'I am a poor sinner, and nothing at all; But Jesus Christ is all in all.'

She

This was the prevailing habit of her mind. trusted in Christ with all simplicity and confidence. And he was very gracious in his dealings with her. My beloved Jessie you committed to my poor care now more than eight and a-half years ago-and they have been happy years to me. She was a wise and faithful counsellor, and a most affectionate wife. As a mother, she was equalled by few, and surpassed by none. Now she is gone, and I am strangely desolate. The world assumes a very altered aspect. I feel too much paralyzed to write more. I commend my beloved children and myself to your sympathy and prayers. You, I am sure, will not forget us. May your hearts be comforted with gracious influence from above! Dear Ralph unites in warmest love to you all. Your ever affectionate son,

"WILLIAM THOMPSON.

"I have with difficulty written this letter. You, I am sure, will excuse it.'

We did not think it needed excuse; and neither, I trust, will the reader. In mentioning similar details of his sister's departure, her brother, writing from Bellary, says-" May we follow her faith! That faith was unassuming, but sincere and firm. It kept her mind in peace, calm and submissive, during all her illness; for she never breathed a murmuring word. It sustained her in the moment of dissolution-and now she is reaping its full reward in glory, in 'fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore!' We feel greatly her loss; for we loved her much. And to you, and to her fond and affectionate mamma, it will be a severe trial, a trial in which all around you will share. On dear William Thompson] the stroke falls heavily indeed; and he feels it very keenly. He was very fond of Jessie, and would have done any thing for her. This must make the sorrow of his heart all the deeper. Poor dear fellow! we feel much for him. May the Lord sustain and comfort his spirit, and pour into the wound he has inflicted the healing balm! He is now, with his dear children-God bless them!-on the bosom of the mighty deep. . . . . May the winds and waves have charge concerning him and his little ones, and may they all be carried in peace and safety to the shores of our native land! It will be a trial for you to meet them; but the promise stands- As thy day, so shall thy strength be! The truth of that promise you have often experienced, and will experience to the last."

The partiality of a father, and the unanticipated extent of this communication, concur in interdicting any sketch of character. He may be permitted to say, in a single sentence, that, young as she was when she left her home in a capacity so serious and responsible, being only in her nineteenth year, she possessed a well-cultivated mind, a more than ordinarily thoughtful and sound judgment, a discriminative prudence, a buoyant elasticity and playfulness of spirit, warmth of heart, and tender susceptibility of feeling, such as rendered her, like most others of a similar temperament, occasionally somewhat oversensitive, or what in common speech is termed touchy, but only for the moment, neither sullen nor resentful. And her whole character was imbued with the hallowing influence of an early, enlightened, and deepseated piety. She was a devotedly affectionate and dutiful child. Her character in other relations bas already appeared.

It is impossible not to mark special coincidences, even though there is no conclusion whatever to be drawn from them. It was on the 28th day of Feb

Madras, a widow, with her five fatherless children, on her return to this country, leaving behind the precious dust of a husband and child: it was on the same day of the same month, the 28th of February 1849, that my son-in-law, Mr Thompson (who, on the former occasion, met at Madras, in the agony of disappointed hopes, the widow and family of him with whom he had joyfully anticipated a reunion in their happy and harmonious labours, and went to Bellary to weep over his grave) sailed for this country, a widower, with his three motherless children. leaving behind him the precious dust of a wife and child. The dead, in the far land, do not, indeed. all rest in the same hallowed spot. But, in the terms of my son's letter-" Thanks be to God! wher ever we are called to deposit the ashes of those loved ones who sleep in Jesus'-whether in the bosom of the earth or in the bosom of the trackless deepwhether in a land of strangers or in the place of our fathers' sepulchres-we can say with tears of mingled grief and gladness- Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from henceforth: they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them!". Yes; and as, from Britain and from India alike, the spirts of those who “die in the Lord" find their way to the same heaven, so, in due time, will their sleeping dust, their raised and glorified bodies; that, body and soul together, they may "BE EVER WITH THE

LORD!"

REMEMBER LOT.

