will ever becloud it. As to the body, it will be re-made. The grave will have destroyed it, but at the resurrection morn it will be fashioned anew. Sown a natural body, it will be raised a spiritual one. Sown in corruption, it will be raised in incorruption. It will no longer be a clay vessel, but a golden one. No faw will be found in it, but perfection will be stamped upon it. As it shall come forth from the hand of its great Maker, so shall it ever be, bright and shining, reflecting the glory of its Saviour, while nothing through eternal ages shall ever bedim its lustre or lessen its value.

Look forward, then, afflicted one, the day is hastening on when you shall no more say, “I am like a broken vessel.” Jesus your Redeemer designs that you shall glorify him for ever.

With a sanctified soul, reunited to a then glorified body, you shall for ever be a vessel unto honour in the palace of heaven.

Gloucester.

HE LIVETH LONG WHO LIVETH WELL.

BY THE REV. HORATIUS BONAR, D.D.

HE liveth long who liveth well,

All other life is short and vain;
He liveth longest who can tell

Of living most for heavenly gain.
He liveth long who liveth well,

All else is being flung away ;
He liveth longest who can tell

Of true things truly done each day.
Waste not thy being; back to Him

Who freely gave it freely give;
Else is that being but a dream-

'Tis but to be and not to live.
Be wise, and use thy wisdom well;

Who wisdom speaks must live it too;
He is the wisest who can tell

How first he lived, then spoke, the true.
Be what thou seemest; live thy creed ;

Hold up to earth the torch divine;
Be what thou prayest to be made;
· Let the great Master's steps be thine.
Fill up each bour with what will last;

Buy up the moments as they go;
The life above, when this is past,

Is the ripe fruit of life below.

Sow truth if thou the true wouldst reap;

Who sows the false shall reap the vain ;
Erect and sound thy conscience keep;

From hollow words and deeds refrain.
Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;

Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright;
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,

And find a harvest-home of light.

Tales and Sketches.

WHAT PIERRE BECAME. AND | Marie is my comfort. The dear child seems HOW.

to have wisdom given her beyond her

years, and is a constant and sweet com" THERE's a passenger that's very sick panion to me—but my boy-ah! Pierre, in the steerage, sir; he's a Frenchman, and the poor, poor lad!” I think he wants to see some minister." “Well, what of Pierre, my friend ?”

The man thus addressed stood near the "O! sir, he has learned bad habits. helmsman, looking far over the blue water. During the sickness of my other Marie I His face wore a quiet, gentle expression, as did not attend to him as I should. He if thought were busy on some sweet me- found wicked companions, and learned mory of the past, or some anticipation of vicious ways, and I, alas! have not been a the future. It lost its quiet, however, as he faithful father to him." listened.

“Where is Pierre ?" "I'll go down with you directly,” he said, "I do not know, sir ;-somewhere withi and moved to follow the sailor. The steerage the sailors. He is seldom with me; I was unusually full of passengers, and it don't think the boy knows how sick I am. was with difficulty Mr. Flemming moved I wish you would find him, sir, and speak among the accumulated luggage, and forms, to him. In such a situation as this, one many of the latter helpless from sea-sick- thinks of all he has done-of all he might ness. At length he came to a bed where have done. I have not been a good father lay a man in a state of complete exhaustion. to Pierre. You will know him, sir, by his His eyes were sunken, his lips blue, and his resemblance to Marie. , He thinks to be a limbs fearfully emaciated. It was evident sailor, and it breaks my heart. I had that his last hour was very near, and by destined him for something far different. his pitiful glance at the minister, and his You will promise to speak to him, sir?" upward look, he understood the hopeless “I will,” replied the minister ; "and now ness of his case. At his feet in the rude for yourself-have you a hope in Christ ?". bed, sat a beautiful blue-eyed child, some “I think of Christ daily ; I pray to him three years old, contentedly playing with constantly. My anxiety is that he will not a little yard-measure. The clergyman, as accept me now, because I have been carehe caught sight of her lovely face and inno- less hitherto. Do you think he will save cent smile, thought of his own dear babe / me, sir ?" whose age was the same, and traced a re- “ He has promised,” replied the clergysemblance between them-both having clear man, growing more and more interested in blue eyes and curls of brightest amber the interesting stranger, whose humility colour.

won his very heart. “God's promises are "You are very ill, my friend," said Mr.

