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integrity was unquestioned; he was indeed, as the world terms it, a respectable, a highly respectable man; and as he rose in wealth, so he rose in the esteem of his acquaintances.

And he was now a rich man: his thoughts had been all directed to this end, and he was successful. But could the contemplation of his riches afford him pleasure now? When his wife had told him that all hope was gone, and that he must soon be summoned to give an account of his stewardship, what consolation could his riches afford him? O, in the contemplation of eternity, how worthless did the things of time appear! and that heap of gold his life had been dedicated to collecting, what dross did it then seem! And oh! how gladly, how joyfully, would he have parted with it now for the good of his fellow-createrss, could he have done it! Had he then but an opportunity of doing good, how gladly would he have embraced it! But no; the summer was past, the harvest was ended; the opportunity once granted and rejected, was now denied.

And this it is to be feared, will be the case with many. The young, who are rising in life, and whose aim is to acquire a competence and an independence, had need to take care lest this forms the chief end of their existence: lest the deceitfulness of increasing wealth, the excitement of business, or the cares of the world, should overcome them, and make their religion a religion of theory, not of action. But let them recollect, they must be judged according to their works, and that an account of their stewardship will be demanded. Let them remember they are sent into the world to act a part in it, and that part for the benefit of their fellowcreatures; let them recollect, that in the parable of the last judgment, in the 25th of Matthew, they who were condemned, were condemned not for sins of commission, but for those of omission. Let them take heed and beware. Let each one who professes to love the gospel of Christ, show it by actions, show it by promoting to the utmost the spread of that Gospel, show it by joining with heart and hand in those religious and

benevolent institutions that are rising up on every side of us; by visiting the cottages of the poor, ministering to their wants, and relieving their distresses; by giving his assistance towards implanting in the children of the poor, knowledge and the fear of God; in short, by labouring strenuously on every side, while health and strength are spared. Let him be assured, that unless his religion produces some good to his fellow-creatures, there is something defective in it. Thorns of some sort are growing up with the seed, and, unless eradicated, will choke it. Hasten then to Christ, for strength to eradicate these thorns, that fruit may be produced, lest you should at length be compelled in anguish to exclaim, "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved."

LADY POWERSCOURT TO A FRIEND WHO HAD LOST HER HUSBAND.

...Is your happy soul still lifted up? able in his light to walk through the darkness? I know the dreary waste that lies before you. How his dear, dear company is missed-how listless and insipid every thing appears-how you want that affection which entered into every trifle which concerned you-how you want an adviser, a protector, such a companion-one to weep when you weep, to rejoice when you rejoice. I know well what it is to lie down at night and say, where is he? to awake in the morning, and find him gone-to hear the clock strike day after day, at which you once expected his daily return home to his too happy fireside, and find nothing but a remembrance that embitters all the future here. Oh! my poor, poor -9 if I cannot feel for you who can? Who so often partook of your happiness? sweet precious time I have been allowed to enjoy with you both, but past. However it is well that you have another to feel for you. If I know the meaning of the word sorrow, I also know of a joy a stranger intermeddleth not with. How tenderly our compassionate Lord speaks of the widow! as a parent who feels the punishment more than the chastened child. He seems intent to fill up every gap love has been force to make; one of his errands from heaven was to bind up the broke

hearted. He has an answer for every complaint you may ever be tempted to make. Do you say you have none now to follow, to walk with, to lean on? He will follow you and invite you to come up from the wilderness, leaning on him as your beloved. Is it that you want one to be interested in all your concerns? Cast all your cares on him, for he careth for you. A protector? Let thy widow's trust be in me. An adviser? Wonderful, Counsellor. Companion? I will not leave you comfortless! I will come unto you; I will never leave you nor forsake you: I have not called you servants but friends: behold I stand at the door and knock, if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in unto him, and sup with him, and he with me. One to weep with you? In all their affliction he was afflicted. Jesus wept. When you lie down, safe under the shadow of his wings, under the banner of his love. When you awake, still about your path and about your bed. It is worth being afflicted to become intimately acquainted, and to learn to make use of the chief of ten thousand-the altogether lovely-the brother born for adversity-the friend that sticketh closer than a brother-the friend of sinners. Pray write often to

your poor sister-tell me everything that interests you.

THE BROKEN FINGER-POST.

