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understood to cultivated minds; but I could never make the common people understand me without a parable. Instead of entering into an argument, I have often replied by describing a scene on the Ganges: The day was dismal, the wind roared, the thunder pealed, the lightning was vivid, the waves of the Ganges raged, the stream was swollen, and the current rapid; the infuriated elements threatened destruction to every vessel on its waters; no But boat could outlive the storm for any length of time. see, what is that? It is a boat in distress, filled with Between the people, rapidly hurried along by the waves. peals of thunder the shrieks of the people are heard; they fear the rocks on the shore to which the current is driving them. What can be done for them? Could they but be drawn into this creek, they would be safe. Those on the shore look anxiously around, and discover a chain lying near them. A man instantly fastens a stone to a rope, binds the other end to the chain, and flings the stone into the boat. The rope is caught; the people eagerly lay hold on the chain; while those on shore begin to draw them, amid the raging elements, towards the creek. They already rejoice at the prospect of deliverance ;—but, when they are within a few yards of the land, one link of the chain breaks! I do not say ten links, but one link, in the middle of the chain. What shall these distressed people do now?-shall they still cling to the unbroken, links?' 'No! no!' exclaimed one of my hearers; ' overboard! with the chain, or it will sink them the sooner.' • What then shall they do?' Cast themselves upon the mercy of God,' exclaimed another. 'True,' I replied; if one commandment be broken, it is as though all of them were broken; we cannot be saved by them; we must trust in the mercy of God, and lay hold on the almighty hand of Christ, which is stretched out to save us.' I have frequently used this parable, and always found it to answer."

SONGS IN THE NIGHT.

WHEN, Courting slumber,
The hours I number,
And sad cares cumber

My wearied mind,
This thought shall cheer me,
That Thou art near me;
Thine ear to hear me

Is still inclined.

My soul Thou keepest,
Who never sleepest;
'Mid gloom the deepest,

There's light above.
Thine eyes behold me;
Thine arms enfold me;
Thy word has told me
That God is love.

CONDER.

THE RATTLING TONGUE.

PART I.

THE tongue is a little member, Mary; but it does great things sometimes, as well as boasts them."

"Does it, grandpapa ?" said Mary, with a light and cheerful laugh; then she added, "and good things too; yours does, at least, I am sure."

Mary Leverson was very fond of her grandfather. She had been spending many happy weeks at his pleasant home in the country; and now that the last day of her visit had come, she was sitting in the library of the old-fashioned house-her favourite room. She had been watching the

JULY, 1863.

H

setting sun from the open window while her grandfather was writing at the library table; but now that the sun had entirely disappeared, and the light had so faded away that Mr. Leverson could see to write no longer, he laid down his pen, walked to the window, sat down by his dear child," as he called Mary, and abruptly addressed her in the words just quoted.

"And yours, what does yours do, my dear child ?" said Mr. Leverson, in response to Mary's little piece of flattery. "Mine? Oh, grandpapa, you must not ask me--you do not expect me to tell you. Mine is such a rattling tongue, you know."

Mr. Leverson smiled, looked grave, and smiled again, as he asked, "And what is a rattling tongue, Mary?"

Oh, dear! I cannot possibly describe it, grandpapa. But dear old nurse used to say of mine that it ran nineteen to the dozen."

"She meant that you talked about a great many things and used a great number of words, I suppose?"

"I have no doubt that is what she meant, grandpapa; only she would have added, I dare say, that I talked a great deal of sad idle nonsense."

"And would that have been true, Mary ?"

talk a

"I am almost afraid it would, grandpapa," said the openhearted girl; “do you not think so, now, really?" "That it would be true to say of you that you great deal of sad, idle nonsense, my dear child ?" "Yes, grandpapa."

"I can say one thing for you, Mary; you can be silent upon occasion. You have been in my study for an hour this afternoon, and have not opened your lips till now." "That was because you were so busy, and I did not dare to disturb you. But you don't know, grandpapa, how my tongue itched to be at work."

