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Monmouth

possessed unbounded influence in the west of Scotland. would not at first give his assent to the schemes of the conspirators, but at last agreed to join them, and a plan of operations was drawn up. Argyle was to land with a small force in the western Highlands, raise the great clan of Campbell, and march on Edinburgh; while Monmouth engaged to make a descent on England, and co-operate with the Scotch as circumstances might dictate. After having effected a landing according to appointment, Argyle raised part of his clansmen, formed them into something resembling an army, and commenced operations. But he was constantly thwarted by his subordinates, Hume and Cochrane; and the royal troops, superior in discipline and numbers, speedily dispersed the luckless expedition. Argyle himself, after a short pursuit, was taken, and beheaded. From the moment he was freed from his unworthy associates, his lofty and pious spirit became plainly manifested; he behaved before his judges with dignified firmness, and on the fatal scaffold, having professed his belief in the religion of his fathers, and his certain hope of heaven, died as became a hero and a Christian, and the descendant of M'Callum More.

Six days before Argyle's capture, Monmouth landed at Lyme, in Dorsetshire. The country-people flocked in crowds to his standard, and he was soon surrounded by a tumultuary herd of followers; but he had very little money, and but few arms for his recruits, and so the greater part of them armed themselves with iron-pointed stakes, and scythes fixed on the end of poles. The farmers furnished him with horses for his cavalry, and after some delay he commenced his march. But as yet none of the gentry or nobility had come to his camp, and already the Lords-lieutenants of the neighbouring counties were calling out the militia, and arming for King James. From Lyme, Monmouth marched through various towns and villages to Taunton, where he was reinforced, and joyously welcomed; but still none of the Whig Lords, whose aid he had expected, made their appearance. On leaving Taunton, the insurgents set out for Bristol; but not thinking an assault practicable, they turned towards Bath, continually harassed by the militia, under the Dukes of Beaufort and Albemarle. Utterly ignorant of the whereabouts of the regular troops under the Earl of Feversham, who was now in pursuit of him, Monmouth got to Bridgewater, where he learned that the royal army was encamped, not far from the town, on the field of Sedgemoor. A night-attack was decided on, and the unhappy Monmouth marched from his quarters, without beat of drum, about midnight. The surprise was badly planned, and the Royalists, having had time to prepare, made dreadful havoc of their undisciplined adversaries as soon as daylight began to disperse the mists which hung about the dreary moor. Monmouth himself, who seems to have been haunted by a dread of being taken alive, was hurried off the field by Lord Grey before the fate of the battle was decided; but the unfortunate enthusiasts, who had sacrificed themselves to his ambition, still showed a bold front, and fought most bravely with their scythes and

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forks long after their leader had abandoned them. In the end, however, they were surrounded by the Royal troops; they broke and fled in all directions, and a terrible massacre ensued, which was succeeded by the still more sanguinary horrors of the "Jeffreys' campaign," and the murders perpetrated during the "bloody assizes." Two days after the battle, Grey was taken, disguised as a peasant; and the next evening the pursuers tracked the wretched Monmouth to his last hiding-place. After a close search, they dragged out of a dry ditch a gaunt, half-starved, figure, just alive, which was all that remained of the once-brilliant Duke of Monmouth, "the Protestant hero," and the fond hope of half the nation. Utterly prostrated both in mind and body, he wrote, soon after his capture, a most imploring and abject letter to the King, which, it is needless to say, was of no avail. After having been brought to London, Monmouth was, at his own earnest entreaty, admitted to an audience by James; in an agony of despair he clung to his uncle's knees, and begged his life in piteous accents; but the King was unmoved, amply verifying Marlborough's character of him, "hard as marble." And now Monmouth collected his shattered faculties, and prepared to die with the dignity of one who had taken the sacred title of King upon him, and had been the avowed champion of Protestantism. He was led to the scaffold on the 15th of July, 1685. All the available room about Tower-Hill was crowded with spectators, and fears were entertained of a desperate attempt at a rescue; but so strong a guard was stationed around the place of execution, that the behaviour of the vast multitude was orderly and subdued. The Duke's last moments were disturbed by the pertinacious exhortations and reflections of the Bishops who attended him, and who, though possibly well-meaning, acted with great harshness to the erring victim. Though refusing to give his assent to the doctrine of passive obedience which they endeavoured to force upon him, he professed his sincere repentance, and his belief in the Protestant faith. Having given the headsman some money, and cautioned him to be careful, he laid his head calmly on the block; but the wretched executioner, terrified by the prevalent notion of the sanctity of royal blood, and the words Monmouth had said to him, struck one or two trembling blows, which only mangled the unhappy sufferer, and threw down the axe in horror, amidst the frenzied execrations of the vast crowd beneath: brought to himself by the threats of the Sheriffs, he again took up the axe, and severed the head from the bleeding trunk in a few more strokes.

