not that this also is included,) sinners in their own persons, bearing witness by their very deeds, proving, by the sad testimony of similar acts of disobedience, that they are one in heart, and one in passions, with him who brought on himself and his race the penal judgment of death. -Ellicott's Destiny of the Creature, pp. 66, 67. Edit. 1858.

No. CXI.

"To the intent that now unto the principalities and powers in heavenly places might be known by the church the manifold wisdom of God." (Eph. iii. 10.)

Though they themselves are not the parties interested; the spectators, not the guests; yet they are delighted in the glory of God, and are kindly affectionated to the salvation of lost men: and that they may have a nearer view of this mystery, God gratifieth them by sending them often to attend upon the dispensation of the Gospel, and assist in it so far as is meet for creatures. They are hereby more excited to praise and glorify God; and are careful to vouchsafe their attendance upon the meanest of them that believe in Him.- Manton on Christ's Temptation, p. 217. Edit. 1685.

CROSSING THE RIVER.

In a humble cottage, situated in a wild, rugged spot, far from any other human habitation, lived a widow with her three little ones. The deep, dark woods surrounded the cottage on every side, except where a dashing river swept along but a few rods from the door. It was a lonely place; and but for her sweet babes, her treasure and comfort, whose innocent mirth and playfulness chased away their mother's sadness, her heart would have died within her.

There had been another light to that mother's heart. A kind husband and father once protected the beloved wife, and nourished the tender babes. But death had claimed him, and one pleasant sunny day in the early summer, the distant neighbours came to bury the dead. And now the young mother was alone. Her sympathizer, her protector, was gone; and, with her three babes pressed to her aching heart, and clinging to her, their only parent, for support, she was left a stricken widow.

The pleasant summer-time returned. A year had passed, and the first anguish of grief had subsided. During the warm sunny days, as the children frolicked beneath the trees, their fond mother listened to their shouts, and was happy. Many an afternoon as she sat in the cottage-door, plying her busy fingers upon

their garments, her eye would follow their little forms, and there was still light and joy in her heart.

But one day Willie chose to nestle on his mother's bosom, when his brother and sister called him away to play; and the next morning he was sick. Carefully did she nurse her darling child, and seek to recall the playful smile to the cheek; but day by day he grew more pale and weak, until he could no longer throw his little arms about his mother's neck, or return the fond kiss so oft imprinted on his brow. With pain, she bent more closely over the sufferer, almost forgetting those in health; till her other boy sickened, and was laid on the same bed. Watching over these two little ones, every other feeling was buried in the one desire to have them restored to her arms the glad and happy creatures of a few days before. But the pale features grew more pale, and the tiny hands less round; and then one evening little Mary laid her head on her mother's lap, and said, "Mother, I'm sick, too: lay me on the bed with George and Willie." And now, day after day, and night after night, she watched them all, vainly hoping that the next evening, or the next morning, would find them better. But a week passed, after the last one grew tired and sick, and the anxious mother, as she saw the features daily growing more languid, was one night

startled at the thought that they might die. "No, no, it must not be," she exclaimed; and more tenderly and earnestly she bathed their fevered brows, and begged them to taste the cooling draught she brought them. Hope at last left her heart, as in unutterable grief she traced the signs of death upon her children.

Often, during the still watches of the night, as she turned from one of the sufferers to another, she trembled lest the little spirit was already leaving the body. But the grey light of morning shone into the room; and they lay quite still, as if asleep. The agonized mother, in this first interval of repose, threw herself upon her knees by the bedside, and poured forth a prayer.

"O, my Father, take not my babes from me! I cannot have it so. I will not; I cannot give them up. Let me die; but take not my babes."

The prayer was finished. She slept; and she dreamed an angel stooped low over the sorrowing one, and said, Woman, I am sent to comfort thee. My name is Faith. Come with me."

And, guided by the angel, the widow left the house, and walked a long time, till she came to a spot on the river's brink, where she had never before been, far from her cottage-door. Here the angel bade her stop. She obeyed, and looked around. It was a desolate place. Around her was a little open space; but not far off rose trees, not large and beautiful, like those around her dwelling, but gnarled and scraggy, spreading wide their unsightly branches. Some were only blasted and dead trunks; and others seemed to have been scarred and scathed by the lightning's touch. The earth was covered with a thicket of brushwood, and huge ragged rocks were piled about, which seemed to be the haunts of wild beasts; for almost at the mother's back were heard their growlings. From the thicket, serpents darted forth, showing their forked tongues, and then retreated back to their places of concealment; and the air was filled with poisonous insects of every kind.

