It is a source of enjoyment in the act, it is pleasant in the retrospect. It brings no disagreeable reflections even in the day of adversity or the hour of grief. Its remembrance plants no thorns in the dying pillow. At the day of judgment and forever will it be found a glorious verity that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

And just here comes in the ever-ready objection relative to the orthodoxy of the sentiment under consideration. What sticklers we are for the doctrine of salvation by faith! How readily our hearts sympathize with our pockets, and we thank God that eternal life is not to be bought with money, and that the blessedness of heaven is a free gift!-ay, verily, it is a free gift. Gold and silver cannot purchase a mansion there; nor is a crown of immortality to be had in exchange for all the wealth of a created universe. And I have said nothing that may be tortured into such an absurdity, nor did Jesus. Heaven is not to be obtained by giving, but it is equally true that heaven may be lost by refusing to give. The sentence of condemnation in that day, "Ye did it not," will settle forever the oft-discussed question relative to faith and works, but will make it no clearer than it is now to the mind not willingly blinded. As a man's works are, so is his faith; and no one has a particle more than he makes visible to the world around him. How can he have? Is faith a material substance-a thing to be locked up and reserved for use when occasion calls for it? or may a man do by his faith as he does by his Sunday coat-brush it nicely on Monday morning, fold it neatly, and put it away until the dawn of the next Sabbath?

Two questions here arise. They are frequently proposed, because selfish ingenuity deems them unanswerable. First, what proportion of my income should I devote to benevolent purposes? and, secondly, to what specific objects ought I to give? The answer to both is the same-just what you please. We are not under the Jewish dispensation, as saith the apostle-not under law, but under grace. To give was a duty, now it is a privilege. Christ gave no law upon the subject, and therein he acted just like himself. He simply said, It is more blessed to give than to receive; and Paul, in recording the sentiment, uses no

argument to enforce it as a duty. He merely says, Remember the words of the Lord Jesus. Remember them and act. Remember them and be blessed just to what extent you choose. No man, and no body of men, have any right to dictate rules and regulations upon this subject. It would be usurping the prerogatives of Jehovah, and setting limits to the enjoyments of God's children. Christ wants them to be perfectly happy, and never said, nor authorized any one else to say to the soul panting for blessings from his hand-Thus far, but no farther.

But is there not something like partiality and respect of persons here? Certainly the poor cannot give as much as the rich, and by consequence they may not expect so much blessedness, so large an amount of enjoyment. A fallacy this more specious than any to which we have adverted, and therefore I suppose it was that Christ took pains to expose and explode it. In respect of giving, and the blessedness thence arising, he placed all men upon one and the same level. This he did by teaching, if I may so speak, a new rule in arithmetic. A poor widow's farthing was the largest gift thrown into the treasury when the wealthy men of the nation were making their offerings. Many that were rich cast in much, but she gave more than they all. By consequence she was entitled to receive, and beyond all peradventure, did receive a blessing more than equivalent to theirs. You will say that the difference in the motives by which these donors were actuated justified the Lord Jesus in the judgment which he gave. Perhaps so. There is nothing said, however, about the motives of either party. I know not what their motives were, and do not care to know. I leave them with Him who looketh upon the heart, while it is mine to regard only the outward appearance.

How, then, can the paltry gift of this poor widow be said to be greater than the oblations of the rich? Simply on this wise: Christ estimates our gifts not by the actual amount given, but by what remains after we have made our offering.

How simple, and at the same time how perfectly adapted to every situation and to every condition in life! Is it not strange that we did not think of that before? How it equalizes the rich and the poor!-nay, how it seems to give the

poor man the advantage over his more successful neighbor. Seems, I say, but it does not in reality. It places all alike on the same platform, while to every individual comes the assurance of the Lord Jesus: "It is more blessed to give than to receive." Do you believe it?

ONE

THE CHILD-SEER.

NE of the darkest pages in American history is that relating to the sufferings of the inhabitants of Otsego county, New-York, during the war of the Revolution, from the attacks of the Indians and Royalists under the Mohawk chief Brant and the more savage Captain Walter Butler. Early in the war, Cherry Valley was selected as a place of refuge and defense for the inhabitants of the smaller and more exposed settlements. Block-houses were built, fortifications were thrown up, and finally a fort was erected, under the direction of General Lafayette. The inhabitants of the surrounding settlements came in and lived for several months as in garrison, submitting to strict military regulations. Among the families which took temporary refuge in this fort, was that of Captain Robert Lindsay, formerly a British officer, brave and adventurous, who, only at the entreaty of his wife, had left his farm, which stood in a lonely unprotected situation, several miles from any settlement. This Captain Lindsay was a reserved, melancholy man, about whom the simple and honest pioneers wondered and speculated not a little. His language and manner bespoke at once the man of education and breeding. His wife, though a quiet, heroic woman, was evidently a lady by nature and association.

