Sinai, where Moses took up his abode when he fled from the land of Egypt. Sinai was but a higher point in the ridge of Horeb; and though it overshadowed the whole range in sublime and solemn majesty, its grandeur and its glory are inseparable from the whole material pile. Bleak and barren as is the scenery in the midst of which it stands, and naked and desolate as it is in itself, Horeb has been consecrated, not once, but thrice. If it be true that "the land of storm and mountain has the noblest sons," then let us not forget that it was under the shade and the shadow of Horeb that Moses received those lessons which went to complete his manhood and to perfect his character, and that it was in the depth of the retirement which he there enjoyed that he formed those high resolves which, in their fulfilment, stamp him as one of the first and greatest of men.

Moses was now forty years of age, and forty more he passed in this his new and adopted country. At the close of this second period, he was favoured with one of the most unique manifestations of the Divine glory, the scene of which is laid at the foot of the Mount Horeb. According to the inspired narrative," the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of the bush." In rapt astonishment, he stood and looked upon this wonderful phenomenon. He saw "that the bush burned, yet the bush was not consumed." His feelings became most intense, and his awe most profound. He turned aside to see this great sight. Slow was his step and light was his footfall as he neared the lambent flame. Again he stood in mute amazement, and still gazing on the mysterious symbol of a present Divinity, with heightened emotion, he exclaimed-" WHY! THE BUSH IS NOT BURNED!" Immediately a voice spoke to him from the centre of the burning glory. It was the voice of God, and from His mouth Moses received his great commission as the deliverer and the future head of the Hebrew nation. The noble-hearted man at first shrunk from the responsibility of such a position; and it was not till he had received repeated assurances of the Divine presence and of Supernatural power, that he could be brought to fall in with the grand arrangements of Heaven. He withdrew from the scene of holy manifestation, and prepared to go back to the land of Egypt. Having spent the first forty years of his life amid the elegancies and the refinements of a court, he well knew how to demean himself in the royal presence. He began his mission by requesting the Egyptian monarch to grant the liberty of his oppressed brethern. The ear of the sovereign was closed to his entreaty. He next sought to impress and subdue him by the achievements of miraculous power. This also failed. And it was not till the angel of Death had spread his heavy pall over the land, and converted every dwelling into a house of mourning, that the suffering Hebrews had it'in their power to make their escape. The past conduct of Moses had inspired them with confidence in his character; and under his leadership

they went forth, cheered and animated with the seen symbols of God's protecting care and love. As they approached the Red Sea, its waters divided to make "a way for the redeemed of the Lord." Having reached the farther bank in safety, and after having seen their enemies "sink as lead in the mighty waters," they entered on their journey in the wilderness, in which new scenes of wonder burst upon their view. Miracles of might and of mercy were multiplied in their favour. God opened a special correspondence between Himself and them, and never did He withdraw from them the tokens of His presence and His power, till He had brought them through every variety of scene and circumstance into the land which He had promised to their fathers for an everlasting possession.

Great deeds do not depend on birth, nor family, nor rank, nor any earthly distinction. The poor man, and unlettered, may, through the power of God, achieve that which will throw the victories of heroes into infinite distance, and for ever swell the tide of heaven's joy. A single act, like that of Moses or of Luther, may impress itself on all time, all nations, all history, and give a freshness to the worship of immortality. Deeds are great in proportion to their moral effects. He that saveth a soul from death does more for humanity and for the world than he that taketh a city or subdueth a kingdom. The grandest military victory sinks down to a very little thing when contrasted with the salvation of even one soul. This is an effect whose grandeur and whose glory no words can ever embody; it adds to the joy of heaven; it heightens the satisfaction of the Saviour. This is only one single result, but when all the results connected with redeemed existence are brought into view, and are seen in their relation, unity and grandeur, the bliss will "exceed all sweetness of delight," and the praise will rise and swell into one unbroken

everlasting harmony.

