ren and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. And whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple." It is a great demand this-that we give up all that is most precious to our natural human heart, nay, that we lay down our sweet human life itself; but men have ever, in opinion at least, deemed it a worse thing to possess them all under conditions involving the loss of honour-the loss of upright character, than to lose them all and yet preserve these. Orators and poets speak of things which are dearer than life with all its endearments; and history records the admired examples of philosophers and heroes, who sacrificed all things else, rather than sacrifice principle.

When our Saviour announced this high devotion to his cause as the test of discipleship, he meant not merely to expound the exalted nature of his religion, and the all-absorbing energy of its doctrines and life, and thus to discourage the attentions and professions of the time-serving, the selfish, and the ambitious; but he meant also to prepare his genuine disciples for the conflicts in which they were about to engage, and the extremities to which they were about to be brought. These sacrifices would soon be stern realities. Christ did not entrap them into his service, but he did everything calculated, on the ordinary principles of human action, to deter them from it. He demanded of them to follow him for his truth and benevolence-for the very life of selfsacrificing duty which he enjoined-for the very purity, spirituality, and unworldliness, which he revealed in his own character, and which he required as the fundamental elements of theirs. The history of Christianity in the age of the apostles, and in many subsequent ages, furnishes glorious illustrations of the intense devotion which Christ requires. It became necessary to forsake one's kindred-to suffer the loss of all earthly possessions-to lay down life itself, for Christ's sake. The Church furnishes the noblest examples of devotion to truth and duty. It is a moral heroism before which all other heroism fades away. It is the more sublime, because unattended with those external circumstances which throw around the earthly hero such an inspiring and sustaining glory. To die like Leonidas in the pass of Thermopylæ, is a very different thing from dying on the cross, or at the stake, an object of the world's scorn. The one is borne up by the expectation of a deathless fame-the other, by the consciousness of rectitude, and the expectation of reward where the voice of the world is not heard. The latter is unquestionably the greater; but the man must triumph over himself ere he can feel its power.

These instances in our day are rare, and we almost cease to look for them. When they do occur, perhaps we are the less affected by them, from the fact that they do not seem to belong to our times. We are prone to look upon them as something novel, rather than as containing the vital spirit of our religion. Is it not in this way that we are to account for the feeble impression, compared with what might have been expected, produced by the presence among us of seventy Portuguese refugees, a part of six hundred, driven from the island of Madeira, by a Romish persecution, which reminds us of the worst days of the Inquisition, and proves that Rome only wants the power to renew her ancient atrocities? It is well for us to remember, after all, that this persecution, although a novelty, is nevertheless a reality. These refugees are among us, making a silent and meek appeal to our holiest sympathies; and affording us, at the same time, such an illustration as we have never before looked upon with our eyes, of the words of Christ above quoted.

Among these, the case of the Rev. A. Nicos de Silva, their pastor, is remarkable for the extent and the severity of the trials suffered for Christ's sake. He was a merchant of Madeira, of large fortune and high standing. While the persecution was in progress in that island, he was struck by the enthusiastic devotion, the patience, the lofty courage, the marvellous virtue, of the persecuted. He felt the curiosity of an ingenuous, candid, and enlightened spirit, to inquire into these unusual moral phenomena. What made these people so willing to suffer all things if they might only possess the Bible-so earnest, and yet so gentle-so courageous, and yet so free from violence? What cause of offence was there in their conduct? They were good subjects, falling behind no men in all diligence and faithfulness in every office of society; and they asked nothing more than to read God's Word, and to worship God after their own conscience, without molestation. Nicos de Silva visited Dr Kalley, the English missionary engaged in distributing God's Word, and inquired of him, like Nicodemus of old, what these things meant ? The result of these inquiries was, that he too embraced the Word of God, and cast in his lot among God's persecuted people. His family, consisting of a wife and daughter, remained inveterate Romanists, whilst he, forsaking his possessions, wife and child, and all other kindred, was compelled, with his breth ren in suffering for Christ's sake, to flee to the island of Trinidad. He there became the pastor of the persecuted flock, being ordained by some Protestant clergymen of the Free Church of Scotland. Thenceforth he lived only for his flock and the glory of his Lord. He did not cease to write to his family, to warn and to entreat, while with tears he offered many prayers to God in their behalf. But he felt that God had now given him his houses and lands. his wife and children, father and mother, sisters and brethren, in the persecuted saints committed to his ministry.