Captain Lindsay had a native love of solitude and adventure, the first requisites for a pioneer; and for several years no other reason was known for his seeking the wilds, and exposing his tender family to all the perils and privations of a frontier life. But at length an emigrant coming from his native place, in the Highlands of Scotland, brought the story of his exile, which was briefly this :-Captain Lindsay, when a somewhat dissipated young man, proud and passionate, had quarreled with a brother-officer, an old friend, at a messdinner. Both officers had drunk freely; and their difference was aggravated by hot-brained, half-drunken partisans. In

sulting words were exchanged, and a duel on the spot was the consequence. Lindsay escaped with a slight wound; but his sword pierced the heart of his friend. He was hurried away to a secure hidingplace, but not before he had learned that in the first matter of dispute he had been in the wrong.

Lindsay made all the reparation in his power, by transferring his paternal estate, for the term of his own lifetime, to the homeless widow and young daughter of his friend. Then, with his wife's small property, and the price of his commission, he secretly emigrated to America. He left his family in New-York, while he went up the Hudson, purchased a small farm, and built a house for their reception. He was accompanied in this expedition by an old family servitor; who, with true Highland fidelity, clung to his unfortunate master with exemplary devotion.

Mrs. Lindsay's heart sank within her when she found that her new home was so far from any settlement,-literally in the wilderness; but she understood her husband's misanthropic gloom, almost amounting to melancholy madness, and did not murmur. Yet her forest home was very beautiful,—a small valley-farm, surrounded by densely-wooded hills, dark gorges, and mossy dells. The house was a rough, primitive-looking structure, containing but three small apartments and a low chamber, or rather loft. But it was comfort. ably and securely built; and, overhung by noble trees, and overrun by wild vines, was not unpicturesque. Under the tasteful care of Mrs. Lindsay, a little garden soon sprang up around it, where, among many strange plants, bloomed a few familiar flowers, whose fragrance seemed to breathe of home, like the sighs of an exile's heart.

The family at the period of their taking refuge in the fort at Cherry Valley, consisted of three sons and an infant daughter, (the last born in America,) the man Davie, and a maid-servant. Douglas, the elder son, a lad of twelve or thirteen, was a brave, high-spirited, somewhat self-willed boy, tall and handsome, and the especial pride of his mother: not alone because he was her first-born, but because he most vividly recalled to her heart her husband in his happy days. Angus, the second son, was a slight, delicate, fair-haired boy, possessing a highly sensitive and poetic nature. Unconsciously displaying at times

singular and startling intuitions-dreaming uncomprehended dreams, which were sometimes strangely verified, and uttering involuntary prophecies, which time often fulfilled—he was always spoken of as "a strange child," and, for all his tender years and sweet pensive face, was regarded with a secret, shrinking awe, even by those nearest to him. In truth, the child seemed to be gifted with that weird, mysterious faculty known as second-sight.

Archie, the youngest son, his father's own darling, was a sturdy, rosy-cheeked, curly-headed boy of five. Effie was yet at the mother's breast, a little rosy bud of beauty, a fair promise of infinite joy and comfort to her mother's saddened heart.

As I have stated, this family took refuge in the fort, in the spring of seventeen hundred and seventy-eight, somewhat against the will of Captain Lindsay-who, as he remained neutral, had little fear of the Indians—and also of his eldest son, who fancied there was something cowardly in flying from their forest-home before it had been attacked. The latter, however, was soon reconciled by the opportunity afforded him, for the first time for several years, of associating with lads of his own age, of whom there were a goodly number at the fort and settlement. The sports and exercises of the men and youth were entirely of a military character; and Douglas, who had inherited martial tastes from a long line of warlike ancestors, and who had been instructed by his father in military rules and evolutions, soon became the captain of a company of boys, armed with formidable wooden guns, and fully equipped as mimic soldiers. Angus was made his lieutenant; but this was a piece of favoritism, the child having little taste or talent for the profession of arms.

One bright May morning, as these young amateur-fighters were parading on the green before the fort, they had spectators whom they little suspected. Upon a hill, about a mile away, Joseph Brant had posted a large party of his braves, where, concealed by the thick wood, they were looking down on the settlement. It had been his intention to attack the fort that night; but this grand parade of light infantry deceived him. At that distance he mistook the boys for men, and decided to defer the attack till he could ascertain, by his scouts, the exact strength of the place. In the meantime he moved his

party northward a few miles, to a point on the road leading from Cherry Valley to the Mohawk river, where he concealed them behind rocks and trees. At this spot the road passed through a thick growth of evergreens, forming a perpetual twilight, and wound along a precipice a hundred and fifty feet high, over which plunged a small stream in a cascade, called by the Indians Tekaharawa.