There are burning bushes now. Not that we are to look for any outward material manifestation of God; but the light and the glory of the unseen world may so flow into our souls, that we may invest everything around us with the sunshine which exists within. Our hearts may be so filled with Divine love, and the light of heaven may so circulate around us, as that every individual object shall reflect the glory of God. We need no new objective revelation, but we need the subjective purity to receive and to reflect the light which is ever streaming from above. Were we but sanctified in the whole of our nature, did we but give ourselves up unreservedly to the Divine service, could we but lose ourselves, in all our conscious littleness and insufficiency, in the life and the fulness of God, everywhere we should see the glory and hear the voice of the Holy One. Nor are we qualified for any greater undertaking till we have learned the lesson of simple and implicit dependence. We must rise out of ourselves into the all-sufficiency of God. Then there is nothing which we may not attempt, and there is nothing which we may not do.-Extracted from the Volume entitled "Consecrated Heights," by the Rev. Robert Ferguson, LL.D.

A Tale for the Young Folks:

FOUNDED ON FACTS.

EARLSTON TOWER:-CHAPTER I.

O, that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains!

66

-CASSIO.

I SEE it still, a grey old ruin overgrown with ivy, which, by its mighty stems, supports now the walls to which it once clung in weakness. The tower is round and of no great height, but evidently very old. Its common history is that which is told of nearly all English ruins, "built by some ancient king, knocked down by Oliver Cromwell." As to its design and use, it has proved a perfect puzzle to antiquaries, who have gathered about it in flocks, and chattered concerning it as much and as wisely as their fellow antiquaries—the sparrows-who make their nests in it. Some suggest that it was anciently the entrance to the Earl's Park, which is not far off; others, having dug up an ebony crucifix, contend that it was the abode of a solitary monk in the dark ages; whilst one Radical roused popular indignation to a boiling heat by hinting that it was probably an old windmill. Im-poss-ible!" said the squire, "it has been haunted for the last hundred years. A windmill! pre-pos-ter-ous." Whatever it had been in the past, it is sufficient for us to know that, standing on a hill-side, it looked down upon the village of Earlston, which nestled in the pleasant valley below, the chief houses gathering about the turnpike-road. On the opposite hill stood the church, a red sandstone building with a square tower, plain, almost ugly, but, being chiefly concealed by some magnificent lime-trees, it did not offend the eye. Not far from the tower, but on the opposite side of the road, was a group of houses. One, with open door, sanded step, and red curtains, displays a blue sign-board, on which is painted a very black-and-white bird, which the printing underneath kindly tells us is a magpie, and further says, "Good accommodation for man and beast," which inscription Mrs. Smith at the Noah's Ark shop, whose husband has a very red nose, says, means "Good accommodation for turning man into beast."

On one side of the open space fronting the public, there is a smithy; whilst opposite it, and seeming to shrink from view, is a building, with too many windows for a barn, and too big for a house, and which, therefore, must be a chapel; looking attentively, you see on the front the word ENON. But near the tower, so near that at sunrise it is within its

shadow, stands a house which, when a young man, I never passed without a sigh. It was a drunkard's home.

"A drunkard's home!" There seems a solemn mockery in the words. It is like a bunch of flowers in the hand of a skeleton. You picture to yourself a miserable hut, with mouldering thatch, windows fluttering with rags, garden grown with nettles. Such would often be a true sketch, but it is not so here; for, though we have called John Burton, Tailor (as the board over the door tells us), drunkard, no one in the village would apply such a term to him. "He was fond of his glass," "had a turn at drinking now and then," and "took a drop too much," but he was never found in the gutter, was jolly company at the Magpie, and paid his way. And so, though he was scarcely ever quite sober, and was darkening the lives of those who loved him, and shortening his own by drink, he passed as a very decent sort of man.