It was that he might provide a way for their settlement in this country that he visited our shores. While engaged in this object, in connexion with the pastoral oversight of those who had already emigrated, his health failed. By privations, labours, and sufferings manifold, and exposure to a climate for whose severities his constitution and circumstances made a poor preparation, he declined rapidly, and found a blessed termination of all his trials in the "rest that remaineth for the people of God." Last Friday, the hands of kind and devout men laid his body in the grave, and mourned with his mourning flock. The funeral services were performed in the Dutch Reformed church in Lafayette Place. Dr Dewitt opened with prayer. Rev. H. Norton, corresponding secretary of the American Protestant Society, made an address. The Rev. Mr Gonsalves, missionary of the Society among the Portuguese, made an address to the Portuguese in their own language. Then they arose and sung a hymn in the Portuguese. Another prayer was offered, and the services ended.

He

In his last sickness he was uncomplaining, full of patience and love, and fervent in his prayers for his wife and child, and his beloved flock in Trinidad and around him. Thus this dear servant of our Lord laid down even his life for his Master's cause. did not die at the stake, but his death was superinduced by labours and sufferings. He has undergone literally the test of discipleship. To him the Master may say, "Thou hast borne, and hast patience, and for my name's sake hast laboured, and hast not fainted." Sweet is the sleep of the wearied, wornout servant. He rests from his labours. But, oh! let us not forget, that we, if not tried like him, must possess the same spirit. Can we show our sympathy

in the form of anointing him, which took place a

great while ago.

Shelesh.-Thou speakest in harshness.
Helem.-Not in harshness, but in sorrow, my son;

mon's piety, my son'?

Shelesh.-Why, no. He is getting old, and what with all the kings that come to see him and his wives, who are related to them, and what with all his company, and concubines, and wealth, and glory, they say he doesn't get time to go up to the temple. But some say he reads good books at home on the Sabbath. The high priest shakes his head and mourns much, but they think it's because he is growing very old, and Solomon's example keeps almost all Jerusalem away from the temple. In fact it's unfashionable, and but few go there now, except strangers.

Helem.-Ah! my son, mine ears have drunk in heavy tidings. I grieve for my people, for my king, and for thee, my child. Where thou seest glory, and destiny, and strength, and eternal perpetuity, I see shame and weakness, disunion, and the curse of our fathers' God.

Shelesh.-Let not my father say so.

Helem.-Hast thou not read that the king whom thou shalt set over thee "shall not multiply horses to himself, nor cause his people to return to Egypt, to the end that he should multiply horses; neither shall he multiply wives to himself, that his heart turn not away; neither shall he greatly multiply to himself silver and gold ?" According to thy showing, our aged king hath had his heart turned away from the law and the worship of his God. The great and the wise one, spending his time and money in importing an army of apes and peacocks! Instead of making God the support of his throne-filling the kingdom with horses and chariots of war! Instead of instructing and enlightening his people-trying to extend his sceptre over the wide deserts, and making those fierce, wandering, ignorant tribes of the desert a part of his people! And talking of taking in Ethiopia, thou sayest! Why, Shelesh, I am old and grey-headed; thou art young: I have ever lived here at the foot of Horeb, and have never gone to Jerusalem, except to worship: but, mark me! I shall not long lie in my grave, ere the curse will be gin to fall upon our people. I fear that the sceptre will fall from the hands of David's line, and bright jewels fall from his crown. I fear that Jeroboam, the son of Nebat, or some other scourge, will be let loose, to bring ruin over these tribes. God can make the very temple, wherein thou trustest, the cause of disunion. He can give these chariot-cities and these war preparations into the hands of an usurper, and they will only increase his power, And that great territory a bond of union! Why, the wild sands will blow there, and the robber tribes will rove there, and it will only be held for a short time. That Tadmor of the wilderness will become a pile of ruins, where the traveller shall stop to admire the broken columns, and hear the serpent hiss, and startle the owls and the bats. "Them that honour me I will honour," saith the Lord. And when the plain commands of God are trampled on by the ruler of his people, he will cause the throne of power to crumble, and the sceptre to break, and will roll in woes like a river.

joyed will, if perverted, bring a curse equally great. But it is time for the evening sacrifice. The shadows of Horeb have gone over the valley. Let us turn our faces towards beloved Jerusalem, and worship.

"LOVEST THOU ME?"

