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doors, but did not know what to do. My convictions became heavier towards the last. I could not sleep. One night, after having a bit of a doze, this passage came to my mind, Come unto me, all ye that labour,' &c. It came very powerfully, and was repeated several times. I kept crying out, *Come unto me.' I tried to think of other passages, but could not. At this time I had not the notion to come in the right way, although the Spirit of God was leading me. About a fortnight after this text came powerfully to my mind. I was at a meeting. I longed to be in the house of God. When the services were ended on a Sunday, I did vex that there would be no more services till Wednesday evening. While hearing the Rev. G. Neaton preaching from the thirteenth chapter of Jeremiah, and the last clause of the last verse, Wilt thou not be made clean? when shall it once be?' I was brought into the banqueting house, and His banner over me was love. I could not help singing for joy. What a day that was! I had my heart and soul full. When the words, 'When shall it once be?' were spoken, I cried, 'Now-now-now!' I was so light. What a glorious time that was. I had such a view of Christ's power to save. I had tight work to pacify myself. After service, I walked home with my wife. She told me not to walk so fast. I told her that I was so light, I could not help it. A short time after this, I said to my wife, I am going to establish a new concern in my house; I am going, by God's help, to establish a family altar.' I did so; and, by the Lord's help, continued it; and I often felt great liberty in speaking to my children upon the word of God."

He was naturally, before as well as after his conversion, of a cheerful temper, and not addicted to swearing. After his discharge from the army, he received his pension every quarter, at which times his practice was to spend a week, and sometimes a fortnight, in drinking; but he would always return home early, and, as his son remarked, "in a good quill"-i e., a good temper. After his call by grace, this conduct was a grief to him. On one of his drinking bouts, he had a dream which was repeated threa nights following. It was to the effect that if he gave up drinking his soul would be saved. This occurred a short time before

his conversion, and it made him feel concerned about his soul. He, however, never ascribed his salvation to anything save the electing love, redeeming blood, and regenerating grace of the Triune Jehovah. This was his creed, and it would puzzle Dr. Colenso or the Pope to find a better.

He was well acquainted with the warfare which is going on in every Christian between the old and new man. The nearer he approached his Father's house above the more sensible was he of the corruption of his nature, and would often speak in condemnatory of terms of the workings of the body of sin and death under which he groaned; hence he would join in with the words of the apostle, "I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) dwelleth no good thing." When the new man of grace was active, and the old man of sin subdued, he would with much emotion quote the following texts: "I know whom I have believed;" and "I will make an everlasting covenant with them," &c.; and he would feelingly and triumphantly say, "He hath made with me an everlasting covenant." He frequently, during the last few months of his life, when confined to his bed, expressed his desire to "depart to be with Christ," &c.; and his last words, repeated in the hearing of the writer, were, "I long to depart to be with Christ, which is far better." A short time after uttering these words he fell asleep in Jesus, in the ninetieth year of his age.

ONE WITH JESUS.

O ne with Jesus; oh how precious, are these words my soul to thee,
N ever canst thou in all future separated from Him be,

E 'en with Jesus, wast thou in eternity.

What a mystery! one with Jesus, ere the sun began its race,

In the heart of Jesus ever hast thou an abiding place;

Though the fall in Adam brought thee, to the very brink of hell,

He in purpose never lost thee for He loved thee far too well.

Jesus! while o'er earth I'm wandering, tracing this life's pathway drear

E ver may I feel Thy presence near at hand my soul to cheer,

Since Thou hast revealed Thy oneness with this wretched soul of mine,
U pon me in loving kindness, do thou condescend to shine,
Safely guide me, Jesus, to the heavenly clime.

Deptford.

T. G. C. A.

ΑΝ

CONVERSION IN A STAGE COACH.

N authenticated writer in "The Monthly Messenger" gives the following beautiful narrative.

"Does you love God?"

The question came from a sweet pair of lips. Opposite sat a young gentleman of striking exterior. The gentleman and child were travelling in a stage-coach. The latter sat on her mother's knee. Her little face, beautiful beyond description, looked out from a frame of delicate lace-work. For four hours the coach had been toiling on over an unequal road; and the child had been very winning in her little ways,-lisping songs, lifting her bright blue eyes often to her mother's face,-then falling back in a little old-fashioned, contented way, into her mother's arms, saying by the mute action, "I am happy here."

