worship, prayer, and praise, it is with a feeling of regret, all the more poignant from the reflection what fearful inroads might spring from one apparently trivial infringement on the sacred duties of the Sabbath. Did it go no farther than the breaking up of those pious feelings with which we welcome the weekly return of the holy day, an incalculable injury would be inflicted on society.

For in that blow we would have to lament the overthrow of those moral barriers which early parental instruction and pious example had reared against the inroads of vice and immorality. We must keep our Sabbaths as our fathers kept them of old, if we wish the blessings secured to us we have long enjoyed as a free, a happy, and religious people. A sacred sanctity rests over the holy day which no rude hand must venture to disturb.

Sabbath in the Hebrew tongue, signifies rest; rest from the toil and bustle inseparable from the other days of the week; associated in our minds with every thing peaceful, lovely, and of good report; a day to be dedicated to the service of our Maker, one to us full of heavenly hopes and pious aspirations. How precious is the Sabbath, and how dear should it be to all of us!

When we turn to the Holy Scriptures, we find innumerable instances of the manner in which the Sabbath ought to be kept, and in what estimation the right observance of it is held by Him in whom "we live, and move, and have our being." When the Lord sent manna to the children of Israel to sustain them in their wanderings through the wilderness, it is written, Exodus xvi. 22, "And it came to pass, that on the sixth day they gathered twice as much bread, two omers for one man: and all the rulers of the congregation came and told Moses. And he said unto them, this is that which the Lord hath said, tomorrow is the rest of the holy Sabbath unto the Lord: bake that which ye will bake to-day, and seethe that ye will seethe; and that which remaineth over lay up for you, to be kept until the morning. And they laid it up till the morning, as Moses bade; and it did not stink, neither was there any worm therein. And Moses said, Eat that to-day for to-day is a Sabbath unto the Lord : to-day ye shall not find it in the field. Six days ye shall gather it; but on the seventh day, which is the Sabbath, in it there shall be none. So the people rested on the seventh day." The fourth commandment is explicit on this head; "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy," &c. In Nehemiah xiii. we find how he contended for the sanctity of the Sabbath, and drove out of Jerusalem those that profaned the holy day by worldly business. In Isaiah lviii. 13 we, find the following concerning him who keepeth the Sabbath holy: "If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day; and call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable; and shalt honour him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words: then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord; and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it." We will finish our extracts from holy writ, where so many are to be found confirmatory of the sanctity of the Sabbath, and how it ought to be kept, by the following

express command from Jeremiah xvii. 21: "Thus saith the Lord, Take heed to yourselves, and bear no burden on the Sabbath-day, nor bring it in by the gates of Jerusalem; neither carry forth a burden out of your houses on the Sabbath-day, neither do ye any work; but hallow ye the Sabbath-day, as I commanded your fathers." How then can we, after such express commands laid upon us by Him who changeth not, find any excuse for ourselves if we profane the Sabbath-day,— that day set apart out of the seven for solemn meditation, for worship, for intercession at the throne of grace? Alas! we have only to look around us, to go along our streets, and thread the intricacies of our bylanes and closes on the Sabbath-day, and learn a mournful lesson of the extent of human depravity.

We will now turn to a more delightful task, and endeavour to describe some of those feelings which spring up in the breast, and make dear to us the weekly return of that holy day. When our eyes open on the light of the Sabbath morn, a feeling such as we do not experience on any other morning comes over us; we know that we are entering on the seventh day, and we resolve to "keep it holy." The bustle of the household is this day subdued, and there is a quietness, both within the house and around it, peculiar to the Sabbath. As we lie on our bed and meditate, many sweet recollections, hallowed by the lapse of years, rush upon our mind; of friends, long since parted from earth, with whom we have walked to the house of God in company, and whose memories are yet fresh in our minds; of our early years, and of those who trained us up in the paths of piety and peace, now reaping their reward in heaven; of our first impressions of the Sabbath; and of the love we bore the good old man whose pious ministrations sunk deeply into our youthful heart, —and then, turning to bolier thoughts, the remembrance of His goodness in giving a day of rest to all His creatures, comes with a double pressure on the heart, and makes us truly exclaim, with the poet,

"Dear is the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day:
And, by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away.

"Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six days chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again."

When we rise from our bed, on this sacred morning do we not kneel down and offer up our prayers with a more thankful heart, for the returning rest of the Sabbath?

The holy quietude of the hallowed day has already sunk deep into our hearts; all stormy passions are hushed to rest within us, and as we meditate on Him whose commandment says,-“ Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work, but the seventh is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God, in it thou shalt not do any work," it is with increased love and gratitude for all his goodness, and more especially for the weekly cessation from toil and labour which, under that blessed institution He has provided for his people.

To him who has for six days been accustomed to the noise and bustle of a crowded city, the quiet of a Sabbath morning in the country will be duly appreciated. The sound of rural labour has ceased,

"How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed

The ploughboy's whistle, and the milk-mald's song."

Every object around breathes of peace. In the neighbouring fields, the cattle, relieved from their daily toil, are seen resting their wearied limbs, or cropping the dewy herbage, rejoicing in the leisure of the day that brings rest to man and beast. The timid hare limps past less fearless of his spoiler-man; and the feathered tribe, as they raise their notes of praise, regard with less suspicious eye his dreaded approach. All animated nature seems to feel and revel in the security of the Sabbath. As the eye wanders over the beauties of external nature, and the ear drinks in no sound but the voice of praise, the heart, chastened and subdued, is filled with love and gratitude, and we truly feel within us something like the holy calmness of Sabbath piety.

As the day advances, the more important duties of the Sabbath begin. The glad sound of the church-bell breaks in upon the quiet of noon,-a sound associated, in the hearts of the pious peasantry of Scotland, with all their holiest and best recollections. Every Sabbath, from their earliest years, have they been accustomed to its voice, calling them to the house of prayer; and many is the time, when her emigrant sons, amid the trackless woods of the far west, by the shores of the Mississippi, and on the banks of the Ohio, on the weekly return of the hallowed day, have longed for that blessed sound

"But most he feels,

Upon the hallowed morn, the saddening change:
No more he hears the gladsome village bell
Ring the blest summons to the house of God."

The church, in town or village, whether simple in its architecture, its walls weather-stained, and green with the moss of a century, or of a more recent date, adorned with all the ornament and taste of a refined age, is dear to those who have weekly within its walls, from boyhood upwards, worshipped their Maker in peace and joy. Associated with it are the many good instructions we have there received, the sacred admonitions to pursue the path of piety, for that is only the path of peace; and, amid the pressure of worldly cares and troubles, how often may we there have been refreshed, as the voice of the pastor we loved discoursed of the sufferings of Him "who knew not where to lay his head." Stand. ing in the centre of its little church-yard, we feel that around repose the ashes of many who in life were dear to us; and as we pass to the house of God, Sabbath after Sabbath, we reflect how often we have been accustomed to look upon their graves, and, recalling their virtues to mind, striven to walk in the same path they trode, and leave, like them, the sweet savour of a good name behind us.

But when we enter within the house of prayer, a holier feeling pervades the heart. We have now passed into the temple, raised indeed by the hand of man, but dedicated to the service of Him who hath promised, that where "two or three are met together in his name, there he will be in the midst of them to bless them, and to do them good." We envy not the man who, on entering the sacred courts, does so with that careless deportment and frivolity of feeling with which he would pass into any ordinary place of meeting. Did such a one for a moment reflect, that within these walls, however simple and unimpressive in their external appearance, and plain and unadorned within, all are met for the worship of the living God, from whom alone we |

"Shed their blood

In confirmation of a holier claim,
The claim to feed upon immortal bread,-
To walk with God.-to be divinely blest,-
To soar, and to anticipate the skies."