Behold, then, a two-storied, red-brick house, with a porch covered with jessamine, shining black windows, spotless white blinds, and the garden as neat as a paper pattern. In a little room, dignified with the title "workshop," sits John Burton, cross-legged, amid a heap of scraps of cloth. From his stoop and evident lack of strength, you might think him sixty, but his shining hair tells a different tale. His face is the explanation; eyes lustreless and bloodshot, complexion of unhealthy red, and irregular mouth, even did you not perceive the fumes of brandy, would proclaim him a devotee of Bacchus.

Where, then, is the secret of the neatness that is all around? Let us pass to the next room. It is the large kitchen, where the family live; it has two large windows, which command a view of the valley. Opposite them is a white-scrubbed dresser gleaming with plates; everything is as “clean as a pink." One ray of sunshine, reflected by a pewter cover, falls on the head of a matronly woman, quietly knitting and enjoying the short pause which comes between work done and tea.

She is dressed in a neat black silk gown, which has long served for afternoons, and has on a comely white cap; but you do not notice her dress, but are at once struck by her face. Once seen, it is never forgotten; not that she is beautiful, although her well-proportioned features hint that she was once; it is the expression. There is a sweet calmness about the bluish g rey eyes which makes one love to look at them, yet there is a firmness about the mouth which bespeaks energy; withal the sharp lines carved by care on the forehead, and the hair grey before its time, show that though she is victor in life's battle, the fight has been fierce.

But now everything breathes peace, and her quiet face harmonizes with the soft light of the evening sun, and the distant "caw" of the rooks.

There is a step heard; the door opens, and in trips a rosy girl of thirteen,

swinging her green bag of books. She runs to her mother, gives her a kiss, and for a moment nestles by her side.

Then you see how very like they are the same bluish grey eyes, the same well-formed features and firm lips—yet how different; the one calm, but faded, its strength remaining, but its beauty withered; the other, a face all radiant with hope and joy. The one reminds you of the picture of some saint, the other of a sketch for "Midsummer Night's Dream." Oh, that face! But I must not anticipate.

"Where are your brothers, Kate?" says a clear, silvery voice.

A voice that seems a sweet echo replies, "Oh, mother, John is gone to ride Farmer Hodge's horse to the pond, and Frank to the mill, to get some bait."

"Well, dear; just call Beccy and get tea, for I'm tired."

Kate calls. Presently a thump, thump, like a Dutch cheese rolling down stairs, is heard, and Rebecca, or Beccy, as she was called, appears.

She is a dump of a girl, almost as broad as long, with red hair and what some call " a celestial," that is, a turn-up, nose. She is supposed to be Irish, but is as ignorant of parents as Topsy. She finds Mrs. Burton's a Paradise after the Union, and would be a great favourite, for she is handy and good-tempered, but she has a bad habit of continually tumbling or rather rolling down, and generally with crockery in her hands. This afternoon she looks quite smart in her lilac gown, and her cheeks shine like hot cross buns.

As the pleasant vapour is rising from the tea-pot, the boys come in. They are both fine, healthy lads; Frank is the elder, the slenderer, and more thoughtful looking of the two, and favours, as folk say, his mother. Mrs. Burton smiles as John tells her how he got the old horse into a canter, going up the lane, and Frank shows her the watercress in his basket and the bait that the miller gave him.

"Did you see Polly?" says Kate, slyly.

"No," said John, blushing.

"There, just look; I believe you're in love with that girl."

"Be quiet, you silly puss," says Mrs. Burton, yet not looking displeased; "go and call your father to tea."

He came in, took up the newspaper, but did not touch his food. "Father," says Mrs. Burton, timidly, "why don't you drink your

tea?"

"What do I want with your confounded swill?

A gloomy silence came over all; they knew that he was going to have one of his drinking fits. Presently he looked at the clock, threw down the paper, took his hat, and went out, regardless of his wife's imploring glance.

"Father's off to the Magpie, I know," said John. "He is a fool." "Hush, my son; I will not have your father spoken of so."