Yet, in this dismal and frightful place, there were children, and they seemed to be her own, playing about as they were wont to do it at home. She hastened to them; but before she reached the spot,

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her darling George screamed with pain. She caught him to her breast, and saw his arm had already begun to swell with the sting of an insect. She gathered her children around her; but little Mary broke away, saying, "O, mother, see the pretty flower!" She ran to pluck it, but came back crying: a thorn had pierced her hand. The little arm and hand were clasped in the mother's, as if she would press out the pain; when glancing at Willie, as he sat at her feet, she shrieked ; for a huge serpent, with which the innocent boy was playing, was coiling itself around his body. In the wildest desperation, she caught the serpent in her hand, and tore it from her child, and it retreated into the thicket. She encircled her little ones in her arms, but here they were not safe; for the poisonous insects lighted upon them at every moment, and the roaring of wild beasts indicated their approach. "Alas, I cannot shield you from danger," exclaimed the wretched mother; and she turned to the angel, saying, "O, take us away; take us from this wretched place! At least lead my dear babes to a place of safety."

No

The angel replied, "It is a dangerous path that leads from this place: your babes would not be safe to walk in it. But there is a way of escape across this river. On the opposite shore is a delightful country, abounding in gardens filled with rare fruit and flowers, beautiful trees, and sweet fountains of water. wild beasts are in that country, nor any serpents. The King is a merciful and kind Sovereign, and His subjects delight to do His will. All join in homage to Him, and in love to one another. up, and you may see that land." And, directed by Faith, the woman gazed and beheld its blessed shores. "O that we might be taken to that happy place !" she exclaimed, in rapture.

Stand

The angel replied, "There is no boat here in which to cross the river; but the King of that country sometimes sends a messenger to this shore to take some of its inhabitants to dwell with Him. Yes, I see a boat putting off now, and directing its course hither." Soon it reached the shore, and the boatman stepped out and approached her. She, with her children, were ready and waiting to go; but he

"I will take you all, but one at a time," replied the messenger; and so the mother took Willie in her arms, and kissed his cheek, saying, "Do not be afraid, Willie. The great good King will take care of you; and, in a little while, Georgie and Mary will come to you, and then mother, and we will all be happy in that bright land."

Then she gave him to the boatman, who carried him away. He came again, after a short time, and the mother gave George into his hands. And again he came, saying, "The King of the country has commanded me to come but this once, now. I will take one; for the other I will come another day." Without delay little Mary was given to the boatman, and borne across the river. Then standing up, and holding fast to Faith, the mother gazed, and saw her child landed on that beautiful shore. A large company were waiting to receive her; and among them stood the widow's husband, with George and Willie in his arms.

"O, my God, I thank Thee," burst from her full heart.

She awoke. Her sick ones lay just as they were left, when she fell asleep. In agony she bent over them, and could only say, "O my darling, darling babes!"

In a while, Willie opened his eyes, and looked up to his mother, for the first time for many long days. A beautiful smile rested on his little face, as he said, "Mother, He is coming to take Willie away." His eyes closed; the pleasant smile still remained; but the messenger, Death, had borne his spirit

away.

Shortly after, George too, looked up, and, raising his little hand, exclaimed, "See, see, mother, the angels; and one is coming for me!" The uplifted hand fell, and quietly the little boy went to be with the angels.

"My Father, Thou doest all things well," said the mother, as, gazing upward, she seemed to trace the ascending flight of these freed spirits,

She was soon aroused by Mary's faint voice. "Mother, I see papa, and he is calling me. Georgie and Willie are in his arms. O, mother, may I go? Kiss me, and let me go!"

"My Father, I thank Thee that they can be safe from sin and danger in Thy home," exclaimed the mother. The parting kiss was given; and Mary was yielded to the arms of death.

THE SILENT CONFLICTS OF

LIFE.

A TRIUMPH in the field is a theme for poetry, for painting, for history, eulogistic and aggrandizing agencies, whose united tribute constitutes fame; but there are victories won by men over themselves more truly honourable to the conqueror than any that can be achieved in war. These silent successes we may never hear of. The battles in which they are obtained are fought in solitude, and without help, save from above. The conflict is often waged in the quiet of one's home, or in the still watches of the night, and the struggle is often fearful. Honour to every conqueror in such a warfare! Honour to the man or woman who fights temptation, hatred, revenge, envy, selfishness, back to its last covert in the heart, and then expels it for ever. Although no outward show of honour accrues to the victors of these good fights, they have their reward ; a higher one than fame can bestow.

THE BODY'S ACTION ON THE

MIND.

VOLUMES are now written and spoken upon the effect of the mind upon the body. Much of it is true. But I wish, says Florence Nightingale, a little more was thought of the effect of the body on the mind. You who believe yourselves overwhelmed with anxieties, but are able every day to walk up Regent-street, or out in the country, to take your meals with others in other rooms, &c., you little know how much your anxieties are thereby lightened; you little know how intensified they become to those who can have no change; how the very walls of their sick rooms seem hung with their cares; how the ghosts of their troubles

haunt their beds; how impossible it is for them to escape from a pursuing thought without some help from variety.

A patient can just as much move his leg when it is fractured as change his thoughts when no external help from variety is given him. This is, indeed, one of the main sufferings of sickness; just as the fixed posture is one of the main sufferings of the broken limb.