I are very ill, my friend," said Mr. | yea and amen ; can you not feel that?" Flemming, addressing the sick man in “Oh! yes, he cannot say one thing and French.”

mean another. I give myself entirely into "O! indeed I am, sir-so ill that I his hands, sir; help me by prayer to keep never expect to see the shores of any coun to this faith." try," was the reply in low, distinct tones. So the good minister knelt down there in

"I hope you may see the shores of the the close, crowded place, and prayed ferheavenly country," said the clergyman. I vently to that Being who always hears and

"I hope I may, sir. My wife has gone answers. The little Marie had been pratthere. She died of a slow consumption. | tling happily and unconsciously; now she It was very hard to see her wasting away laid her hand upon that of the good clergyfor three years, ever since our little Marie man, and when he looked up, her sweet was born, and when she died, I could no smile made his heart leap as if it were the longer have the heart to stay in my own face of his own babe that greeted him. country where her grave was. I was sick “ You will find Pierre?" said the sick man when I took passage, and the doctors | feebly ; "a dying father asks you." thought the sea-air would do me good, but “I will not rest till I have spoken with I have ever since been growing worse. I him," was the reply.

He went on deck, and his eye sought for 1 eyes red and swollen with weeping, and the French boy. He was not there. Pass. two or three of the other passengers had ing further on, he gained the opening of the gathered around, and stood in respectful forecastle. Some one was singing. He attitude, looking compassionately on the looked, and his eyes fell upon an ill-assorted suffering man. group. Two battered, grim-faced looking “Will you see to Marie?" men were playing cards, and their partner This he cried, eagerly clutching the was the young boy with the innocent face sides of his berth, as the minister came like Marie's. Just the same soft silken in sight. curls fell over his sun-burnt forehead, his “Have no fear, my friend; I will see eyes were as blue and his lips as red, but that your little child is cared for." from those red lips already proceeded Eng. He gave one imploring glance at the lish oaths. Thinking it not best to go down minister, another at his son. in the forecastle, the minister waited pa “Trust all with God," said Mr. Flemtiently till Pierre should come on deck. It ming, divining his meaning. He smiled was not long before his wish was gratified, faintly, bowed his head, and signified that and he spoke to the boy. Surprised at being he wished for prayer. The clergyman addressed by a stranger, and an American, knelt down, and as the waters rippled in his native tongue, Pierre gave his whole softly against the sides of the great ship, attention. He blushed crimson when the and the glorious sunshine streamed in a clergyman told him gently that he should golden halo over the little group, the be by his father's bedside, and hung his sweet petition went heavenward for the head.

waiting soul, waiting no longer when the “Do you know, my boy, that your father hushed amen was spoken, for it had gone will, in all probability, be buried at sea ?” s home to its God. The silence was broken asked the minister.

now by loud cries, by sobs, and tears ; “I did not think he was so sick," said | Pierre had thrown himself upon the lifethe boy penitently.

less form of his father-his penitence had “But he is, and longing for your presence. come too late. Think how you might comfort him by remaining at his bedside, and reading to him. In a pleasant street, eleven years after, He needs careful nursing, and there is no in a New England town, a clergyman was one to give it to him."

leisurely driving. The grey horse seemed “Will my father die ? are you in earn to know his master's mood, and kept up a est ?” he asked anxiously.

uniform pace, so that the good man could “My boy, your father cannot live a day gaze leisurely at his favourite points in the longer, in my opinion."

scene spread before him. Two young girls, He started back grown suddenly pale. fourteen or fifteen years old, and so much

“His chief anxiety is on your account," alike that they appeared to be twins, sat in continued the clergyman. “He fears you the back seat of the capacious carriage, engo into bad company, and disregard his ad joying the beauty of the mild autumn noon. vice. My boy, I fear so also, for I saw you as What are you talking about, chil. playing cards, and heard you utter pro dren ?" asked the minister, noticing that fane words. I want you to promise me they were very much interested. that you will remain with your father till • Why! father," said Minnie Flemming, he dies, and try to comfort his heart by “ did you notice that young man who stood leaving off these dangerous habits." by the sign-board, just now? He started

