longer met theirs. Instead of this they found her body laid out on a bed in the house next to the school, with her little sister sitting beside it, weeping, but not able to speak.

Such, my dear children, is a short account of this affecting scene, one which will long be remembered. A question suggests itself here. There were other boys and girls at that school besides Janet: why was she the only one that was taken away? Perhaps Janet was the only one that was resting her soul on Jesus. Perhaps she alone was ready to go, and the others were left in this world a little longer, that they might repent and believe the gospel; for you should know that God has no pleasure in the death of the sinner, and this is just the reason why you are spared day after day. He is, by Jesus Christ, asking you every day, "Why will you die?" O take warning, then, and flee to Jesus: haste! haste!

Janet died reading her Bible. Perhaps you often think that is a dull book, only fit for melancholy persons, or for a sick-bed. But Janet was not on a sick-bed when she died. She was in the purple bloom of youth and health, and yet she was reading sweet words out of her Bible. No, it is a book of glad tidings to those who believe it. Oh, then, often read it! How unexpected was Janet's change! At one time standing in the school, repeating her hymn, and then, in a little, standing before the throne of the once crucified Jesus, with the palm branch of victory in her hand, and singing the song of Moses and the Lamb; at one time upon the earth, surrounded by her little playmates, confessing her Saviour there, and then, in a twinkling, standing in heaven, surrounded by hosts of angels, and Jesus confessing her before his Father, and the spirits of the just made perfect.

The people residing in the neighbourhood of the event were all much affected with Janet's death, and many have possessed themselves of a copy of the hymn, which now called Janet's Hymn. Ah! little did I think, when I put that lovely hymn into her hand, that she was so soon to enter the unseen world. Little did her parents think, when she and her little sister left their home in the morning, that she would enter it no more. Little did Janet think, as she stepped lightly along the road that morning, that she would never tread that road again. And little did she suppose, as she met her companions, thet they were to have such a speedy and awful part ing. Little did she think that she had entered that school for the last time, and would see teacher and companions no more.

And it may be that you, dear children, are thinking very little of the time when you also shall die. Who can tell but you may be the next who will be summoned into the world of spirits. Oh, then, let me ask you, Are you ready to die? O put not away from you this solemn question! Better to ask yourself now than when death comes. If you say, How may I know this? I ask you, my dear child, Have you laid your sins and your wants on Jesus? Do you now trust your soul on Jesus as that Saviour who died for you? If so, you will love the name of Jesus; you will long to be like Jesus; you will desire to be

with Jesus. If you have not, ah! do it now. Jesus is waiting for you, ready to receive you, and to cast your sins behind his back into the depth of the sea, ready to blot out the hand-writing that stands against thee in God's book. O think what a blessing it will be if, when your soul is required of you, you shall be able to say, "I've laid my sins on Jesus."

THE FULNESS OF JESUS.

I LAY my sins on Jesus,

The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all, and frees us
From the accursed load.

I bring my guilt to Jesus,
To wash my crimson stains
White in his blood most precious,
Till not a spot remains.

I lay my wants on Jesus;-
All fulness dwells in him.
He heals all my diseases,

He doth my soul redeem.
I lay my griefs on Jesus,

My burdens and my caresHe from them all releases

He all my sorrows shares.

I rest my soul on Jesus-
This weary soul of mine;
His right hand me embraces,
I on his breast recline.

I love the name of Jesus,
Immanuel, Christ, the Lord,
Like fragrance on the breezes,
His name abroad is poured.

I long to be like Jesus,
Meek, lovely, lowly, mild;
I long to be like Jesus,
The Father's holy child.
I long to be with Jesus

Amid the heavenly throng, To sing with saints his praises, To learn the angel's song.

Rev. H. Bonar.