For more than an hour the dear babe, scarce yet having crossed the rosy threshold of her fifth year, had been answering the smiles of the young man who had been pleased with her beauty. He had nodded his head to her little tunes, he had offered her his pearl-handled knife to play with, and, at last, his heart went over to her at every glance. The mild blue eyes, full of the innocence of a holy love and a trusting faith, made pulses leap with a purer joy; and, as the coach rattled on, he began to wish the end of the Journey were not so very near.

The child had been sitting for the last fifteen minutes regarding the young man with a glance that seemed almost solemn; neither smiling at his caresses, nor smiling at the dear face that bent above her.

A thoughtfulness seemed to spread over the young brow that had never yet been shadowed by care; and as the coach stopped at the inn door, and the passengers moved uneasily preparatory to leaving, she bent towards the young man, and lisped in her childish voice these words:

"Does you love God?"

He did not understand, at first, in the confusion, and bent over

nearer; and the voice asked again, clearly, almost eagerly, “Does you love God?" the thoughtful, inquiring eyes, meantime, beaming into his own.

The young man drew hastily back, blushing up to the very roots of his hair. He looked in a sort of confused, abrupt way at the child, who, frightened at his manner, had hidden her face in her mother's bosom; turned to the coach door, gave another look back, as if he longed to see her face, and then left the coach.

He hurried to his hotel; but the little voice went with him. There seemed an echo in his heart constantly repeating the question of the child:-"Does you love God?" Several gay young men met him at his hotel. They appeared to have been waiting for him, and welcomed him with mirth that was always boisterous. They had prepared him an elegant supper; and after he had been to his room, escorted him to the table. The full gleam of the gas fell upon the glittering furniture; red wines threw shadows of a lustrous crimson hue athwart the snowy linen. There were mirth, wit, faces lighted with pleasure,—everything to charm the eye and please the palate; but the young man was conscious of a void never experienced before. His heart ached to see the child again, and ever and anon he seemed to hear her words,— "Does you love God?"

His name was Gilbert. Only twenty-three years of age, he was a good scholar, and esteemed by his friends a genius. Already he had made his mark as a writer; but he had never thought as he thought to-night on that solemn import of the simple question,

"Does you love God ?"

It came to him when he held the red wine to his lips; it was heard amid the clatter of the billiard-balls, and the shouts of merry laughter that filled the wide room everywhere. Whichever way he turned, he saw the earnest glance of that blue-eyed child, heard the low voice singing, the low voice laughing, the low voice asking thrillingly,

"Does you love God?"

It followed him to his bedside. He had tried to drown it in

wine, in song, in careless levity. He strove to sleep it away, but heard it in his dreams.

The next night he met a fashionable friend. He was to take her to some place of pleasure. She was very beautiful in dazzling robes. The gleam of pearls, and the lustres of silk and lace vied with each other to enchance her loveliness; but even as she came sailing into the room with smiles upon her young red lips, and a welcome in her words, there came, too, floating noiselessly at her side, the presence of that angel-child. The better feelings her innocent presence had awakened were yet warm; and, before he knew it, the young man said quickly and earnestly, "Does you love God?"

"What do you mean ?" exclaimed the young girl with a start of surprise.

"I was thinking, as you came in, of a lovely child I saw yesterday, he replied. "As I was in the act of leaving the coach, she suddenly looked up and asked me that question."

"And what, pray, put it into the child's head? What did you

answer?"

"I am ashamed to say, I was not prepared with an answer,” replied the young man, casting down his eyes.

That night, pleasure had no gratification for him. His feet trod languidly the mazes of the dance; his smiles were forced : and more than once it was said of him, "He does not seem himself." No, he was not like the gay, thoughtless, self, of former years. There was a pool lying in his bosom, the waters of which had never before been disturbed.

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Now, a little child had dropped a pebble in, and the vibration was to go on through eternity. Dust-soiled and travel-weary, a thoughtful man walked through the principal street of a large western city. As he went on, apparently absorbed in his own meditations, his eye accidentally encountered a face looking down from the window of a handsome house. His whole countenance suddenly changed. He paused an instant, looking eagerly at the window, and in another moment his hand was on the bell-handle. He was ushered into the very room where sat the lady of the house.

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