Some time ago, when travelling in a strange neighbourhood, I came to a place where the road branched off in two opposite directions, so that how to proceed I did not know. It was, indeed, a puzzling situation; for as night was coming on, my taking the wrong road would have been attended with great inconvenience.

At last I perceived a finger-post, which, in my perplexity, I had not noticed. Hastening up to it, I read the inscription on the left arm, which pointed towards two distant towns, neither of which I wanted to visit. I then passed round to look at the opposite arm, when lo! it was broken off. "Well, come," said I to myself, taking heart, "I now, at least, know very well the road I am not to go."

We sometimes meet with such difficulties that we seem to come to a stand in our minds, not knowing which way to turn. What to attempt, how to act, and what will be the end of it, we cannot tell.

This part of the finger-post is broken off. In such trying

and dangerous situations, however, when we might be tempted to turn aside from the path of duty, God does often so mercifully hedge up some of our ways with thorns, and so instruct us by the directions of his holy word, that if we will but give heed to it, there is a plain warning given of the road we are not to go. This is an unspeakable mercy; let us in all cases turn promptly from the forbidden path, and leave the rest to him. If we sincerely look to him, in a child-like spirit, we are sure to obtain the direction he has promised to bestow. He will bring even "the blind by a way that they knew not," and "lead them in paths that they have not known." He will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. Trust, then, "in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."

THREE FACTS FOR INFIDELS.

I might employ arguments; three facts, however, may be more easily remembered than arguments.

men; they have occurred in my own with them I will close the lecture.

They all relate to young history as a minister, and

The first is the case of a young man, who had a pious father and grandfather, both of whom were living at the time of his affliction and death. Occasionally he had attended a place of worship; but this he found incompatible with the indulgence of other habits, and at length abandoned it altogether. At length his habits brought upon him disease, and it was soon visible to others, that a rapid consumption would speedily bring him to the grave. In these circumstances, I hoped he would lay seriously to heart the necessity of preparing to meet God. Often did I visit him, read the Scriptures, explain them, and pray with him. He was obliged to me for my attention, but he was utterly indifferent about his soul and his eternal state. He had associated with infidel young men, and pursued their habits. His state of health varied, as is common in consumption. About forty-eight hours before he died, fresh symptoms indicated the rapid approach of death; and for the first time he believed he should die. And from that moment until he died, the scene was dreadful. There was no aberration of intellect, but here was excitement. He believed he should die: his feelings had

been wrought upon; he had been told of the necessity of pardon of sin, of faith in Christ, or else that he would perish, and now he believed it. His infidelity all left him. His indifference, which apparently resembled the tranquillity of a lake in a summer's evening, was roused into a hurricane of passion, and his agony, his awful anxiety, was as painful as his former indifference had been. His withered hands were clenched in prayer; but it was the prayer of a man who was sure he should perish. While he cried for help he could see no helper. He believed the Almighty had forsaken him, and had given him up to a reprobate mind. Before he died, he became calm, but it was occasioned by physical exhaustion; and when dead, the expression of terror and agony were settled on his countenance. His father and grandfather were witnesses of the scene, and they retired from it weeping over one who had “despised their counsel, and would none of their reproof."

The second case was that of a Socinian. I had known him some years, and was not a stranger to his principles and habits. When confined to his chamber I requested to see him, which I did several times. He was rapidly hastening to the grave, but totally unprepared for it. On one occasion, when I called, I asked him how he had spent the precious day-the Sabbath. He replied, “I was reading Voltaire's Philosophical Dictionary, and one or two other things." When I reproved him for it, he replied, that he had never done any one any harm, and that God was merciful. He usually spoke of death with levity. On the last night of his life, I was with him for some time alone. I urged upon him the facts of his sinfulness, the holiness of God, the necessity and efficacy of Christ's atonement; and after listening with great attention, he gathered up his remaining strength, and in a tone of voice I shall never forget, he said, “it is too late-too late.” That was his last night.

The last case I shall mention occurred only six weeks since. I was requested to visit a young man who was considered to be dying. He had been ill eight months, but had no idea that he should die until about eight days before I saw him. He was exceedingly ignorant, and had only thought about eternity during the eight days that he had apprehended the approach of death. It was on a Friday that I first saw him, but he was then unwilling to converse. I again saw him the next day, but it was with difficulty that I could rouse him to a state of consciousness. A lucid interval of half an hour afforded me an opportunity of urging upon him "repentance

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