BY THE LATE rev. w. neVINS, BALTIMORE.

WE make a profession of Christianity, and go along from day to day, and perhaps from year to year, supposing that we are Christians, and that all is well with us that we are equipped for the encounter of death, and prepared to meet our Judge, and take our place in heaven-when it may be we are not able to answer till after long consideration, and then with not a little doubt and misgiving, so simple a question in Christian experience as "Lovest thou me ?" Peradventure the utmost we dare say, after all our reflection and self-research, is, "I really do not know how it is. I hope I love him." This will never do. The question, "Lovest thou me," is one which every person, making any pretensions to Christianity, ought to be able to answer affirmatively at once. Indeed, we ought not to give our Saviour any occasion to ask the question. It is very much to our discredit-it should make us blush and be ashamed-that our manifestations of love to him are of so equivocal a character as to leave the very existence of the affection doubtful, and to render it necessary for him to interrogate us in reference to it. There are many less lovely beings than Christ that have not to ask us if we love them. We act in such a manner towards them, that they cannot for a moment doubt the fact of their being dear and preeious to us. They do not want our words to assure them. They have our uniform conduct and deportment making the silent yet more forcible declaration. Has your parent to ask you if you love him, or your sisters, and friends, to ask this question of each other? child? Have husbands and wives, brothers and O no!-none but Christ has to ask us if we love him! And he has not only to ask the question, but to wait. sometimes a long while, for an answer. We have to consider, and go into examination, and call up our conduct to the bar of judgment, and dissect our very hearts, before we can venture an answer. This is strange. It is not so in other cases. If a relative or a friend, more for the gratification of a renewed expression of our love, than from any doubt of its existence, ask us if we love him, do we keep him waiting for an answer? Do we say, "Well, I must consider. I must examine myself. I hope I do." No, indeed. We are ready with our affirmative. Nor is it a cold yes we return; but we express our surprise at the question. "Love you!" And we assure the person in the most emphatic and ardent language that we love him, and all our manner shows him that we speak out of the abundance of the heart. should ask us if we love him. But we do not express surprise that our Saviour We do not wonder at the question from him. We know too well how much reason we give him to doubt our affection.

Why should there be such a difference in favour of the earthly objects of our love? Is not Christ as lovely as those other beings-as deserving of affection -as attractive of love? He is altogether lovely, Are they? He possesses infinite loveliness. Nor does that express all. He is essential Love. Nor love at rest, but in motion; nor far off, but near

exerting infinite energy in action, exercising infinite fortitude in suffering earth the scene, and man the object. It is he who asks, "Lovest thou me ?" And he of whom he asks it is this man, the intelligent spectator of all this love, ay, its chosen and cherished object.

If Christ were not nearly related to us, as those other beings are, that might be the reason of the difference in their favour. But who is so closely related to us, so intimately joined to us, as Christ? He formed us, and in him we live, move, and have our being. Does not that imply nearness? Is he divine, while we are human? He is human as well as divine--one of the brotherhood of flesh and blood. He came down to earth to take our nature on him, nor went up to heaven again without it. There it is-our humanity allied to divinity, divinity radiant through it, on the throne. Is he not related to us? He says of every one who does the will of his Father, "The same is my brother, and sister, and mother." That alone relates us to him more than all human ties. But that is not all. Christ is the husband of the Church. He is one with it. If we are his disciples, he is the vine, and we the branches-he the head, and we the members. Yea, "we are members of his body, of his flesh, and of his bones." Does not this express a near and intimate relation? Now it is one so near to us, so joined to us, who asks, "Lovest thou me ?"

Have our friends, whom we are so conscious of loving, done more for us than Christ, or made greater sacrifices for us? Are we under greater personal obligation to them?

"Which of all our friends, to save us,

Could or would have shed his biood?
But this Saviour died to have us
Reconciled, in him, to God."

And yet we know we love those friends; but this friend! we know not whether we love him or not!— we only hope we do!