BY THE REV. J. C. RYLE, HELMINGHAM.* WHO is there among you all that feels secure, and has no fear of lingering? Come and listen while I tell you a few passages in Lot's history. Do as he did, and it will be a miracle indeed if you do not get into the same state of soul at last.

One thing, then, I observe in Lot is this, he made a wrong choice in early life.

There was a time when Abraham and Lot lived together. They both became rich, and could live together no longer. Abraham, the elder of the two, in the true spirit of humility and courtesy, gave Lot the choice of the country, when they resolved to part company. "If thou," he said, "wilt take the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to the right hand, then I will go to the left."-(Gen. xiii. 9.)

It

And what did Lot do? We are told he saw the plains of Jordan, near Sodom, were rich, fertile, and well watered. It was a good land for cattle, and full of pastures. He had large flocks and herds, and it just suited his requirements. And this was the land he chose for a residence, simply because it was a rich, well-watered land. It was near the town of Sodom! He cared not for that. The men of Sodom,| who would be his neighbours, were wicked! mattered not. They were sinners before God exceedingly! It made no difference to him. The pasture was rich. The land was good. He wanted such a country for his flocks and herds. And before that argument all scruples and doubts, if indeed he had any, at once went down. He chose by sight, and not by faith. He asked no counsel of God to preserve him from mistakes. He looked to the things of time, and not of eternity. He thought of his worldly profit, and not of his soul. He considered only what would help him in this life-he forgot the solemn business of the life to come. This was a bad beginning.

But I observe also that Lot mixed with sinners when there was no occasion for his doing so.

We are first told that he "pitched his tent toward *From a characteristic tract recently published by the author under this title.

We are not told the reasons of this change. We are not aware that any occasion could have arisen for it. We are sure there could have been no command of God. Perhaps his wife liked the town better than the country, for the sake of society. It is plain she had no grace herself. Perhaps she persuaded Lot that it was needful for the education of his daughters. Perhaps the daughters urged living in the town for the sake of gay company: they were evidently light-minded young women. Perhaps Lot liked it himself, in order to make more of his flocks and herds. Men never want reasons to confirm their wills. But one thing is very clear-Lot dwelt in the midst of Sodom without good cause.

Reader, when a child of God does these two things which I have named, you never need be surprised if you hear, by and by, unfavourable accounts about his soul. You never need wonder if he becomes deaf to the warning voice of affliction, as Lot was (Gen. xiv. 12), and turns out a lingerer in the day of trial and danger, as Lot did.

Make a wrong choice-an unscriptural choice-in life, and settle yourself down unnecessarily in the midst of worldly people, and I know no surer way to damage your own spirituality, and to go backward about your eternal concerns. This is the way to make the pulse of your soul beat feebly and languidly. This is the way to make the edge of your feeling about sin become blunt and dull. This is the way to dim the eyes of your spiritual discernment, till you can scarcely distinguish good from evil, and stumble as you walk. This is the way to bring a moral palsy on your feet and limbs, and make you go tottering and trembling along the road to Zion, as if the grasshopper was a burden. This is the way to sell the pass to your worst enemy-to give the devil the vantage ground in the battle-to tie your arms in fightingto fetter your legs in running-to dry up the sources of your strength to cripple your own energies-to cut of your own hair, like Samson, and give yourself into the hands of the Philistines, put out your own eyes, grind at the mill, and become a slave.

Reader, wake up and mark well what I am saying. Settle these things down in your mind. Do not forget them. Recollect them in the morning. Recall them to memory at night. Let them sink down deeply into your heart. If ever you would be safe from lingering, beware of needless mingling with worldly people. Beware of Lot's choice. If you would not settle down into a dry, dull, sleepy, barren, heavy, carnal, stupid, torpid state of soul, beware of Lot's choice.

Remember this in choosing a dwelling-place, or residence. It is not enough that the house is comfortable-the situation good-the air fine-the neighbourhood pleasant-the expenses small--the living cheap. There are other things yet to be considered. You must think of your immortal soul. Will the house you think of help you towards heaven or hell? Is the gospel preached within an easy distance? Is Christ crucified within reach of your door? there a real man of Ged near, who will watch over your soul? I charge you, if you love life, not to overlook this. Beware of Lot's choice.