MINISTERIAL VACATIONS. IT is the custom of ministers, especially the pastors of city churches, to absent themselves from their fields of labour at this season for health and recreation. There is an obvious propriety in this practice; indeed there is commonly a necessity for it. No class of men need the weekly rest of the Sabbath so much as those who are devoted to constant intellectual labour. Wilberforce attributed his own mental and physical vigour during a laborious public life to his regular repose on the Sabbath; and he has chronicled the melancholy fate of several of his compeers at the bar and in Parliament, who died prematurely, or sank into mental imbecility, through the neglect of that weekly repose. But the minister cannot rest on the Sabbath like other men. To him, both physically and mentally-especially if he is a man of strong emotions-the Sabbath is a laborious

day. And if he applies himself faithfully to his studies during the week, in addition to the fatigue of visiting and lecturing, how and where is he to obtain that compensation for the drain on the vitality of his system which is necessary to keep up a healthy and vigorous circulation? Most ministers endeavour to make Monday a leisure day-a day of rest from mental labour. But for a city minister who has a large congregation, and who is actively concerned in the benevolent societies, this is wellnigh impossible. With parish calls, committee meetings, and the odds and ends of a whole week crowded into it under the delusion that it is a leisure day, Monday has often proved to us one of the most fatiguing days of the week. This incessant mental activity is almost a necessary condition of ministerial life in a great city. But there must be compensation somewhere. A man may live for years on this high-pressure scale, and his constitution seem to be unimpaired; but by and by an explosion comes and he is left a miserable wreck. It is like straining a cord constantly to its utmost tension; it holds the weight till we cease to apprehend danger; the most practised eye cannot detect a sign of breaking; but of a sudden it snaps. Perhaps we grow presumptuous, and add to it grain by grain, till it is broken by a feather's weight. Or if it should not break, we may find, on removing the weight, that the cord has lost its elasticity and strength, so that it cannot be trusted for further use. It is like one more strain after the watch is wound up; the chain breaks, the spring snaps, and it runs swiftly down.

To compensate for the want of a Sabbath, a rest day, ministers seek recreation and rest at intervals for several days or weeks in succession. They enjoy “a month of Sundays" for the year. This is perhaps the best substitute that the case admits of, and the change of scene and occupation, with the relief from pressure thus secured, has commonly a marked benefit. On the same principle, a man of habits of close mental application, by resting in middle life for six months or a year, and journeying among new scenes, may, humanly speaking, add ten years to his life.

The late David Hale, when in full vigour, used to say that some city ministers seem to care more for their own health and comfort than for the welfare of their congregations; that he worked as hard as they, and never wanted a vacation; and that there was no place preferable to New York in the summer season. But what was the consequence of his unremitted toil? Though blessed with a vigorous constitution, and capable of extraordinary and protracted mental labour, a single blow prostrated him beyond recovery. Had he yielded to the solicitations of his friends a few months previous to the fatal attack, and taken a voyage, his valuable life might have been prolonged for years. He died at fiftyseven, though all who knew him supposed he would live to eighty. His disease was without doubt the result of mental labour and excitement too continuous and protracted. This he fully realized in his last sickness. He then remarked to the writer who was setting out on a summer's journey, "I am glad

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that you are going away from care. It is right. Take warning by me. Don't work too hard. Take rest; ministers need it."

That congregation best consults its own interests which accords a vacation to its minister, and even facilitates his going upon an occasional journey.— Independent.

GREAT CURE BY RELICS. WHEN the Reformation was spreading in Lithuania, Prince Radzivil was so affected that he went in person to visit the Pope and pay him all possible honours. His holiness, on this occasion, presented him with a box of precious relics. Having returned home, the report of this invaluable possession was spread; and at length some monks entreated permission to try the effect of these relics on a demoniac who had hitherto resisted every kind of exorcism. They were brought into the church with solemn pomp, deposited on the altar, and an innumerable crowd attended. After the usual conjurations, they applied the relics. The demoniac instantly became well. The people called out, "A Miracle!" and the prince, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, felt his faith confirmed. In this transport of pious joy, he observed a young gentleman, who was keeper of this rich treasure of relics, to smile, and appear by his motions to ridicule the miracle. The prince, with violent indignation, took our young keeper of the relics to task; who, on promise of pardon, gave the following secret intelligence concerning them :-He assured him that in travelling from Rome he had lost the box of relics; and that, not daring to mention it, he had procured a similar one, which he had filled with small bones and other trifles, similar to what was lost. He hoped that he might be forgiven for smiling, when he found that such a collection of rubbish was idolized with such pomp, and had even the virtue of expelling demons. It was by the assistance of this box that the prince discovered the gross imposition of the monks and demoniacs, and he afterwards became a zealous Lutheran.