Do other beings find such difficulty in loving Christ? and are they at such a loss to know when they do love him? O no! His Father testifies, "This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased." And he is called also his well-beloved, his dear Son. All the angels of God love and worship him, and delight to ascribe infinite worthiness to him. It is only men who find any difficulty in loving Christ. It is only the human heart that hesitates and hangs back. Is there any reason for this-any reason why men should be the last to love Christ, and why they should love him least of all who behold his loveliness? I see none; but I think I see reasons many, and strong, and tender, why we should be first, and most forward, and warmest in our affection to him. How many worlds he passed to alight on this! How many created natures he rejected, when froin all of them he chose the human to be united to divinity! Others have sinned, yet not their sins bare he, but ours. It may be said of other creatures, "He loved them;" but of men only can it be added, "and gave himself for them." And yet who is so backward to love him as redeemed man? Not tardy merely. O how parsimonious of his love-loving him so little, that often he cannot ascertain if he loves at all! Shame, where is thy blush? and Sorrow, where thy tear?

O how different Christ's love to us from ours to him! We have not to ask him if he loves us. If any one should ever ask that question of Jesus, he would say, "Behold my hands and my feet." He bears on his very body the marks of his love to us. But what have we to point to as proofs of our love to him? What has it done for him? What suffered? O the contrast! His love, so strong!-ours, so

9

weak! His, so ardent!-ours, so cold! His, so constant !-ours, so fickle! His, so active!—ours, so indolent! So high, so deep, so long, so broad his love, its dimensions cannot be comprehended, it passeth knowledge-while ours is so limited, and so minute, it eludes research!

A WORD SPOKEN IN DUE SEASON. A FEW years since I took up my abode at a farmfor house, not many miles from the city of the purpose of recruiting my health, which was much impaired from a long residence in a tropical climate. Being advised, by the physician who attended me on my arrival in England, to travel by slow stages to my native air, I selected a village in the county of for my abode; and it being the summer season when I arrived thither, most of my hours were spent in walking about the fields and lanes, for it was a retired and delightful spot.

One morning after rambling from field to field till I was fatigued, I sat myself down on the side of a bank, near a labouring man turning a muck-heap. After making an observation upon the fineness of the weather, and the laborious task he had in hand upon so hot a day, we were interrupted by a poor travelling man on foot, who was on his way to the next village, which was about two miles off. Having placed his bag upon the ground, he seated himself by the side of the muck-heap, and began to converse with the man, who at that instant had ceased from labour, for the purpose of eating his dinner, which consisted of bread and pork. A piece of this (for he was what his fellow-servants were accustomed to call a good-hearted, liberal fellow) was offered to the stranger, who very readily and thankfully accepted the kind offer, for he said he had travelled a long way, and was both tired and hungry. But, before he tasted a mouthful, he begged he might be permitted to ask a blessing of God, as he was accustomed to do on every such occasion.

The man whom he addressed looked with wonder and astonishment, first at the traveller, and then at me, and laughed, saying, "Were 1 to offer up a prayer every time I partake of a meal's victuals, I

should lose more time than I could afford. What think you, sir, of all this nonsense," as he called it, "of saying grace?" I paused, and, after remonstrating for some time upon his profane language, I tried to impress upon his mind the utility and duty there were for offering up our thanks to that Divine Being from whom we receive our life, and breath, and all things, and to whom we are indebted for that health and strength by which we are rendered capable of performing our daily labour.

My health being reinstated, I quitted this pleasant village before I had an opportunity of seeing whether this advice had a due effect upon this poor, though not altogether ignorant man, for he could both read and write tolerably well; and for the space of five years I never saw or heard of him. Being then again in that part of the country, I met the labourer, and, after saying how glad and delighted he was to see me once again, as well as I can remember, he addressed me nearly in the following

words: "Pray, sir, do you remember the travelling man to whom I once gave a mouthful of victuals, and who refused to eat till he had asked a blessing from God for what he was about to partake?" I replied, "Perfectly well." "Well, sir, would you believe it?-shortly after you left our part of the country, to go to sea, I began to think seriously about asking a blessing for what I ate and drank; and particularly the remark you made, and the advice you afterwards gave to me, that even "if it could do no good, it would do no harm;" and so I began to think I was in the dark, and he in the light; and now, good sir, I can safely say I never eat a meal's victuals without imploring the Divine blessing upon the food which God provides for me, as well as thanking him for bestowing upon me and my family our daily bread. And I see the infinite wisdom of God in sending the travelling man to awaken me to a sense of my duty towards my good Benefactor, as well as to open my eyes, and afterards in having enabled me to make known the gospel of his Son; for perhaps, sir, you are not aware that I sometimes speak to my neighbours, and on a Sunday hear the children in the village read their Bibles, and endeavour to instruct them in the way that leadeth unto eternal life."-Tract Magazine.