And we trust the day is yet far distant when the recollection of what the Church of Scotland, with her useful adjunct the parochial school, has done for our country will be dead in the hearts of her children. That time, we are assured, can only come when the weekly return of the Sabbath in our beloved land, will be no longer felt as a day of rest and preparation for heaven, no longer marked with that piety that distinguished her in the brighter days of her history; And when we reflect on the many serious inroads on the sanctity of the Sabbath that have sprung up in our own day, we have much cause to rejoice over the pious labours of those good men who are raising up a barrier against the increasing flood of Sabbath profanation that is fast spreading over our land, and it is our duty, by every means in our power to strengthen their hands in the good work so earnestly begun and so piously prosecuted.

The more important Sabbath worship of the sanc tuary closed, the evening of the holy day is generally spent in reading the Scriptures and instructing the young. The simple afternoon repast over, the hearth is swept clean, and the several members of the household arranged, the heads of the family enter on the duties of the evening. The younger branches are examined in the Shorter Catechism, and generally a short psalm or hymn is marked out for cominitting to memory. This part of the duty done, a printed sermon of one of the pious divines of our Church is read by a more advanced member of the household. The "big ha' Bible" is then reverently opened; the father reads attentively a portion of the Sacred Scriptures, and the evening of the holy day closes with the simple family worship of Scotland-prayer and praise.

"If heaven be ever felt below,
A scene so heavenly sure as this
May cause a heart on earth to know
Some foretaste of celestial bliss."

Much as we have fallen aside from our early reverence of the Sabbath, still in many pious families of our land is the holy day held in affectionate and pious remem brance. That such a spirit may still widen and increase shall ever be the theme of our fondest aspirations. May we long merit the name we have earned among

nations, of being a moral and religious people, and at the close of each returning Sabbath, spent as we would wish to have done when we come to die, may we have cause to say, in the words of the poet,

"Delightful day! how soon will night

Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign;
And morrow's quick returning light
Must call us to the world again.

"Yet there will dawn at last the day,
A SUN that never sets shall rise;
Night will not veil his ceaseless ray,
The heavenly Sabbath never dies!"

THE WISDOM, POWER, AND KINDNESS OF GOD, SHOWN IN THE RESPIRATORY ORGANS

OF INSECTS.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM GRANT,
Logiealmond, Perthshire.

THE habits and forms of insects afford to the generality, even of those who have a taste for the study of nature, little or no interest; and by many, this numerous class of living things is regarded with contempt. It forms no part of my object to blame or to combat your feelings upon this subject. To secure your attention to the simple facts which are to be recorded, I would merely remark, that those creatures which God hath formed with so much skill, cannot be an unworthy subject for man to investigate.

Although many of those who treat this subject with contempt, are ignorant of the great and undoubted purposes which insects were created to serve in the grand system of nature, still it is true, that they occupy a comparatively low and subordinate place. Quadrupeds, which aid us in our labours; fowls and fishes, which supply us with food; and even vegetables, the grand support of all living things on earth,—all of these occupy places of more prominent usefulness than insects, whose duty is to aid in keeping these within proper limits. But from this fact itself, (as was already stated, when speaking of the hive bee,) it appears that this class of creation is pre-eminently fitted to show the wisdom, power, and kindness of their Creator; for if He who had to create the beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, and the fish of the sea, has not been so exhausted by such undertakings; or, if He was not so pre-occupied with such multifarious plans, as to neglect apparently so insignificant a work, if the same unerring wisdom, the same plastic power, the same tender providence, is found, as in his greater and more stupendous works, how boundless must these perfections seem!-how far must they surpass the most gigantic grasp of human intellect! How are we humbled by an overwhelming sense of our own littleness before Him!

Trusting that these remarks may enable you to understand the lesson which I desire to be drawn from the following statement, I proceed to the simple narration of a few peculiarities in the form or structure of insects.

