stop there. Let love be without dissimulation: not in word only, but in deed and in truth. Set before you the self-denying example of Him, who, though equal with God, made Himself of no reputation; took upon him the form of a servant, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross; that He might deliver sinners from perdition. Think of the mighty work which He accomplished: think of the tender, gentle spirit he manifested, and pray that the Holy Spirit may, in some measure, conform you to your Saviour's likeness. Remember His command, As I have loved you, love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye love one another."

'Let love thro' all your actions run,

And all your words be mild:
Live like the blessed virgin's Son,

That sweet and lovely Child."

"So, as you advance in life, those who need sympathy and succour, will delight to look to you. And while tenderly responding to their confidence, the love of your family, the affection of your friends, the blessing of them who were ready to perish, shall far more than repay every exertion, and every sacrifice, you may be enabled to make." S. S. S.

THE CROSS AND THE CRUCIFIX.

THE solemn notes of vespers are alternately swelling and dying away over the smooth lake, on whose margin stands a monastery, half embosomed in woods, and sheltered by a mountain range. As the traveller approaches it from the road, the last gorgeous colors of sunset are flashing upon its turrets, glancing upon the pointed crags of the hills behind, and beaming through the topmost boughs of the light trees which fringe them. The magnificence of the mountain tops is indescribable. A dark shade runs along that side of the lake which is next the rocks, but it fades by the softest gradations, until the glassy water reflects the hues of the sky and hills. The traveller almost imagines that the radiance of heaven is resting upon a terrestrial abode of saints; and his fancy creates fit occupants for a home so beauti

L

ful. The cadence of their voices employed in holy song assures him, that his idea is correct; the dwelling and the employment accord; the place is invested with a sanctity and a glory which belong not to earth.

As he winds along, the sun-light fades, and the full moon becomes brighter and brighter. The hues of the sky and lake are no longer crimson and gold; but blue, from the deepest to the softest, and silver. Splendour has given place to serenity. The vesper chaunt has ceased, and the monks have retired to their solitary devotions. Surely they are blessed!

Ah! traveller, had you been within the richly adorned chapel, instead of gazing on the outside of the monastery; had the reality instead of the romance been before you, your feelings would have been widely different. The voices of the monks made sweet melody amidst the sun-beams and the moon-light, the mountains and the waters; but where was the melody of the heart? The careless stare, the rubicund visage, the haughty eye, and numerous other indications, betrayed the utter want of devotion. The vespers were an empty form. One or two proud pharisees there were who felt that they were doing God service by their worship, and whose self-righteousness was inflated, as they reflected upon the regularity of their prayers and praises; but the majority assembled just because it was the order of the house to do so.

But there is one pale emaciated creature, who needs to be supported from the chapel to his cell, he has surely been earnest and humble in his devotions; let us follow him. The cell is small and dark, and damp, and cold-a place of his own choosing. A lamp is lighted, over a small table, upon which lie a crucifix and a prayer book. In one corner stands a coffin half filled with ashes-this is his bed; near it lies a knotted scourge, an instrument of self-inflicted torture. A skull grins horribly upon the wall, and cross bones are beneath it. The door is locked; and he seats himself upon the ground, a more melancholy object than a criminal in a condemned cell. But the external horrors are nothing when compared with those within the breast of the unhappy man. He knows himself to be a sinner; he knows that God must punish sin; he is in dread of eternal torment. Ignorant of the infinite evil of sin, he hopes by voluntary tortures

now, to escape the pains of hell hereafter, or rather to obtain a speedy deliverance from purgatory. The hair-cloth shirt is thrown back from his shoulders, already lacerated by the scourge, which is applied afresh, until, half fainting, he desists, and presses a crucifix to his bosom. It has sharp edges, and numerous are the wounds which it has inflicted upon his breast. Alas! poor monk. What! are these pains to atone for sin-that abominable thing which the Lord hateth? Their everlasting infliction would not be sufficient!

But now he prays; he kneels, at least, before the crucifix; surely he will now find peace! With passionate gestures he clasps and kisses the holy rood; bedews it with tears, and implores the figure extended upon it to wash away his sin. Can a sinner perish clasping the cross?

There is no relief to his burdened heart; and why? It is an idol that he clasps. That ebony figure cannot save him. It inspires him with no idea of the atonement, with no faith in the Crucified. Just as useless are his prayers to it, as are the prayers of the Hindoo to Brahma, or of the African to his fetish; and, when exhausted by his fruitless toils, the miserable monk lays himself down among the ashes, his conscience is not pacified, his soul is not at rest; his dreams are of fiends and horrid figures, and there is no hand to drive them away. This is the sorrow which worketh death; he has never experienced repentance unto life.

In the library of the monastery stands a book which could show him the real road to happiness; but he looks not on its blessed pages. The Bible is there, but it is unread; illuminated, enclosed in costly binding, clasped with silver, and unopened, remains the directory to eternal life, while generation after generation of its proprietors sink into everlasting death!

But it may, perhaps, be asked, "Is it just in God to abandon to despair a creature convinced of sin, and desirous of obtaining pardon?" Yes, it is just in God to punish sin: the holiness of his nature requires it; and it is a wonderful thing that he saves any. He who is saved, is saved by free grace; he who perishes, richly deserves it. The fallen angels have perished, and justly so; equally just is it that every sinful man who will not come to Christ should perish too. There is no merit in terrors and