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to myself, and could have laid down my hand for her to walk over, and felt it honoured.

That woman of a royal heart sent me through London that day, feeling the whole world better because I had met with such an instance of disinterested, self-sacrificing love. One word revealed its inner secret. "We are as good as sisters," she said: "we both know that our Saviour loves us; and we love Him, and want to love Him better."*

*This story was told the following day to a few young men, who were members of a Christian Association in Beckenham, and who were

It seems scarcely necessary to add, that when a few weeks later the afflicted one entered into rest, in the full assurance of salvation through the blood of the Lamb, her faithful and devoted friend was not left friendless. Five houses were thrown open to receive her; but she preferred returning to her original situation, where she had been treated with uniform kindness and consideration.

chiefly men of the working-classes. Early the next morning four pounds were sent me, to be conveyed anonymously to the sufferer and her nurse, with these words written on the envelope, "A token of sympathy and respect from Christian brothers."

No. XCIV.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Tim. i. 7.)

One and the same Spirit is all these at once. And till that Spirit is given us, there is nothing but enmity and disaffection towards God; there is nothing but feebleness and impotence as to anything that is good; there is nothing but distemperature and diseasedness in man, which have pierced him to the very heart. This Spirit, therefore, in reference to these several exigencies, is a spirit of love, of power, and of a sound mind. The same Spirit that makes the soul capable now of doing things that require power; the same Spirit that rectifies the mind, and heals it of those distempers under which it was wasting and consuming before, is a SPIRIT OF LOVE. It is said to be a Spirit "given;" a Spirit superadded to our own; a Spirit that we had not before. Indeed, it must be some other Spirit than ours, which must render us capable of God.-Howe's Sermons on Several Occasions, vol. i., p. 56. Edit. 1744.

No. XCV.

"Woe unto you, Pharisees! for ye tithe mint and rue and all manner of herbs, and pass over judgment and the love of God: these ought ye to have done, and not to leare the other undone." (Luke xi. 42.)

What a strange oversight was this! that the Pharisees, those devout men, those zealous pretenders to the greatest strictness in the observance of the law of

God, as well as to the profoundest knowledge of it, even beyond all other men, should be guilty of such an oversight as to pass over the sum and substance of it; to wit, the love of God! And yet our Saviour speaks of it as their common character. If then the Pharisees, those knowing and strict men, as they would be thought to be, were in such an error as this so commonly, we may well conclude that the spirits of men are generally prone to acquiesce in the mere externals of religion, and take up with the outside thereof, without ever going any further. They think their case is well enough with God if now and then they bow the knee, and compliment Him in duty, and put on some face and show of devotion; while, in the meantime, the love of God is an unthought of thing. So that how many must say, if they would speak as their case truly is, "I never thought that the love of God must go into my worship!" Since then the proneness of mankind to acquiesce in a fair and civil deportment, and in the mere formalities of religion, proceeds from one common fixed cause, the want of this Divine principle of love, it is necessary that we seriously consider the matter, lest we ourselves be thus dreadfully imposed upon.-Ibid., p. 68.

No. XCVI.

"Do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." (Matt. v. 44.)

We should do them what good we can

LISETTE'S DREAM;

Has the world my heart been keeping?
O, forgive and rescue me,
Even me!

Love of God-so pure and changeless, Blood of Christ-so rich and free, Grace of God-so strong and boundless, Magnify it all in me,

Even me!

Pass me not! this lost one bringing,
'Tis but one more, Lord, for Thee!
All my heart to Thee is springing;
Blessing others, O, bless me,

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.* LISETTE has run her fourscore years. Lame of one leg, but erect and well made, there she is in her old, straightbacked arm-chair. Poor as are the adjuncts, the figure is charming. Slender, with noble features, a pale complexion, grey hair, almost hid under a cap of thick lace; black eyes, as young as they were at twenty, soft, limpid eyes, which look into, and allow you to look into, the soul. A smile completes the face; a smile in which blend such freshness, such exquisite delicacy, such sweet graciousness, that once seen, it floats eternally in the memory.

Lisette was a spiritualist; there are such in villages: she had been an excellent manager in her day; had baked, fed the cattle, worked hard in her time. She had taken her part in the vintage, wielded the rake, dug the garden, and

• From the French of Madame de Gasparin,

Even me!

grew enough to fill all the presses in the cottage from top to bottom. On washing-days, the hedges round were rich with her treasures; no one more apt to labour, more prudent as to expense; but while her arms were employed, her brain was active. And now that all she could do to amuse herself was to mend clothes, or wind thread, thought had got the upper hand.