Contact with the atmosphere, or with some of its component parts, seems to be essential for the purification of the juices in animal and vegetable life. The lungs of animals, the gills of fish, and the valves of plants, are respectively employed to bring all the juices in contact with this purifying part of the atmosphere. It is an interesting study, to observe how singularly each of these, with all their modifications, are suited to the habits of the different races, and the elements in which they live. Of these I shall not, at present, give any examples; but limit myself to the contrivances with which some insects are furnished for the attainment of the same end. This class of creation imbibe the air, not through the mouth, but by means of apertures, or spiracles, as they are called, situate along the

sides of the body: the number and shape of these vary exceedingly. It is my object to show, that they vary according as the habits of the individual require,-that there is an harmonious connection between the form of these and the necessities of the species. As the general and pervading characteristics of their form, they may be described as consisting of two lips, which can be opened or closed at pleasure; round the margin of which are set a row of fine hairs, which serve the purpose of defence, like eye-lashes. Well adapted as these are, in the great majority of instances, for the defence of so delicate and useful an organ, there are some cases where they would be far from efficient,-not a few in which they would be totally useless. For instance, in the larvae, or maggots, of those flies which live bu ried in carrion flesh, or in greasy substances. It is a well-known fact, that oil destroys most insects; the cause of this is found in the circumstance to which I have alluded; the oil, adhering to the sides of the spiracles, clogs their motion, and shuts up the opening,-the insect, therefore, dies of suffocation. But, while this is the case with those which naturally do not come in contact with such substances, there are some which, living in the midst of them, are in nowise incommoded; they are provided, because their habits require it, with spiracles of a different shape and construction. In addition to the power of opening and closing the organ, many are provided with an apparatus which has been called "respiratory plates.' These are so fashioned, that they can be brought together, so as completely to cover and protect the orifice. Contemplating the nicety with which these were adapted to the habits of the insect, the celebrated Swammerdam described them as "the surprising miracles of God's power and wisdom in an abject creature."

Το

In the larvae, or young, of one species, (the gadfly of the ox,) we find not only that the form is different, but also the number of the spiracles, from that which has been said to be the most usual. The spiracles are furnished with the "respiratory plates," and instead of being placed along the sides, to the number of six or eight on each side, are placed on the last segment of the body, and are only two in number. This is a departure from the usual method, but it is adapted to the habits of the insect. This larva lies buried beneath the skin of cattle; the respiratory plates are necessary to preserve the organ, and as the tail alone has, or can have, any communication with the air, it is there alone that they are found to exist. In any other part of the body they would have been entirely useless. strengthen the assertion, that the form is varied according to the habits of the individual, I call you to observe, that in a kindred tribe, (the gadfly of the horse,) the situation of these spiracles is different. They amount to the usual number, and are found not only in the last segment of the body, but also in each segment along the sides. From this we might infer, that its habits are different from the kindred tribe, and in reality they are so; it does not burrow under the skin, but lives in the stomach of the horse. The striking peculiarity of this fitness between the form and habits is more clearly seen by viewing the changes which these organs undergo in one insect in its different states of existence, as a larva, a chrysalis, or in the perfect state. This I shall endeavour to illustrate, by setting before you a sketch of the natural history of the gnat, in so far as it bears upon this subject.

The eggs of the gnat require moisture in order to ad vance the production of the young; the gnat, therefore, is impelled by its instinct to deposit them in marshes and stagnant pools. But the action of the air is as necessary for the growth of the germ. One portion of the egg must, therefore, be immersed in water, the rest must have free contact with the air. In a word, the egg must float upon the surface of the water. But,

the eggs of all insects are heavier than water, some contrivance must be adopted to counteract this tendency to sink. The plan which actually exists, is most effectual. The gnat, by means of a glutinous substance secreted in its body, fastens its eggs together to the number of thirty; it forms them in the shape of a boat, hollow in the centre, rising at the sides and ends. This boat of eggs may be thrust down into the water, or laid upon its side, or have water poured upon it, still it rises to the surface in the same position as when first formed by the anxious parent. Thus the eggs are effectually preserved from suffocation, on the one hand, and from being withered up on the other. The young or larvae of the gnat live in the water, and perish when removed from it. When the period arrives when they are to come forth from the egg, they make an opening in the lower end of the egg, and thus enter the only element fitted to receive them. This arrangement is seen to be adapted to the habits of the insect when viewed by itself, but much more clearly when we compare it with one whose habits are different. If we examine the eggs of the common cabbage butter-fly, we find them placed in a form somewhat similar, they are glued together in an upright position upon the leaves of the cabbage, but the larvae make their exit at the upper end. In order to understand the fitness of this arrangement, we must bear in mind that the mother must be led by instinct to place these eggs in the proper position, for the larva must make the opening at that part of the egg towards which its head is directed.