Thus miserably perished, in the thirty-sixth year of his age, James, Duke of Monmouth; once the gayest and most admired in the most brilliant courts of Europe; once the head of a powerful party, the idol, and the recognised leader of the Protestants of this country. He was led astray by evil counsel, and his own unrestrained ambition; and having advanced a claim founded on falsehood, he met with a horrible and untimely end. From his sad and eventful history we may learn the lesson that the greatest natural gifts, if not directed by prudence, and controlled by piety and religion,-if sullied by unlawful ambition, and

THE WIFE AND FAMILY LIFE OF LUTHER.

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not combined with honesty of purpose,-will only ensure ruin and disgrace, instead of honour and happiness.

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wish had a speedy fulfilment; and where he was born, thither he went up to die. A mission of importance called him to Eisleben; and his symptoms of illness increased. It was an anxious time for Katharine in spite of his continued attempts to soothe her in his letters. In one epistle he exhorts her to read St. John, and adds, "You afflict yourself just as if God were not all-powerful, and not able to raise up new Dr. Martins by dozens, should the old Dr. Martin be drowned in the Salle, or perish in any other way. There is One who takes care of me in His own manner, better than you or all the angels could ever do. He sits by the side of the Almighty Father. Tranquillize yourself, then." A few days after this letter was written, he grew rapidly worse, and sunk rapidly. He died in the full assurance of hope, thus expressing himself: "O my heavenly Father, eternal, merciful God, Thou hast revealed to me Thy Son, our Lord Jesus Christ; Him I have preached, Him I have confessed, Him I love and worship as my dearest Saviour and Deliverer, whom the ungodly persecute and blaspheme, receive my poor soul. O heavenly Father, although I must quit this body, and am hurried away from this life, yet I certainly know that I shall abide eternally with

F. T. P.

Thee, and that none can pluck me out of Thy hand." Then he thrice repeated these words:"Into Thy hand I commit my spirit: Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth;" (Psalm xxxi. 5 ;) and also these words: "God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." (John iii. 16.) He was buried at Wittenberg, with great honour.

And now Katharine was left a widow, the sole guardian of three sons and one daughter. In his last hours, her illustrious husband spoke of her in highest terms, and left her all his property, in full confidence that she would act justly towards their children. The Elector of Saxony, and other noble personages, came liberally forward with promises of a regular income for her support, and the education of her children: and but for the breaking out of war, Katharine would have been comfortably provided for. Unfortunately her landed property, lying near the seat of war, brought her in but little, and her husband's friends failing to fulfil their promises, Katharine, as a widow, was poor and desolate indeed.

Not only was she in pecuniary difficulties, she had to leave Wittenberg, fearing that the conqueror, Charles V., to whom her faithful friend, the Elector, had been compelled to surrender himself, would be unfriendly to the family of the great Reformer, against whose faith he waged war. Probably there was no need to fear, as on seeing Luther's grave, he observed, "I war not with the dead; let this place be respected." After many wanderings they returned to Wittenberg. Katharine's seven years of widowhood were sorrowful

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TWO RAINBOW THOUGHTS.-THE FOWLS OF THE AIR.

indeed. She had to borrow money on her estate, and to sell her silver plate, and to let apartments to students. In 1552, she met with an accident, from which she did not recover. She died firm in faith, exhorting her children, and praying for the prosperity of the true church. She was then fifty-three years of age. She was buried with great honour; and a tombstone, with her effigy sculptured on it, is yet to be seen in the parish church at Torgau. Their three sons, although not greatly distinguished, filled honourable

positions, and married into good families. Margaret married a noble and excellent man, and had nine children.

TWO RAINBOW THOUGHTS.

1. GOD sets His bow in the clouds, and, when He looks at it, remembers His covenant with man. And so do the merits of Christ form a rainbow of mercy round the throne of God. He looks upon it, and "remembers " what Jesus has done, and the blessings He has bought for sinners. He "remembers" the accepted sacrifice, and His own unfailing promise. He "remembers" His "everlasting covenant," and thus, ever" delighting in mercy,' He is "ready to pardon" all who seek forgiveness through His Son. "Wherefore He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him."