"I have heard and read of itching ears,' my dear," said the gentleman, drily, "but never before of an itching tongue, I think. But I understand what you mean; and so you wanted to talk? but now the misfortune is, I want to talk, and I want you to listen. How shall we manage?" In the best way possible, grand papa. I will be mum there!" and the lively young lady pursed up her mouth as though she intended to open it again-never.

"But I do not require you to be mum, there,'" said Mr. Leverson, with another smile. "I will speak, and

you shall speak, if and when you please; only I should like to lead the conversation."

Mary nodded; but she did not unpurse her lips.

"You have just asked me a question, my dear, which I would rather not answer; but, taking for granted that you do talk a great deal of sad, idle nonsense (not that I say so), do you remember what this propensity leads to?"

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Mischief, grandpapa," said Mary, just opening her lips, and then shutting them again as close as before.

"Sin, my dear child," rejoined the gentleman, solemnly. "In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,' Solomon tells us, and he tells us truly. And a greater than Solomon assures us that we shall have to give an account at the judgment of every idle word we may have spoken."

"Grandpapa, do you really, really think that applies to me?" said Mary, earnestly, and looking up anxiously into her grandfather's countenance.

"Yes, my dear; to you and to me, both, I am sure of it. It may be more difficult to decide, in all cases, what words of ours come under that condemnation; but I fear that in this respect, as in many others, we must take up the humbling confession, In many things we all offend and add to it the earnest, fervent prayer, Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord; for in thy sight shall no man living be justified.' And in offering this prayer, and humbly confessing our faults, it is our happiness to be assured, my dear child, that if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and he is the propitiation for our sins.""

Mary glanced timidly at her grandfather, and her eyes. were suffused with tears. Perhaps she felt grateful that the bright full daylight was gone; for after that glance she turned and drooped her head till her face was hidden in the shade.

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Grandfather," she said, meekly; "I know what you mean; it is very, very foolish. I am so thoughtless. I rattle away without thinking of what I am saying; it is my easily besetting sin, I am sure."

"Well, my dear, you know where it is written, 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' But I did not wish to grieve you, Mary."

"No, grandpapa, I am sure of that; and it is I who have grieved you."

"Let us understand one another, my dear child,” said Mr. Leverson; "it may be some time before we meet again after you take leave of us to-morrow. Nay, perhaps we may never meet again in this world; and I feel almost as though, even in the bright and glorious world above, and in my blessed Saviour's presence, my spirit would look back regretfully on this last interview if, from mistaken tenderness, I were now to keep back the caution which my love to you and my duty to my God bids me utter. But, my dear love, it is a caution, and not a heavy charge."

"Grandpapa, I think I know what you are thinking of," said Mary, turning quickly, and laying her hand confidingly on her grandfather's knee; "you are thinking of last evening, and the foolish chattering you heard, when Lucy and Julia were here."

"I am thinking of last evening: I have been thinking of it almost all day; and I have reproached myself for having held my peace, even from good,' as the psalmist says; but 'my sorrow was stirred,' and now, my dear, I have spoken.'

"But, dear grandpapa, after all, did we-I mean, did I -say anything so very, very shocking?" asked Mary, rather startled at her grandfather's unusual gravity.

"Do you recollect all that you and your young friends said, Mary?" responded Mr. Leverson.

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All!-everything! I am afraid not quite all," said Mary; "for I know we did rattle away

"You are rather fond of using that word 'rattle,' Mary. Shall I tell you of what it reminds me ?"

"Only that I am a mere child, quite a little baby-girl, and am pleased with a rattle, dear grandpapa."

"No; I am reminded by your use of the word, of a venomous snake that carries a rattle with it, and so gives warning of its near neighbourhood."

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Grandpapa! you do not mean, you cannot mean

"That you are like a rattlesnake; no, my dear child, I do not think you are at all like a rattlesnake."

"Except in the rattle, grandpapa."

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Except in the rattle, if you will; but I cannot help thinking that some person's tongues answer the purpose, or might answer the purpose of the rattlesnake's rattle in warning the unsuspicious of the malevolence of heart which lurks beneath the fair exterior of an innocent looking face."