Lisette had a soul; she was conscious of it; nay, she was anxious about it. This in France is not common in our days in the country, any more than the towns. Lisette belonged to that austerely brought-up generation, kept under by their fathers; grand, grave men, who governed by a look, without waste of words. They had strong natures, and lived soberly in their sheltered nooks. Local papers had scarcely an existence. Ten years might pass without a book drifting into their dwellings. Nevertheless, the peasant read on Sunday winter-nights; read the Bible, that his

new

tory of nations, that philosophy of the heart, that Divine poetry, that speech of God to man; and he made his children read it; their little fingers following each word: and that generation, growing up thus beneath the shadow of Jordan's palm-trees, in direct relation to the God of heaven, fed on faith, early subject to duty; that generation had a character at once gentle and courageous, calm and reflective, practical and ideal; such as our age most certainly will not transmit to its children.

Lisette had grown up under that system; had breathed the very air of the East. For her, Ruth, and Naomi, Sarah, Moses, and Rachel-who would not be comforted, were personages more living, more real, than the great Napoleon and his twelve Marshals. Even as a child, when she used to take the cows to feed in the forest-glades, Lisette would sit down beneath some spreading pine, and would dream of Jacob's flocks, of Leah, of the wondrous ladder; with the intense gaze of her soul fixed on the depths of past ages in simple faith. She spoke to God; God spoke to her. Had an angel, palm in hand, appeared before her, it would not have surprised her. If the bush that shadowed her strawberryplants had suddenly kindled with supernatural flame, Lisette would have approached as did Moses; putting her shoes from off her feet, she would have received the Divine command with a simple heart. She was no visionary; she had too much common sense for that. Her piety had a touch of austerity and timidity; there was a reserve about her which reminded you of the women of the Old Testament rather than of the New. She had a great fear of offending God; she loved from afar, very humbly; reverence almost veiling love. Brought up rather on the precepts of Moses than the revelation of Christ, you would have taken her for one of the Israelitish women who followed Miriam.

When she spoke of death, her smile was rather sad, and she would say, "Well, I hope, indeed; but can God really forgive me?" She felt a deep need of holiness, and thirst after truth. She believed, hoped, and loved; but her pale face bore the impress of a holy terror;

her heart dared not expand. It was of this we were conversing. She showed me the awful Jehovah; I pointed her to the God of Abraham. She spoke to me of sin; I spoke to her of pardon. She said

to me, "I have erred too much." I said to her, "Christ has suffered more."

"I am sad," said Lisette to me. "Listen; you will laugh; I have had a dream." "Dreams are liars," answered I,

foolishly enough.

"O dear, no! Dreams are not all true, I know; yet Joseph dreamed." "Yes; God can employ" "The Lord has many messengers," she broke in. "It has left a gloom on me. I was walking in a meadow towards evening, the sun was down: clouds of dust rose from the road,-a wide, smooth road; much quality went along it; coaches, riders, merchants; men walking behind their cows; poor people too,-a crowd like a fair. They all went one way. I did not trouble myself about where it led; did not seem much to care. I had not chosen that road, yet went on. On one side, under the thorns, I saw a rough path; one of those mountaintracks full of brambles and stones, felled trees, roots in which the foot caught. There was no crowd there; only now and then some heavily-laden traveller, some woman looking harassed and sad. They sat down, or rather, all but fell; then they looked to the top of the hill, took courage, rose, settled their baggage better over their shoulders, and, bending under it, dragged on amongst the stones. The others, those on the highway, had not taken any notice of me: these gave me sad looks, but said nothing. I was uncomfortable; it seemed as though they were mourning over my fate. As for me, badly off as they were, I did not pity them. I said to myself, 'Suppose I go to them.' I did try; I went aside, and got upon the path; the stones rolled down, I felt weary; I hurt my foot, and returned to the meadow. Then those in the path looked at me more sadly than before, and went on. I had a weight at my heart. But evening was closing in; there was nothing for it but going on, though, as I went, I trembled. A fear came over me: all at once it broke upon me that we were all going towards death. Then

I tried to get back into the path, but there was no longer any path, any travellers, only the great green meadow, and I was walking alone in the middle of it." Lisette was in tears: then she recovered.

"At the end of the great meadow I saw a beautiful dwelling. This house was of gold, bright as the sun at noon; the setting sun shone through the clear windows and fell upon it. A great rush of joy came over me. I was happy! No one had told me so, but I knew quite well this dwelling was the paradise of God. When I came close to it, I looked for the door: there was none on that side; I went round the house,-no door. Fear came over me. I returned to the front, and looked up. Behind one of the windows of clear glass I saw an old woman, like myself, with white hair, and a severe though sweet look. She looked very happy. I cried out. Then she turned to me. "You have made a mistake,' she said; 'you did not take the right road. will not get in, my daughter.'

"As for me, I fell dead."

You

Lisette was pale: fear, that fear of God which hath torment, had got hold of her. She could not pray.

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"Lisette,” I said, "you have told me a dream. I will tell you a story, a very short one :

"One spring day, in Judæa, just as the corn was ripening, a crowd was coming out of the city. With much tumult, and loud cries, they were leading three men to execution. Of these three, two had killed, stolen, pillaged: they were thieves. The other had announced God's pardon: -it was Jesus. They nailed them to the cross. One of the criminals insulted Jesus; the other, suddenly struck, said, 'Dost thou not fear God? As for us, we are punished justly; but this man hath done nothing amiss!' Then turning to Jesus, Lord, remember me!' He got in safe, Lisette! What road, then, had he taken?"