The larvae of the gnat, as I have said, live in the water; some organ must, therefore, be given to it to enable it to imbibe the air. The spiracles of this larva are situate in the tail; a tube of considerable size branches off from the second last segment of the body. This tube is furnished, at its termination, with a cluster of hairs, which spread out into a starlike process, leaving an opening like a funnel towards the orifice of the tube. These hairs being covered with an oily substance, repel the water, and float upon the surface. The insect is thus pendent, with its head in a downward position. But it has the power of gathering into a pencil this cluster of hairs, which permits it to descend in search of food. The position of this insect, with its head downwards, is well suited to its habits. It is able, like the sea fowl, from its elevated position, to watch its prey, and, like them, to descend easily to seize it.

This insect has soon to change the watery element for the air as the place of its dwelling. Let us, then, view the steps by which its breathing organs are remodelled to suit its changed condition. In the chrysalis state, there is a total and striking change. Instead of one spiracle at the tail, by which its head is kept in a downward position, we now find two spiracles rising high above the head like ears, which reverse the position of the body. These organs, by a peculiar construction, float on the surface, the head of the insect being just below the water. Different as these organs are from that last described, they are no less wisely fitted to the present habits and future prospects of the insect. In the chrysalis state the insect requires no food, has no organs of vision, and scarcely any power of motion. It would have been useless, therefore, to be kept in a position to watch prey which it could not see, nor scize, which it did not require. That is, the wants of the former state of existence being removed, the organs which supplied them are thrown aside as useless. But, moreover, the organs which now occupy their place are a prospective contrivance, have a providential fitness to its next change. Suppose, for instance, that the downward position of the head had not been altered, how could the tiny gnat escape from its prison in the midst of the water? It could not burst the shell of the chrysalis at the tail, and thus make its

entrance into the fields of air, for its filmy wings and tiny limbs are folded backwards from the head; nor could it break the shell towards the head, for there it would find an element which would destroy it. But since the position is altered, since the head is now almost in contact with the air, it has no such perils to

encounter.

When the full period of developement has arrived, it bursts the shell of the chrysalis beside the head, which by this time begins to float above the surface. The chrysalis thus relieved of its contents, lightly rises to the surface of the water, and forms a raft, on which the gnat remains till, having pruned its wings, it is able to rise in that element in which it is to live and die. The organs of breathing in the perfect gnat now return to the usual number and construction. They are situated along the sides, as numerous as the segments of the body. In other words, the usual method is restored only when the peculiar wants of a previous existence are past.

Surely there are none who can accuse us of exces sive credulity in affirming that these things exhibit traces of a designing hand, that He hath planned wisely, constructed skilfully, and kindly arranged these various changes.

THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM.

HIGH in yonder realms of light,
Far above these lower skies,
Fair and exquisitely bright,

Heaven's unfading mansions rise:
Built of pure and massy gold,

Strong and durable are they; Decked with gems of worth untold, Subjected to no decay!

Glad within these blest abodes,

Dwell the raptured saints above,
Where no anxious care corrodes,
Happy in Emmanuel's love;
Once, indeed, like us below,
Pilgrims in this vale of tears,
Torturing pain, and heavy woe,
Gloomy doubts, distressing fears:
These, alas! full well they knew,
Sad companions of their way;
Oft on them the tempest blew,

Through the long and cheerless day! Oft their vileness they deplor'd,

Wills perverse and hearts untrue, Griev'd they could not love their Lord,Love him as they wish'd to do.

Oft the big unbidden tear,

Stealing down the furrowed cheek, Told, in eloquence sincere,

Tales of woe they could not speak: But, these days of weeping o'er,

Past this scene of toil and pain, They shall feel distress no more,—

Never, never, weep again!