Is

Remember this in choosing a calling, a place, or profession in life. It is not enough that the salary is high-the wages good-the labour light-the

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advantages numerous-the prospects of getting on most favourable. Think of your soul, your immortal soul. Will it be fed or starved? Will it be prospered or drawn back? I beseech you, by the mercies of God, to take heed what you do. Make no rash decision. Look at the place in every light, the light of God as well as the light of the world. Gold may be bought too dear. Beware of Lot's choice.

Remember this in choosing a husband or wife, if you are unmarried. It is not enough that your eye is pleased-that your tastes are met-that your mind finds congeniality-that there is amiability and affection-that there is a comfortable home for life. There needs something more than this. There is a life yet to come. Think of your soul, your immortal soul. Will it be helped upwards, or dragged downwards, by the union you are planning? Will it be made more heavenly or more earthly-drawn nearer to Christ or to the world? Will its religion grow in vigour, or will it decay? I pray you, by all your hopes of glory, allow this to enter into your calculations. Think, as old Baxter said, and think, and think, and think again, before you commit yourself. "Be not unequally yoked."-(2 Cor. vi. 14.)| Matrimony is nowhere named among the means of conversion. Remember Lot's choice.

Remember this, if you are ever offered a situation on a railway. It is not enough to have good pay, and regular employment, the confidence of the directors, and the best chance of rising to a higher post. These things are very well in their way, but they are not every thing. How will your soul fare, if you serve a railway company that runs Sunday trains? What day in the week will you have for God and eternity? What opportunities will you have for hearing the gospel preached? I solemnly warn you to consider this. It will profit you nothing to fill your purse, if you bring leanness and poverty on your soul. Beware of selling your Sabbath for the sake of a good place. Beware of Lot's choice.

Reader, you may perhaps think, "a believer need not fear he is a sheep of Christ-he will never perish-he cannot come to much harm. It cannot be that such small matters can be of great importance."

Well! you may think so; but I warn you, if you neglect them, your soul will never prosper. A true believer will certainly not be cast away, although he may linger; but if he does linger, it is vain to suppose his religion will thrive. Grace is a tender plant. Unless you cherish it, and nurse it well, it will soon become sickly in this evil world. It may droop, though it cannot die. The brightest gold will soon become dim when exposed to a damp atmosphere. The hottest iron will soon become cold. It requires pains and toil to bring it to a red heat. It requires nothing but letting alone, or a little cold water, to become black and hard.

You may be an earnest, zealous Christian now. You may feel like David in his prosperity, "I shall never be moved."--(Psalm xxx. vii.) But, be not deceived. You have only got to walk in Lot's steps, and make Lot's choice, and you will soon come to Lot's state of soul. Allow yourself to do as he did, presume to act as he acted, and be very sure you will soon discover you have become a wretched lingerer, like him. You will find, like Samson, the presence of the Lord is no longer with you. You will prove, to your own shame, an undecided, hesitating man, in the day of trial. There will come a canker on your religion, and eat out its vitality without your knowing it. There will come a consumption on your spiritual strength, and waste it away insensibly. And at length you will wake up to find

your hands hardly able to do the Lord's work, and your feet hardly able to carry you along the Lord's way, and your faith no bigger than a grain of mustard seed; and this, perhaps, at some turningpoint in your life, at a time when the enemy is coming in like a flood, and your need is the sorest.

Ah! reader, if you would not become a lingerer in religion, consider these things. Beware of doing what Lot dtd.

MISCELLANIES.

BY ARCHDEACON HARE.

I MET this morning with the following sentences:"An upholsterer nowadays makes much handsomer furniture than they made three hundred years ago. The march of mind is discernible in every thing. Shall religion, then, be the only thing that continues wholly unimproved?"

What? Does the march of mind improve the oaks of the forest? does it make them follow its banners to Dunsinane, or dance as Orpheus did of old? does it improve the mountains? does it improve the waves of the sea? does it improve the sun? The passage is silly enough: I merely quote it, because it gives plain utterance to a delusion which is floating about in thousands, I might say in millions of minds. Some things we improve, and so we assume that we can improve and are to improve all things; as though it followed that, because we can mend a pen, we can with the same ease mend an eagle's wing; as though because nibbing the pen strengthens it, paring the eagle's wings must strengthen them also.