It is an ever-recurring wonder to see educated people, who call themselves nurses, acting thus. They vary their own objects, their own employments, many times a day; and while nursing some bedridden sufferer, they let him lie there staring at a dead wall, without any change of object to enable him to vary his thoughts; and it never even occurs to them at least to move his bed, so that he can look out of the window. No, the bed is to be always left in the darkest, dullest, remotest part of the

room.

I think it is a very common error among the well, to think that "with a little more self-control" the sick might, if they choose, "dismiss painful thoughts" which " aggravate their disease," &c. Believe me, almost any sick person who behaves decently well, exercises more self-control every moment of his day than you will ever know till you are sick yourself. Almost every step that crosses his room, is painful to him; almost every thought that crosses his brain is painful to him; and if he can speak without being savage, and look without being unpleasant, he is exercising self-control.

Suppose you have been up all night, and, instead of being allowed to have your cup of tea, you were to be told that you ought to "exercise self-control," what should you say? Now the nerves of the sick are always in the state that

SELF-KNOWLEDGE.

LORD, many times I am aweary quite Of my own self, my sin and vanity; Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright, Weary of me.

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yours are in after you have been up all night.

We will suppose the diet of the sick to be cared for. Then this state of nerves is most frequently to be relieved by care in affording them a pleasant view, a judicious variety as to flowers, and pretty things. Light by itself will often relieve it. The craving for "the return of day," which the sick so constantly evince, is generally nothing but the desire for light,-the remembrance of the relief which a variety of objects before the eye affords to the harassed sick mind.

"When I lived among the Choctaw Indians, I held a consultation with one of their Chiefs respecting the successive stages of their progress in the arts of civilized life; and among other things he informed me, that at their start they made a great mistake, they only sent boys to school. These boys came home intelligent men; but they married uneducated and uncivilized wives, and the uniform result was, the children were all like their mothers. The father soon lost all his interest both in wife and children. 'And now,' said he, if we would educate but one class of our children, we should choose the girls; for, when they become mothers, they educate their sons.'

This is the point, and it is true. No nation can become fully enlightened when mothers are not in a good degree qualified to discharge the duties of the home-work of education.

And hate against myself I often bear,
And enter with myself in fierce debate ;
Take Thou my part, against myself, nor

share

In that just hate.

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Best friends might loathe

things perverse

us, if what

We know of our own selves, they also knew:

Lord, Holy One! if Thou, who knowest

worse,

Shouldst loathe us too!

NEARER HOME.

1 Thess. iv. 17.

FOR ever with the Lord;

Amen, so let it be:

Life from the dead is in that word, 'Tis immortality.

Here in the body pent,

Absent from Him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home. Nearer home, nearer home, A day's march nearer home.

My Father's house on high,

Home of my soul! how near At times to faith's illumined eye Thy golden gates appear! Here in the body pent, &c.

For ever with the Lord!—

Father, if 'tis Thy will,

The promise of that faithful word, Even here in me fulfil.

Here in the body pent, &c.

ON SELF-IMPROVEMENT. THERE is the secret. People do not reflect that their improvement in knowledge, in health, in property, in morals, and in general ability, depends chiefly upon themselves. The pupil blames his teacher, the apprentice his master, the servant her mistress, for the want of advancement; whereas the censure ought to lie against themselves.

There are no self-made men: we know that many persons make use of the phrase, and talk and even write about this and that man being self-made; but all such talk is nonsense, unless it means that a certain man by the diligent use of small advantages has prospered beyond another man of much greater advantages but with less earnestness. In that sense it may be excused; after all, it is but a bouncing mode of speaking.

The truth is, that nobody is selfmade. We are perpetually learning of one another; and, at all events, if we are now doing well in any line of things, somebody gave us a start at first. One man is said to be self-made in music; he has not had a musical education under Professors of harmony; possibly he might pass a good examination in music: but he did not make his gamut, nor his notes, nor the rules of harmony; he may have found them in books, and have spelt out a good deal by inquiry, but which of

them did he make? Another man has got together a good business, and a deal of money. His rise in the world may have been secure, gradual, and tolerably rapid; and, having very slender means when young, people will say he began business with nothing. Not so: no matter though he may have become a "successful merchant," be it remembered that at first he found a horseshoe, and sold it for a penny! We have ventured to say thus much on the one side of the matter, because the talk we have referred to savours not a little of flattery and of vanity; but now for the other side.

There is no improvement without selfimprovement; and in no class of the community is this more manifest than among our servants." They are all young to begin with; and, upon the whole, whilst young they are teachable: they feel their want of instruction, and are glad to obtain it from either their mistresses or from their fellow-servants. Right gratifying it is to see the attention they pay at first, and the amount of practical knowledge they gain in a few months; so much so, that their employers remark to one another that "such and such a servant is only seventeen years of age, and yet she can do as much as many at five-and-twenty." This may be very true, but still the adage holds good, "What's well done, is twice done:" and