'Mid the chorus of the skies,

'Mid the angelic lyres above, Hark! their songs melodious rise,Songs of praise to Jesus' love! Happy spirits, ye are fled,

Where no grief can entrance find; Lull'd to rest the aching head, Soothed the anguish of the mind! All is tranquil and serene,

Calm and undisturbed repose; There no cloud can intervene, There no angry tempest blows!

OUR object in the present discourse is, to inquire what is implied in our really believing the fact of the creation. This may seem a very needless inquiry, in reference to a fact so easily understood. "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth." Can anything be easier than to comprehend and believe this great truth? Who can be at a loss to know what is meant by believing it? It is remarkable, however, that in speaking of that faith, whose power he celebrates as so influential a principle of action, the apostle gives as his first instance of it, our belief of this fact of the creation. By faith,-that particular energetic faith, which so vividly realizes its absent object, as to invest it with all the force of a present and sensible impression,-by this precise faith, which "is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,"by this "faith, we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God; so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear." Now this faith is peculiar in several respects, and its peculiarity is as much to be observed, in the act of believing the fact of creation, as in the act of believing the fact of redemption, and resting on the promises connected with that fact, and ratified and sealed by it. It is especially peculiar in respect of its source, or of the evidence on which it rests. The truths which it receives, it receives on the evidence of testimony, as truths revealed, declared, attested, by the infallible word of the living God. This is a point of great importance, as it affects both the kind of assent which we give to these truths, and the kind and degree of influence which they exert There is the widest difference between your believing certain truths as the results of reasoning or discovery, and your believing them on the mere assertion of a credible witness, whom you see and hear, especially if the witness be the very individual to whom the truths relate. The truths themselves may be identically the same. But how essentially different is the state of the mind, and how different the impression made on it! 1. We may illustrate the difference by a simple and familiar example. In the best, perhaps, of all our popular treatises on Natural Theology, the deeply interesting and beautiful work of Paley, the author, in stating the argument for the Being of a God, derived from the proofs of

over us.

intelligence and design in nature, makes admirable use of an imaginary case, respecting a watch. He supposes you to be previously unacquainted with such a work of art, and to stumble upon it for the first time, as if by accident, and to exercise your powers of judgment and inference in regard to it. You hold it in your hand, and after exhausting your first emotions of wonder and admiration, you begin to examine its structure, to raise questions in your own mind, and to form conjectures. How did it come there, and how were its parts so curiously put together? You at once conclude that it did not grow there, and that it could not be fashioned by chance. You are not satisfied to be told that it has lain there for a long period, from time immemorial, for ever; that it has always been going on as it is going on now; that there is nothing really surprising in its movements and its mechanism; that it is just its nature to be what it is, and to do what it does. You utterly reject all such explanations as frivolous and absurd. You feel assured that the watch had a maker, and your busy and inquisitive spirit immediately sets itself restlessly to work, to form some conception as to what sort of person the maker of it must have been. You gather much of his character from the obvious character of his handiwork. You search in that handiwork for traces of his mind, his heart. You speculate concerning his plans and purposes. Your fancy represents him to your eye. You think you understand all about him. You find the exercise of reasoning and discovery delightful, and you rejoice in the new views which it unfolds.

But now, suppose that while you are thus engaged, with the watch in your hand, and your whole soul wrapt in meditative contemplation on the subject of its formation, a living person suddenly appears before you, and at once abruptly announces himself, and says, It was I who made this watch-it was I who put it there. Is not your position instantly changed? At first, perhaps, you are almost vexed and disappointed that the thread of your musing thoughts should be thus broken, and your airy speculations interrupted, and you should be told, all at once on the instant, what you would have liked to find out for yourself; that the riddle should be thus easily resolved, and a plain tale substituted for many curious guesses. But soon you are reconciled to the change, and better pleased to have it so. The actual presence of the individual gives a new interest, a more vivid and intense reality to the whole subject of your previous thoughts. Nor does this new impression depend upon the greater amount of information communicated. The individual now before you may tell you no more than, in his absence, the watch itself had told you. Neither does it arise from the greater certainty and assurance of the revelation which he makes to you. For in truth your own inferences, in so plain an instance of design, may be as infallible as any testimony could be. Still there is something in the direct and immediate communication of the real person,