Lisette kept a solemn silence; a Divine light dispelled the shadows on her brow. "Neither the highway, nor that terrible mountain-path, had he, Lisette ?"

Lisette looked at me; her beautiful black eyes shone; a sweet pure smile played round her mouth. "He believed," she said. That day we reasoned no more. Many winters have passed since Lisette entered the golden house.

QUIETNESS.

LET a person go to a goldsmith, and show him a nugget of gold, and say, "I want to know the value of this gold, if you please." The smith will take it to the refiner of gold, who will put it into his "fining-pot," where it will be separated from alloys, run off, cooled down, weighed, and returned to its owner with, "Value of this fine gold, so and so,' in price, and no more." Next, let the same person take a diamond, or some other jewel, to a lapidary, or dealer in jewels and precious stones, and ask the price of his diamond. The lapidary, like the goldsmith, will apply the proper tests to the diamond, and will ascertain its degrees of hardness, clearness, and weight, and will return it with "So and so,' and

no more, is the value of this precious stone." Now, exhibit in the discharge of duty, in the vexations of unreasonable men, in the provocations of ungrateful hearts and of offensive tempers, a calm and equal mind; a heart prepared to endure the pressure of abused authority, or the glances of unfair suspicion; a heart that returns "good for evil," and is ever ready to forgive: the goldsmith has no fine gold, nor has the lapidary any precious stone, comparable with such a mind and heart; they cannot name its price. Take it, then, to its Giver, God. He looks upon it, and says, "It is a meek and quiet spirit, which in the sight of God is of great price!"

Our servants, if they cannot be at the same time both ladies and servants, may,

however, be more lady-like than they are, by becoming more quiet in their mode. We do not mean that they should become less active, or do less work; but simply that they should make less noise about it. Rivers can run rapidly, and yet silently; the machinery that runs most swiftly goes smoothly; and people can do a deal of work with little noise. Indeed, it is an adage, that "where there's most talk there's least work." Now it is lady-like to be quiet in everything; to move quietly, to speak quietly, to work quietly; and servants will be improved when they imitate their lady-employers in a quiet mode. For instance, in the use of one's voice, either in conversation, or in public speaking, or in singing, it is not the loudest parts which are the most agreeable or the most effective. Generally, the loudest parts are the weakest in effect. Distinctness of utterance, and an easy, natural manner of address, are the most certain to produce effect. Servants should remember this as well as anybody else. What a difference it makes in the tranquillity of a household, whether the servants talk in a loud, broad voice, as though they were driving horses and carts, or in a subdued and gentle tone; whether they will shout to one another from the top to the bottom of a five-storied staircase, or wait until they exchange words half way; whether when they bring in the breakfast-things, or the dinner-service, and especially when they gather them together to take them away, they clatter and rattle them one within another, so as to interrupt all conversation, and to show that the pieces are all as yet sound and serviceable, or put them dexterously within one another, seen not heard; whether, when they stir the fire, they strike all the bars with the poker, and hit the back-plate, as though they were in great wrath, or pass that useful instrument quietly between the bars, and, having properly used it, lay it silently down upon the fender, and not

EARLY DEVOTION.

BY THE REV. DAVID HAY.

let it fall down to find its own place by its own weight; whether, when they pass in or out of rooms, or in and out of the house, they will remember that doors can be shut quietly, or slam them to their places, so as to shake the whole house, and everything in it; and whether, when they run down-stairs, or move across the floors, they will not do so upon their heels, making a heavy, thumping noise as with two four-stone weights, but rather, upon the front part of the foot, without any noise at all! Perhaps it is worth while just to say that nature has given to dumb animals a grace and lightness of motion denied to man. Look at the rocbuck, the palfrey, the lamb, the greyhound, or any of the domestic animals. The finest lady in the land cannot walk with a step sonoiseless and easy as any of these. The next time you see a lady leading her pony, mark the difference in the agility of their stepping. How much more beautiful is the action of the irrational animals when untrammelled in their fields! Now, it is well to remember that a noisy way in one thing produces noise in other ways. A noisy talker will become a noisy cook, or housemaid, or a noisy walker, or a noisy worker; on the other hand, a quiet talker will be quiet in every other habit. Quietness of manner in servants reflects on all around: the children become quiet; but where the servants are boisterous, the children will be quarrelsome. And, what is still better, quietness has a good moral influence; it favours habits of reflection; it strangles all gossipping; it makes room for prayer, and promotes watchfulness; and it secures the respect of other people. Now and then, one has heard the praise of a servant by her employer finished with this remark, "She does all her work well, and so quietly, that you can scarcely tell there is anybody in the house."

"THE fervent effectual prayer of a

P. H.

righteous man availeth much." Prayer is a wondrous power, an almighty grace, which God has bestowed upon His