He seemed penitent and sorrowful, pro after the carriage, and has been following mised that he would do all that was asked us ever since. Maybe he wants to speak of him, received the little French tracts with you." given him by the good minister, and hur "I did notice something peculiar in his ried down below, the tears standing in face and manner,” replied the minister, his eyes.

drawing the reins.“ Let us stop and see The next day at three bells the clergy | what he will do." man was sent for. The poor French pas The stranger had been walking very senger was dying. The little child Marie rapidly. He was a young man some twenty had been coaxed away by a kind Eng years of age. His face was browned by lishwoman, who had often taken charge the sun-but it was a pleasant face. He of her. Pierre leaned at the bedside, his l carried a small bundle on the end of a stick

slung over his shoulder. He paused in / ought to be, or needs to be, a divorce besome embarrassment as he found himself tween religion and common daily living. side by side with the vehicle, and so many | This was the blunder of the old monks. Well faces directed towards him; but he bowed, was it rebuked in the legend of him whom and took from his vest a much-worn French the Papists call St. Anthony. tract, well preserved, and on whose margin He thought he served God best-in fact some words were written in pencil.

that it was the only real way to do the “Do you recognise that, sir?” he asked. work of life--by making himself a poor

“What! Pierre !” cried the minister, hermit in the desert. One day-The joyfully, “Stop! come into the carriage, runs—as he sat by the side of his hole in and look in this face, the counterpart of the rocks, absorbed in meditation, a voice your own; it is your sister's.”

spoke to him out of the breeze that was With one bound Pierre was in their blowing by, and said :midst; and tears, and smiles, and delight “Anthony! thou art not so holy a man ful welcomings ensued. Pierre had fol as the poor cobbler that is in Alexanlowed the sea from the time of his father's dria!" death. He had treasured the little tracts Amazed, Anthony took his staff and because they were given to him on so so started on his journey, his long white beard lemn an occasion, and wherever he went blowing against his breast as he toiled tothey accompanied him. He had been reck ward the shore of the Mediterranean. After less, wicked, improvident, and found him- | many days he came to Alexandria, and self at last in a hospital at Havre, disabled after long search he found the cobbler's and friendless. There he read the mes stall--a narrow place; a little dried-up, sengers of heaven, the tracts; there he was meagre man-yet with something bright shown his sinfulness and the way to the in his eye, and something sweet even in the Cross. For two years, ever since he left wither of his cheeks. Amazed to see so the institution, he had laboured at his call venerable a form as that of Anthony pause ing, and had saved enough, by the most rigid before his humble abode, the poor cobbler economy, to enable him to become a stu | bowed, and began to tremble before him. dent of the Gospel. He felt his call to the “Tell me," says Anthony, “how you ministry, and by Heaven's help he would | live ?-How spend you your time?" strive to become a worthy ambassador of

“Verily, sir," replied the little man, “I the Lord Jesus Christ.

have no good works. I am a poor, humble, To-day that young man, through the in- hard-working cobbler, with little time to strumentality of a little tract, is dispensing

think, and no ability to do any great thing. the bread of life to a large flock in one of I just live from day to day as God helps the best cities of the West. The son of me. I am up at the dawn. I pray for the poor steerage-passenger is the son-in the city, my neighbours, my family, mylaw of the good minister who prayed by the self; I eat my scanty victuals; and then i humble death-bed; and sweet Marie, in a sit me down to my hard labour all the day, beautiful valley-liome, is beloved by all who and when the dusk shuts down, I eat again know her, and the light of her own dear | the bit I have earned, and thank God, and household.

pray, and sleep. I keep me ever, by God's help, from all falseness, and if I make any man a promise, I try to perform it honestly.

