ON WHAT ARE YOU

DEPENDING?

STRANGE as it may appear, it is a truth, that Christians are often helped by their hinderances, and made rich by their losses; and I may add also, that by their falls they learn to stand on their feet the more steadily.

An hour ago, I walked abroad with a youthful companion; the sun had some time set, and the landscape, as the poet says, had “faded,” and a "solemn stillness" pervaded the air. Some will have it, that youth and age are not fit associates; but often do I find just the reverse of this to be the truth. Well, we seated ourselves on a rail overhanging a dry ditch of some depth. "Have a care,” said I; "for you know age is cautious and oftentimes mistrustful. Have a care," said I; "for the rail on which we are seated is but a crazy one."

"Crazy!" cried out young confidence, "Crazy! why, it is as firm as a rock!" "Ay," thought I,

84 ON WHAT ARE YOU DEPENDING?

"the rocks on which some people depend are as uncertain as the shifting sand." In five or ten minutes after, (for, notwithstanding my sage reflection, I had kept my seat,) the rail gave way under us with a crash, and we both fell backwards at full length into the ditch. My companion fell lightly, and was not injured; but, as for me, I did not escape without bruises: nevertheless, after slowly gathering myself up again, I walked away much benefited by my mishap; for it suggested to my mind this very profitable inquiry, "On what are you depending?"

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Now, there are many, who, though too worldlywise to trust the weight of their bodies on a crazy rail, are thoughtless and reckless enough to trust the welfare of their souls on a foundation equally precarious. On what, then, are you depending?

It is quite bad enough when our earthly hopes break down with us; but it is a thousand times worse when the same thing happens to our heavenly expectations. If you are content with the beggarly elements of time, your foundation does not so much matter; but, if you have set your heart on the glorious things of eternity, bear in mind that "other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ," 1 Cor. iii. 11.

THE BARRACK YARD,

As I passed by the barrack yard the other day, I heard a firing and thundering; so I stepped in to see what it was all about. The horses were drawn up in two files on each side the yard, and the soldiers were firing before their faces. This was to accustom them to the flash and the report of the musketry, that they might be steady in the battle-field. There was a great deal of snorting, and prancing, and trampling among some of them, as they tossed up their noses, and flung about their long manes in the air. But others, who were more experienced, stood it out bravely, only showing their mettle by their glaring eye-balls.

Before God's children are accustomed to trouble, before they are disciplined in the school of trial, they are apt to start aside on trivial occasions. When a blast of affliction blows up from the north, when dark clouds of adversity gather together in the west, when there is a whirlwind of perplexities in the south, and a sharp storm of tribulation comes down from the east, they are almost driven

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THE BARRACK YARD.

to their wit's end, little thinking that their heavenly Father is thus fitting them to bear the heat and burden of the day, that they may fight the good fight of faith, and lay hold on eternal life. Poor Job, when his troubles first came upon him, rent his mantle and shaved his head: he grieved in silence for seven days and seven nights, and then opened his mouth, and cursed his day. But how was it with him at the last? Why, he stood steady in the midst of his afflictions, as brave as a lion, and as meek as a lamb. 66 'Though he slay me,"

yet will I trust in him," Job xiii. 15.

THE PORTRAITS.

DID you ever hear the story of the two portraits? Come! I will tell it to you; for it is a striking one.

A painter who wanted a picture of innocence, drew the likeness of a child at prayer. The little suppliant was kneeling by the side of his mother, who regarded him with tenderness. The palms of his lifted hands were reverently pressed together; his rosy cheek spoke of health, and his mild blue eye was upturned with an expression of devotion and peace. This portrait of young Rupert was highly prized by the painter; for he had bestowed on it great pains: he hung it up in his study, and called it Innocence.

Years rolled along, and the painter became an aged man; but the picture of Innocence still adorned his study walls. Often had he thought of painting a contrast to his favourite portrait; but opportunity had not served. He had sought for a striking model of guilt, but had failed to find