EVERY CHILD GOES HOME AT NIGHT. THOUGH the children of different families are mingled together in play or at school during the day, yet when night comes they all go home to their father's house. So now the righteous and the wicked, believers and infidels, are mingled together; they sit in the same sanctuary, live in the same houses, and partake of many of the blessings of God together; but when the night of death comes, every one will go to his own home. The children of the devil will go to their father's dark and horrible abode, and the children of God will go to their father's light, joyful, and glorious mansions. Dear reader, whither will you go? Remember the words of Jesus: "If ye believe not that I am he, ye shall die in your sins. Whither I go ye cannot come." Come to Him now, and ye shall find the way to God and heaven.-New Orleans Presbyterian.

A MAN OF ONE IDEA. LUTHER, like all great reformers, was a man of one idea; but that one idea was not what historians have generally supposed. It was not civil liberty, nor

liberty of opinion, nor opposition to forms, nor any abstract love of truth, but the one idea was, JesusSaviour.

No human being felt with deeper anguish what it was to be lost. Language cannot have a more terrible earnestness than that wherein he passed when he felt his sins, and the majesty of God, and the desperate hopelessness of any effort to approach him, or bring his fallen nature up to that immeasurable height of purity. "It was all over with me," he says; the sin of my nature tormented me night and day, and there was no good in life; sin had taken possession of me; my free will hated God's judgments; it was dead to good; anguish drove me to despair: nothing remained but to die and sink into hell."

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"Let them threaten me with banishment and death, with the torture and the stake," he says in a letter; "what is all this to me? It makes no impression on me; it is all the merest trifle to the agony I endured in my religious life before I found a Saviour." Now, to a soul in this state of religious anxiety the whole Catholic system is one great and gloomy barrier, standing between it and its Redeemer. Luther struggled like a giant, he fought as if for life, and broke through the dark obstacle, and found a Saviour; he found, he embraced, he believed, he felt, he knew that he was saved, and he felt it with a joy as mighty and overwhelming as had been his anguish.

Thenceforth, there was to him but one mighty idea-salvation and a Saviour.-Stowe.

SUDDEN DEATH.

READER! did you ever see a friend drop instantly from time into eternity? Four years since, I saw the body of a friend whom I loved deposited in the grave. It was that of a merchant, who retired to rest at a late hour in sound health and was found dead in his bed in the morning. Beside that grave stood a young man in the vigour of health. The next day that young man while at work suddenly stopped, and in five minutes he was in eternity. The writer was commissioned to carry the sad intelligence to his wife. Never will he forget the scene that followed. It was nearly night; the sun was just setting on a lovely summer evening. The wife sat watching at her door her husband's return. I tried to prepare her for the bereavement of which she was yet ignorant, but when it was made known a long time passed before a soothing word of consolation could be heard. Within two months from that day that young widow was called into eternity almost as suddenly as her husband. And why may not the reader be called as suddenly? Are you prepared for such a result? Is your treasure laid up in heaven? Have you a hope, a good hope, that will be as an anchor to the soul, both sure and steadfast, in a dying hour? If your hope is one that purifies the soul, yet have you done all for Christ and his cause that you wish to do? Have you done all you desire to do for the salvation of your friends who are on the road to death?

REMEMBER

THERE are but two classes in the world, the righteous and the wicked.-To which do you belong? There are but two masters; they each give their servants wages according to their work. Which do you serve?

There are but two kingdoms.-Who is your king? Who is your lawgiver? Who is it that reigns in you and over you?