And so I live, trudging along my narrow THE WORK YOU HAVE TO DO.

path day by day, how dark soever it may GOD calls a few men to do some great sometimes be, never fearing that it will not thing for him, and they are well and fitly bring me out, at last, into the everlasting employed in the doing of it. But most | light.” often the ordinary drudgeries, the dusty Then turned' away the long-bearded common-place duties of the never-ceasing monk, and the voice in the breeze sighed, business of “getting a living ”—as we call “Ah, me! that one life of man should be it in our humble speech of every day--these so humbly full, and another so proudly are the works which God appoints for us

Lappoints for us empty !” to do; which he commands and expects us This, then, brothers, sisters, all-THIS is to do well for him. Never was there a the work God has given us to do. This work more dreadful mistake than that which is which is here, daily waiting by our hands, 30 often committed, in supposing that there I and thrusting itself upon them. Not that

which shines 80 bright over there, and she could see people walking, dressed in which seems to promise greater pleasant- bright robes, with crowns of bright flowers. ness, as if it would only be one half work Little Olive clapped her hands with delight and the other half play. That is not our at the wonderful sight. “How I wish work! That is an ignis fatuus! It is no I could go in; but this old dress would body's work ; least of all ours! Our work look too shabby among those pretty ones," is real work, hard work, bitter work, dull she said, looking down at her dress, once work, dusty work, perplexing work, unsatis white, but now soiled by her walk through fying work — we may so hastily name it-yet the fields. Just then she caught sight of a after all it is God's work for us. He needs little stream flowing through the meadow. it done. He needs us to do it. We need “Oh, I can wash out the spots, and then to do it. And just so surely as we strike it will do!” Saying this she ran quickly down the mattock and the spade deep into to the little stream. She washed and the hard soil, with sturdy, steady stroke, so | washed away, but the spots only grew surely will the sweet waters of refreshment | worse. She was almost ready to give up, spring up even out of those very depths of when a dark cloud came over the sun, and dryness to minister and reward and bless. sbe thought, “ Why, my dress is not so very

dirty after all.” Forgetting, poor little LITTLE OLIVE'S DREAM.

Olive, that it was only because the sun was

clouded that her dress looked white. " It FOR THE YOUNG.

is really quite white," she said again," and VERY pale and thin little Olive looked,

when the sun comes out it will shine as as she lay in bed one pleasant June day. brightly as those beautiful ones in the It was one of those June days when every golden city.” Satisfied with her dress, she thing is so beautiful, that if we try to started toward the gate, when, catching imagine heaven, we can only think of an sight of some bright red poppies, she eternal June. Little Olive lay looking out thought, upon the green fields, and far in the distance "Oh! I can have a wreath now, and a on the blue hills, while every breeze that prettier one, too, than those they are floated in was laden with the sweet scent wearing." of roses.

So she twisted a garland of bright “How beautiful,” thought Olive, “every. poppies, and holding her head very high, thing is. I wonder if anything can be and looking well satisfied with her appear. prettier.”

ance, she walked up to the gate. How Just then she heard her sister's voice wonderful it seemed as she looked in, down under the window, singing as she passed the long streets with beautiful gardens, and along; and listening, she caught the just such children as little Olive playing words :

under the evergreen trees, while every now “There everlasting spring abides,

and then sweet music floated on the air, And never-withering flowers.”

and children's voices sang, “ Glory to the “Never-withering !” said little Olive, Lamb for ever and ever.” “ that must be beautiful.” As her sister's Little Olive longed (to go in, but there voice died away in the distance, little stood by the gate a bright angel with Olive's eyes closed, and whispering to her golden wings. As she looked up his face self, “ Never-withering, never-fading," she grew very sorrowful, as very softly, very fell asleep.

sadly, he said, “No! little Olive, you can't Never-fading! One could not help come in." Just then the sun shone out saying it as they looked at Olive's pale from behind the clouds, and, looking down, cheeks and white lips, and marked the thin Olive saw her dress all stained and spotted, hands folded together. Dear little Olive, and taking the wreath from her head, she God keep thee from fading ! But this is found it all withered away. Then the not Olive's dream, only what happened angel said again, “No! little Olive, your before it.

dress is not pure and white, and your She dreamed she was walking through crown is not made of never-fading flowers. the green fields to the blue hills beyond, No, you can't come in.” and as she came near, the hills kept chang Little Olive sank down on the green tur! ing till there stood in their place a beauti and began to cry. ful city. Its walls were of gold, glittering “What is the matter with my little with diamonds, and through the open gate | Olive?”