People forget what things are progressive, and what improgressive. Of those too which are progressive, they forget that some are borne along according to laws independent of human control, while others may be shoved or driven on by the industry and intelligence of man.

In one point of view, indeed, we do improve both the oaks and the mountains, both the sea and even the sun; not in themselves absolutely, but in their relations to us. We make them minister more and more to our purposes; and we derive greater benefits from them, which increase with the increase of civi lisation. In this sense too may we, and ought we, to improve religion; not in itself, but in its relations to us; so that it may do us more and more good, or, in other words, may exercise a greater and still greater power over us. That is to say, we are to improve ourselves in the only way of doing so effectually: we are to increase the power of religion over us, by obeying it, by submitting our wills to it, by receiving it

into our hearts with more entire devotion and love.

WHEN will the earth again hear the glad announcement, that" the people bring much more than enough for the service of the work which the Lord commanded to make?"-(Exod. xxxvi. 5.) Yet, until we bring more than enough, at least until we are kindled by a spirit which will make us desire to do so, we shall never bring enough. And ought we not? Your economists will say "No." They who would think the sun a useful creature if he would come down from the sky and light their fires, will gravely reprehend

such wasteful extravagance. At the same time, no doubt, they will continually be guilty of far greater and more wasteful.

Among the numberless marvels at which nobody marvels, few are more marvellous than the recklessness with which priceless gifts, intellectual and moral, are squandered and thrown away. Often have I gazed with wonder at the prodigality displayed by nature in the cistus, which unfolds hundreds or thousands of its white starry blossoms morning after morning, to shine in the light of the sun for an hour or two, and then fall to the ground. But who, among the sons and daughters of men-gifted with thoughts "which wander through eternity," and with powers which have the godlike privilege of working good and giving happiness-who does not daily let thousands of these thoughts drop to the ground and rot? who does not continually leave his powers to draggle in the mould of their own leaves? The imagination can hardly conceive the heights of greatness and glory to which mankind would be raised, if all their thoughts and energies were to be animated with a living purpose-or even those of a single people, or of the educated among a single people. But as in a forest of oaks, among the millions of acorns that fall every autumn, there may perhaps be one in a million that will grow up into a tree, somewhat in like manner fares it with the thoughts and feelings

of man.

What then must be our confusion when we see all these wasted thoughts and feelings rise up in the judgment, and bear witness against us!

But how are we to know whether they are wasted or not?

We have a simple infallible test. Those which are laid up in heaven, those which are laid up in any heavenly work, those whereby we in any way carry on the work of God upon earth, are not wasted. Those which are laid up on earth, in any mere earthly work, in carrying out our own ends, or the ends of the spirit of evil, are heirs of death from the first, and can only rise out of it for a moment, to sink back into it for ever.

TRUE goodness is like the glowworm in this, that it shines most when no eyes except those of heaven are upon it.

HE who does evil that good may come, pays a toll to the devil to let him into heaven.

THE mind is like a sheet of white paper in this, that the impressions it receives the oftenest, and retains the longest, are black ones.

A cobweb is soon spun, and still sooner swept away.

As oftentimes, when walking in a wood near sunset, though the sun himself be hid by the height and bushiness of the trees around, yet we know that he is still above the horizon, from seeing his beams in the open glades before us illumining a thousand leaves, the several brightnesses of which are so many evidences of his presence: thus is it with the Holy Spirit. He works in secret; but His work is mani

fest in the lives of all true Christians. Lamps so heavenly must have been lit from on high.