There are but two ways.-In which are you walking?

Two kinds of clothing, the old and the new.-What is your covering, your dress? Is it one which the eye of God can look upon and see no spot, no blemish; or does it need to be cleansed? Is it one that must be changed; or will it last for ever? Is it one of which you would be ashamed; or is it that which God has provided for all who are to stand in his presence-one of glory and beauty, pure as the light? There are but two families.-Who is your father? Happy the soul who by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and the indwelling of his Spirit can say-I serve the Lord Jesus Christ. He is my master, the Holy One of Israel. He is the King of kings whose laws I obey. I am walking with Him who hath led me out of darkness into his marvellous light-the light of life. I am clothed in the righteousness of my Redeemer, in the garment of his salvation, pure as the light. By faith in Christ I can look up to God and say, "Thou art my Father, my God, and the Rock of my salvation." "Therefore goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

THE LENGTH OF SERMONS.

THIS is a subject of increasing difficulty, because the age is becoming more and more hard to please. John Wesley often preached but fifteen minutes. Whitefield is reported to have said that a sermon should seldom exceed forty-five minutes. The best preacher I ever heard habitually preached one hour or more. Samuel Davies commonly preached from one to two hours. The Covenanters often preached from two to four hours, in the times in which their history is most remarkable. Luther, I believe, has somewhere said, that "one qualification of a good preacher is, to know when to stop." Another has said, "Better leave your audience longing than loathing; abstinence is less hurtful than repletion." Prolix discourses on any subject are commonly useless. Yet there is great danger of seeking brevity at the cost of thoroughness and clearness. "Dum brevis esse studeo obscurus fio" (while I study to be short I become obscure), is a maxim of great weight. The habit of preaching two or more sermons on one text is of very doubtful utility. It may sometimes be done to advantage, but not often. What then shall be done? In answer, let it be said, that no preacher should feel obliged to say one word more than is called for by his subject and the occasion. If he is done in thirty minutes, let him stop. On the other hand, let him not sacrifice a subject to a watch. If he transcends the time usually allotted to such a service, let him show by the vigour and terseness of his thoughts, that there is a call for unusual length. But let not our preachers yield to the current of popular feeling, which has made sermons in some pulpits mere short essays or exhortations, in no case No congregation can be well instructed under such hardly exceeding fifteen or twenty minutes in length. discourses. Have something important to say. Say it clearly and connectedly. Then stop.-Presbyterian Treasury.

GIVING AND TAKING OFFENCE. How to hold intercourse with the world without giving or taking offence is a point worthy the study of all. As it is the duty of all, as far as possible, to mitigate the evils of human existence, and to contribute to the aggregate of human enjoyment, it is a duty to avoid all unnecessary collisions with the interests, feelings, and tastes of others, and to be so guarded against all undue excitement or disturbance of our own passions, that our happinesss shall not be interrupted or abridged by such opposition, collisions, or rebuffs, as we may chance to meet.

1. We must not wantonly assail the feelings, nor even the prejudices or errors, of others. When we undertake to show any one that he is in the wrong, it should be for the purpose of conviction and amend. ment. If we keep this object steadily in view, we shall not be likely to fall upon him with withering sarcasm or unmingled censure. Our effort will be to interest, to awaken the conscience, without provoking resentment, or destroying self-respect. Should there be aught of severity in our measures, it will appear to be a necessary resort, and not a matter of choice. There will be no gratification in the haltings, no exultation over errors which we would

cure.

2. We must not manifest contempt for their opinions, their reasoning, their character, or their person. Every man demands due consideration. He claims the attributes of a man-a man of intelligence and of honour. No man is to be reformed from an error in opinion or in practice by being called a fool or a knave, or being treated as such. Contempt, either real or affected, offends the most undeserving and really contemptible, and puts them beyond the sphere of our influence,

3. We must not trifle with innocent prejudices or personal peculiarities. Every man has an identity of his own; and it is difficult for one to consider himself, in point of manners, far from the standard of excellence. He may acknowledge himself a sinner, and may endure to be told that he is such; but to be told that he is deficient in good sense, or good manners, is a little more than he can well bear. He may sometimes be mortified with his own blunders, and his want of ease in good company; but should he hear that he had been an object of criticism, he is stung to the quick, and finds great difficulty in overcoming the prejudice which he immediately imbibes against the officious individual who presumes thus to trifle with his name.