MOURN, BUT DO NOT MURMUR. WHEN a holy and beloved object of our affection is removed by death, we ought to sorrow; humanity demands it, and Christianity, in the person of the weeping Jesus, allows it: and the man without a tear is a savage or a Stoic, but not a Christian. God intends, when he bestows his gifts, that they should be received with smiles of gratitude, and when he recalls them, that they should be surrendered with drops of sacred grief." Sorrow is an affection im

planted by the Creator in the soul for wise and beneficent purposes; and it ought not to be ruthlessly torn up by the roots, but directed in its exercise by reason and religion. The work of grace, though it is above nature, is not against it. The man who tells me not to weep at the grave, insults me, mocks me, and wishes to degrade me. I do weep; I must weep; I cannot help it: God requires me to do so; and has opened a fountain of tears in my nature for that purpose; and it is the silent, pure, unsophisticated testimony of my heart to the excellence of the gift he gave in mercy, and in mercy, no doubt, as well as judgment, has recalled. Without sorrow we should not improve by his correcting hand. Chastened grief is like the gentle shower, falling first upon the earth to prepare it for the seed, and then upon the seed to cause it to germinate; though wild, clamorous, passionate sorrow is like the thunder-shower of inundation, that carries away soil and seed together. Can we lose the company of one whose presence was the light and charm of our dwelling-whose society was the source of our most valuable and most highly valued earthly comfort-whose love, ever new and fresh, was presented daily to us in full cup by her own hand-who cheered us with her conversation, bore with our infirmities, solved our doubts, disclosed to us in difficulty the path of duty, and quickened us by her example-is it possible, I say, to lose such a friend and not sorrow?

But, then, though we mourn, we must not murmur. We may sorrow, but not with the passionate and un

controlled grief of the heathen, who have no hope. Our sorrow must flow, deep as we like, but noiseless and still, in the channels of submission. It must be a sorrow so quiet, as to hear all the words of consolation which our heavenly Father utters amidst the gentle strokes of his rod—so reverential as to adore him for the exercise of his prerogative in taking away what and whom he pleases-so composed, as to prepare us for doing his will as well as bearing it-so meek and gentle, as to justify him in his dispensations -so confiding, as to be assured that there is as much love in taking the mercy away, as there was in bestowing it so grateful, as to be thankful for the mercies left, as well as afflicted for the mercies lost-so trustful, as to look forward to the future with hope, as well as back upon the past with distress-so patient, as to bear all the aggravations that accompany or follow the bereavement with unruffled acquiescenceso holy, as to lift the prayer of faith for divine grace to sanctify the stroke-and so lasting, as to preserve through all the coming years of life the benefit of that event which in one awful moment changed the whole aspect of our earthly existence.-James.

AN EASTERN TALE.

(From "Memoirs of Lady Hester Stanhope.") My reliance is in God; and if it is his will to get me out of my difficulties, he will do it in spite of them all. My only trouble is sometimes about my debts; but I think all will be paid, and from England too. So here I am, and we will now talk of something else; but I must first tell you a little Eastern story :

"There was a man who lived in affluence at Damascus, surrounded by a happy and prosperous family, when some reverses in business ruined his fortune, and he was reduced to the necessity of exerting his talents and industry in order to try to maintain his station in life. As he wanted neither, he flattered himself that, from his numerous connexions, he should soon re-establish his affairs; but a fatality seemed to hang over him, for, just as he was about to

begin business again, the plague broke out in the city, and his wife and daughters were among the victims.

"Unable to bear the sight of a place where such afflictions had overtaken him, he removed to Beyrout, a seaport of some consequence even at that time, although much more so now, and there, with his sor and a faithful servant, he opened a small shop, stocked with such wares as he could procure without much advance of capital. But here again he was unsuccessful; for, his son becoming answerable for the debts of a man who had befriended him, and being unable to pay, his father's little all was disposed of to save him from prison, and, by degrees, beggary overtook them. He then engaged himself as clerk to a merchant, next turned schoolmaster," until, his sight failing him, he at last became stone blind, and, in despair, he resolved to quit a country where, in spite of his exertions, his position every day had grown worse and worse.

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Accordingly, he embarked with his son for Damietta, in a vessel where there were fourteen passengers besides himself, and among them two divers-people who get a living on these coasts by diving for sponges, which they bring up from the bottom of the sea. It was the winter season, and the weather proved tempestuous. In crossing the