Ir has been deemed a great paradox in Christianity, that it makes humility the avenue to glory. Yet what other avenue is there to wisdom, or even to knowledge? Would you pick up precious truths, you must bend down and look for them. Every where the pearl of great price lies bedded in a shell which has no form or comeliness. It is so in physical

science. Bacon has declared it: Natura non nisi parendo vincitur; and the triumphs of science since his days have proved how willing nature is to be conquered by those who will obey her. It is so in moral speculation. Wordsworth has told us the law of his own mind, the fulfilment of which has enabled him to reveal a new world of poetry: Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

That

it is so likewise in religion we are assured by those most comfortable words, Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

ONE of the first things a soldier has to do, is to harden himself against heat and cold. He must

inure himself to bear sudden and violent changes. In like manner they who enter into public life should begin by dulling their sensitiveness to praise

and blame. He who cannot turn his back on the

one, and face the other, will probably be beguiled by his favourite into letting his enemy come behind him, and wound him when off his guard. Let him

keep a firm footing, and beware of being lifted up, remembering that this is the commonest trick by which wrestlers throw their antagonists.

How different are summer storms from winter ones! In winter they rush over the earth with all their violence; and if any poor remnants of foliage or flowers have lingered behind, these are swept along at one gust. Nothing is left but desolation; and long after the rain has ceased, pools of water and mud bear token of what has been. But when the clouds have poured out their torrents in summer, when the winds have spent their fury, and the sun breaks forth again in its glory, all things seem to rise with renewed loveliness from their refreshing bath. The flowers glistening with raindrops smell sweeter than before; the grass seems to have gained another brighter shade of green; and the young plants, which had hardly come into sight, have taken their place among their fellows in the borders, so quickly have they sprung up under the showers. The air too, which may previously have been oppressive, is become clear and soft and fresh.

Such, too, is the difference, when the storms of affliction fall on hearts unrenewed by Christian faith, and on those who abide in Christ. In the former they bring out the dreariness and desolation which may before have been unapparent. The gloom is not relieved by the prospect of any cheering ray to follow it, any flowers or of fruit to show its beneficence. But in the truly Christian soul, "though weeping endure for a night, joy comes in the morning." A sweet

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smile of hope and love follows every tear; and tribulation itself is turned into the chief of blessings.

NOTHING hides a blemish so completely as cloth of gold. This is the first lesson that heirs and heiresses commonly learn. Would that equal pains were taken to convince them, that the having inherited a good cover for blemishes does not entail any absolute necessity of providing blemishes for it to cover. THE corruption and perversity of the world, which

should be our strongest stimulants to do what we can to remove and correct them, are often pleaded by the religious as excuses for withdrawing from the world and doing nothing. How unlike is this to the example of Him who concluded all under sin, that He might have mercy upon all, that He might take their sinful nature upon Him, to purify it from its

sinfulness!

THE greatest truths are the simplest: and so are the greatest men.

WHEN we are gazing on a sweet, guileless child, play-| ing in the exuberance of its happiness, in the light of its own starry eyes, we are tempted to deny that any

thing so lovely can have a corrupt nature latent within; and we would gladly disbelieve that the germs of evil are lying in these beautiful blossoms. Yet, in the tender green of the sprouting nightshade, we can already recognise the deadly poison that is to fill its ripened berries. Were our discernment of our perceive the embryo evil in it no less distinctly.— own nature as clear as of plants, we should probably

Guesses at Truth.

THE SLEEP AND THE WAKING. THAT which we call death is not death indeed to thel saints of God-it is but the image of death, the shadow and metaphor of death, death's younger brother; a mere sleep, and no more. There are two main properties of death which do carry in them a lively resemblance of sleep. The first is, that sleep is nothing else but the binding up of the senses for a little time, a locking up of the doors, and shutting of the windows of the body for a season, that so nature may take the sweeter rest and repose, being freed from all disturbance and distractions: sleep is but a mere parenthesis to the labours and travails of this present life. Secondly, sleep is but a partial privation, a privation of the act only, not of the habit of reason. They that sleep in the night, do awake again in the morning. Then the soul returneth to the discharge of all her offices again: in the internal faculties, to the act of judging and discourse in the intellect to recalling things for the present, and recording things for future use in the memory-to its empire and command in the will-to its judicature in the conscience: so likewise the soul returns again to the execution of all her functions in the external senses to seeing in the eye, to hearing in the ear, to tasting in the palate, as also to working in the hands, to walking in the feet, and so as to the rest. In a word, the whole man is restored again to itself, as it were, by a new creation: that which lay so senseless and useless all the night, is raised now again more fresh and active in the morning than it lay down at night.

Such as this is what we commonly call death, but