4. Few persons will endure ridicule without offence. Among intimate friends, a sound rallying for some weakness or absurdity sometimes strengthens friendship, and increases the pleasure of social intercourse. But in all such cases there is evidently no recklessness of the feelings, or derogation of the character of him who is the object of the raillery. Ridicule will never be well received, unless it is so tempered with respect and kindness as to leave in the mind of the object of it his self-respect, entire and unaffected. To perpetrate ridicule so modified and characterized, is not always an easy matter.

We may, yea, we ought, to be offended at every thing morally wrong. Christ was both "grieved and "angry" at the "hardness of heart "manifested by the Jews. We may feel decided and strong displeasure at indecencies, or any glaring offence against common propriety or good taste. We are not required to be entirely insensible to personal wrongs, wantonly inflicted." Our dissatisfaction, under all these circumstances, must be temperate and properly expressed. The difficulty is, to determine when it is right to be offended, and when it would be positively

wrong.

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1. We should never take offence at a well-meant effort to reform our vices. He is our best friend who would cure us of a vice which sullies our character, injures our influence, and destroys our hopes of heaven. If it would be friendly in any one to undertake to cure some fatal malady in us, or to rescue us from a fatal fall over a precipice; how much more is he to be regarded as our friend, who undertakes the godlike work of saving us from some delusion which endangers our higher and more enduring interests ? And what though the effort should be made in an awkward and imperfect manner? The only consideration which should come into question, in relation to all such efforts, should concern the object had in view. The only question with you should be, What would he be at? What does he intend?

If his object is kind-is brotherly--this settles all questions of personal feeling.

2. We should not be offended at efforts to correct our manners and habits. One who is offended at corrections, even in the smallest things, betrays a want of good sense, or an excess of self-esteem. Such a one is not likely to reach great excellence in personal acomplishments, or a perfection of manners which will secure commanding influence.

3. Candid criticisms should never be regarded as Undue sensitiveness under criticism, offensive. wherever it is found, always is supposed to imply both pride and irritability, as well as a sense of vulnerability and weakness. A feeling of strength in our general position will be very likely to preserve us from too great a degree of concern for our reputation, although we may be the object of criticism, The true course either ill-founded or otherwise. doubtless is, always to endeavour to improve by critiWhether cism upon our conduct or compositions. such criticisms are well or ill founded, friendly or hostile, they will suggest something which we may turn to good account.

4. We should not take offence at carelessness, thoughtlessness, errors in judgment, or mere want of practical wisdom or taste, however it may affect us personally. These things are the offspring of ignorance, inexperience, bad education, bad examples, or obtuseness of perception, and are mere infirmities, to be regretted indeed, but not to be made matter of serious offence.

An old heathen philosopher, having once been assaulted by a stupid fellow, was asked why he did not resent it. His reply was: "If an ass kicks me, is that any reason why I should kick

him?"

5. We should never be offended at a retaliation upon us for an offence which we have committed, A fair rewittingly or otherwise, against others. tort should never disturb us-a just punishment for any obtrusiveness, or for an assault upon a friend, or indeed an enemy, should always be borne without complaint.

SCHILLER'S ESTIMATE OF NOBILITY. SCHILLER, the German poet, had a patent of nobility conferred upon him by the Emperor of Germany, which he never used. Turning over a heap of papers one day, in the presence of a friend, he came to his patent, and showed it carelessly to his friend with this observation, "I suppose you did not know I was a noble;" and then buried it again in the mass of miscelSchiller's friend might have answered after this laneous papers in which it had long lain undisturbed. action, "If I did not before know you were noble, I know it now."