His

Brant had doubtless received information that an American officer had ridden down from Fort Plain, on the Mohawk river, in the morning, to visit the fort, and might be expected to return before night. This officer had come to inform the garrison that a regiment of militia would arrive the next day, and take up their quarters at Cherry Valley. name was Lieutenant Woodville; he was a young man of fortune,-gay, gallant, handsome, and daring. He was dressed in a rich suit of velvet, wore a plumed hat and a jewel-hilted sword, and let his dark waving hair grow to a cavalierish length. He rode a full-blooded English horse, which he managed with ease. This Lieutenant Woodville lingered so long at the settlement, that his friends tried to persuade him to remain all night; but he laughed, and, as he mounted flung down his portmanteau to one of them, saying, "I will call for that to-morrow." When it was nearly sunset the little garrison came out into the court-yard to watch his departure. Among the spectators were the boy-soldiers whose parade of the morning had daunted even the terrible Brant. Foremost stood the doughty Douglas, and by his side the timid Angus, gazing with childish curiosity on the dashing young officer, and marking with wondering delight his smiling mastery over his steed.

Suddenly the boy passed his hand over his eyes, grew marble-white and rigid for an instant, then shuddered, and burst into tears. Before he could be questioned, he had quitted his brother, rushed forward, and was clinging to the lieutenant's knee; crying, in a tone of the most passionate entreaty

"O, sir, ye maun stay here to-nighthere, where a' is safe! Dinna gang; they'll kill ye! O, dinna gang!"

"Who, my little lad? who'll kill me?" gently asked the officer, looking down into the delicate face of the boy, struck by its agonized expression.

"The Indians. They're waitin' for you in yon dark, awfu' place by the falls," replied Angus, in a tone of solemnity. "And how do you know all this, my little man?" asked the officer, smiling.

"I hae seen them," said Angus, in a low, hoarse tone, casting down his eyes and trembling visibly.

"Seen them! When?" "Just noo. I saw them a' as weel as I see you and the lave. It's the guid God, may be, that sends the vision to save you frae death. So ye maun heed the warning, and not put your life in peril by riding up there, where they're waitin' for ye in the gloaming."

"What is the matter with this child?" exclaimed Lieutenant Woodville, turning to a friend in the little crowd. The man, for answer, merely touched his forehead significantly. "Indeed! So young!" replied the officer. Then, laying his hand gently on the head of the boy, and smiling pityingly into his wild beseeching eyes, he said, "But indeed I must go, prophet of evil. Indians or no Indians, a soldier must obey orders, you know. Come, dry your tears, and I will bring you a pretty plume for your soldier-cap when I return. Adieu, friends, until to-morrow!"

Saying this, he bent to loosen Angus's hands from the stirrup ; but the child clung convulsively, shrieking out his warnings and entreaties, until his father broke through the crowd, and bore him forcibly away.

Lieutenant Woodville galloped off, with gay words of farewell; but, as some noticed, with an unusual shadow on his handsome face.

Mrs. Lindsay took Angus in her arms, and strove to soothe him in her quiet, loving way. Yet the child would not be comforted. He hid his face in her bosom, sobbing and shuddering, but saying nothing for several minutes. Then he shrieked out "There! There! O, mither, they hae killed him! I hae seen him fa' frae his horse. I see him noo, lying amang the briars, wi' the red bluid rinning frae his head, down on to his braw soldiercoat. O, mither, I could na help it; he would na believe the vision !"

stained with blood, had brought terrible confirmation of the vision. Next morning, the body of the unfortunate young officer was found in the dark pass, near the falls of Tekaharawa. He had been shot and scalped by Brant himself.

As may be supposed, this tragic verification of Angus Lindsay's prophecy excited surprise and speculation, and caused the child to be regarded with a strange interest, which, though not unfriendly, had in it too much of superstitious dread to be altogether kindly.

The boy instinctively shrank from it, and grew more sad and reserved day by day. Some regarded the prediction as naturally resulting from the omnipresent fear of savages-common to settlers' children-taking more vivid form in the imagination of a nervous and sickly boy, and the fate of Lieutenant Woodville as merely a remarkable coincidence. But, more shook their heads with solemn meaning, declaring the lad a young wizard; and went so far as to intimate that the real wizard was the lad's father, whose haughty and melancholy reserve was little understood by the honest settlers, and that poor little Angus was his victim-the one possessed.

The expression of this feeling-not in words, but in a sort of distrustful avoidance-made Mrs. Lindsay consent to the proposition of her husband to return to their home for the harvest. Several families were venturing on this hazardous step, encouraged by the temporary tranquillity of the country, and thinking that their savage enemies had quenched their blood-thirst at Wyoming,-thus rather taking courage than warning by that fearful massacre.

The Lindsays found their home as they had left it three months before; nothing had been molested; they all speedily fell into their old in-door and out-door duties and amusements. And so passed a few weeks of quiet happiness. Captain Lindsay and his man always took their arms with them to the harvest-fields, which were in sight of the house. The two elder sons usually worked with their father. On the last day of the harvest, when little remained to be done, the boys asked permission to go to a stream, about two miles away, to angle for trout.