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2. It is a phenomenon we do not see every day. Two things are needful to form a rainbow: the storm of rain, and the shining of the sun rays. And so it is with some rare joys felt by the Christian. There are special consolations felt only at particular times. To produce them there must be the storm of sorrow or affliction, and the sun rays of God's favour smiling brightly at the same time. These two, meeting together, produce rainbow joys, as precious as they are rare. I. E, P.

THE FOWLS OF THE AIR.
MATTHEW VI. 26.

(Concluded from page 41.)

THE process of forming this lower world, and the system connected with it, develops various degrees, so to speak, of creating wisdom and love. From the lifeless and insignificant sand-grain, or the living blade of grass, up to man, there is an ascending series of existences, each above the other in endowments and value. But in the human creature, being rises to its meridian point; all the various forms of life combine and culminate. Man's exalted powers outreach mere animal life and sensation in their most elevated and delicate forms. They far surpass the powers of instinet, whatever that mysterious and all but unerring faculty may be. They comprehend a rational soul, with all the attributes of thought and reflection; the deep affections of a thoroughly emotional nature; and an existence immortal as the existence of Him who liveth for ever and ever. He can read off from the face of the glittering heavens, or from the crest of the sunburnt earth, the radiant characters which set forth the Lord's wondrous perfections, and declare His eternal power and Godhead. He can survey the actual existence of creation in her most extended sweeps; He can sanctify the various scenes of nature and of life to moral uses; and, above all, he can render to the Creator of all things a voluntary adoration, and an acceptable service.

These splendid powers are denied to the fowls of the air, and the lower creatures of earth. The only subjects which engage their attention are those pressed upon them by present material necessities. The glowing scenery of nature is thrown around them in vain; it arouses no thought, awakens no reflection, kindles power of comparison. The past, even in their own individual history, is a

no

THE FOWLS OF THE AIR.

perfect emptiness; they cannot read its annals, or call up its reminiscences; and the future is no apocalypse. It is unradiated by light from the analogies which observation and experience furnish to man, and by which, in his case, its gloom is somewhat broken. Their eye cannot look through the telescope of God's own revelation; eternity is beyond the range of their feeble vision. Spiritual themes and moral actions, which furnish to us such inexhaustible sources of thought, they cannot perceive or understand. And even the highest species, those which approach nearest to intellectual character, seem perfectly incurious about the wondrous causes at work in producing the various scenes and events around them.*

How sovereign, then, is the supremacy of man's nature over the beasts of the earth and the fowls of heaven! Well did the Psalmist, in his devout midnight contemplations, exclaim, "What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him? For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet: all sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; the fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas. O Lord our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth!" Thou "hast set Thy glory above the heavens." (Psalm viii. 1, 4-9.) "Are ye not much better than they ?"

The argument, then, proceeds upon the principle, that God's interest in

This whole subject is eloquently illustrated and argued by the Rev. Richard Watson, in his discourse on "Man magnified by the Divine Regard."-Works, vol. ii., pp. 67—73.

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His creatures, and His care for their welfare, are proportioned to their dignity and importance in the scale of being. And this is in perfect harmony with the instincts and propensities of our own nature. Do we not feel a greater interest in any living thing than in a lump of lifeless matter? Have we not profounder reverence for life in its higher, than in its lower, forms? Do we not sympathize more strongly with creaturelife than with plant-life? and with rational than with sentient existences ? Do not all the intensities of the soul gush out towards man, and that because he is the highest type of being, the most glorious of all "things that have life ?" Now, if we instinctively do this, then, reasoning from ourselves up to Him whose offspring we are, and who made us thus to feel, we might naturally conclude that He regards His creatures in proportion to the nobility of their several natures, and their importance in that scale of existences which He has formed. "And should not I spare Nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than sixscore thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and their left hand; and also much cattle?" (Jonah iv. 11.) Here the irrational creature, through all its tribes, is not overlooked in the amnesty of mercy to the guilty city; but the human creature, even in its infant state, claims the first and highest place in Divine regard. The "much cattle" are spared for the infants' sake.

Now apply all this to the case before us. The "fowls of the air" are inferior creatures. They have no intellectual powers; no knowledge of their Creator and Benefactor; they know not the design of their own existence; they are creatures of a day, and will soon perish for ever. "Are ye not much better than they ?" You have intellect, moral power, and immortality. You range in thought over all the works of God. You rise

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