God ciled to them-they to God. God has met with philosopher over the most magnificent discovery, as he does on the vision he has of the perfections of Jehovah. All God's ways and appointments appear to him infinitely desirable. The breathings of his soul are after God. "How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord! my soul longeth, yea, even fainteth for the courts of the Lord: my heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God."--(Psa. lxxxiv. 1, 2.) So pants and yearns he after God. All his actions (it is his desire that it should be so) have a reference to the glory of God. He leads a heavenly, divine life. Grace has changed him. He is a "new creature," quite changed in his habits, desires, aspirations. Not perfect, but changed. Falling often into sin; but he hates sin, and it grieves him to the soul that he is so much under its power. He loathes himself on account of it. "Faint " he often is, "yet pursuing." Most diligently, heartily, and earnestly praying, and striving in the use of all divinely appointed means after a more perfect conformity, in mind and will, to the divine requirements. He willing-a blessing so precious that the world cannot attain to it at last meanwhile, through the grace of the Holy Spirit, he is growing and making progress in the Christian life. Christ has bequeathed to his people peace of conscience. He intends that this blessing should be enjoyed by them in this world. It is the peace and serene quiet, not of a dead, but of a tender conscience. Ungodly men frequently have little trouble of conscience. But that is entirely different from peace of conscience. The absence of trouble of conscience in wicked persons, is not because there is no ground why they should be troubled. It is because their conscience is dead, and seared as with a hot iron. It is in a morbid state, like a man in the stupor of apoplexy or the delirium of fever. In an apoplexy, a man is unconscious of his danger: indeed, of every thing. Sound a trumpet in his ear, it makes no impression. His unconsciousness does not render his danger less imminent. In fever, people often have only a slight feeling of uneasiness, sometimes not even that. In such cases insensibility of danger is one of the most dangerous symptoms. It shows the overmastering power of the disease. The absence of trouble of conscience in the wicked is a very dangerous symptom, next door to the deep slumber of eternal death. From so frightful a state believers have been delivered. They have been in trouble of conscience. They were in great trouble when they were enlightened from above in the knowledge of their inful and miserable estate. Through grace, their conscience remains tender and susceptible; but they have attended to peace of conscience; and truly from real and gracious trouble, to be brought into real and gracious peace of conscience, is like passing from death into life, from hell into paradise. Whence this peace of conscience, this serene, heavenly, inexpressible tranquillity of mind? Only from Christ; from acceptance of him as offered in the gospel; from holy and assured reliance on him in his finished work. Here is the broken, dishonoured law, with all its demands. How dreadful! Yes, but here is satisfaction to the utmost given and accepted of. Every claim discharged. God is recon purchase it. It cannot bestow it; it cannot take it away. Its price is Christ's blood, its possession one of the blessings bequeathed by Christ to his people. Pardon of sin-the influences of the Holy Spiritpeace of conscience-these are some of the blessings! on hand, left to believers by the Lord Jesus Christ in his legacy. Besides these there are many more. We cannot now speak of them. But these, and whatever other blessings in that precious legacy are intended to be enjoyed in this life, do but form a part, not the whole of its contents. The principal part of the believer's wealth-at least if we look to enjoyment-is reserved for the future world. So ample, so rich, so exceeding great is the inheritance of the saints in light, that we need not attempt to form an adequate idea of it now. It cannot be done. In the enjoyment of it, believers shall be able to conceive of it; but not till then. Much is spoken in Scripture concerning it, but still in such a way as to confirm what has been said. It is quite different from all the pleasures and possessions of this world, of what kind soever these be. As contrasted with these, it is called "an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away." It is called "an exceeding great and eternal weight of glory." "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him." "Behold what manner of love the Father hath be stowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God! now are we the sons of God; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is." Is not the believer truly rich in such a legacy?! Who can be richer than the man to whom God, the possessor of all things, gives the promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come? That is a promise that runs through time like a golden stream. It overshoots time. It reappears in eternity. It flows through eternity. Thou shalt exist for ever and ever. Here is a promise that reaches as far as thy existence. Believer! thou are truly blessed. The poorest saint upon earth is very rich. If one MY MOTHER'S FRIEND. should have the whole world and all the glory of it, 507 friends, and neglected to call on Mrs M. The When I had finished my collegiate course, I hastened home to attend the sick-bed of my father. I found him near his end. Mrs M- was with my mother, assisting her in her labours, and comforting her with consolations drawn from the Word of God. I was astonished at the extent of her knowledge of divine truth, and her skill in applying its principles to the wants of the soul. I have since met with many illustrations of the power of the Bible to give clear The legacy of Christ shall not fall to the ground. No one promise or benefit shall drop out of it. When rich men die abroad, it often happens that their wealth never comes to their true heirs. It is seized by rapacious strangers, and is no more heard of. Christ's blessings are sure blessings. Believer! thou shalt have them. Be sure of that. Christ, the believer's friend, is alive. He has gone to heaven. He lives there. In heaven he prosecutes the interests of his people. He is arranging and setting all things in order for them. Soon shall the summons come, "Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou in-ness, discrimination, force, and practical skill to the to the joy of your Lord." How these things ought to engage believer's hearts to their Lord! How profoundly ought they to reverence him, sincerely love him, devotedly obey him, and patiently wait upon him! Is this a legacy to be despised? "Behold ye despisers, and wonder, and perish." Consider its riches, its inestimable blessings. Ye despise it! Be amazed at your infatuated stupidity. Having despised it, do ye not deserve to perish? It only can save you from perishing. But ye despise it! What can ye do but perish? But have we the offer of it? Undoubtedly. What is this legacy of the Lord Jesus Christ, but the glad tidings of salvation preached in the glorious gospel; and is not his commandment, "Go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature?" J. F. MY MOTHER'S FRIEND. WHEN I was quite young, I could perceive that the visits of Mrs M- were more highly prized by my mother than the visits of any other person. I loved to listen to the conversation which passed between them. It often partook of a spiritual character which filled me with awe. I sometimes felt as though heaven was very near. Far deeper impressions were made upon my mind by those conversations than were ever made upon it by any direct addresses. Parents should remember, that remarks made in the hearing of their children often have a greater influence than the most earnest personal ap- | peals. When I left home to pursue my studies, Mrs M― gave me some affectionate counsels, quoting with peculiar emphasis the following text: "And seekest thou great things for thyself? seek them not." Often when emulation and the whisperings of ambition would have led me into temptation, I have called to mind those words, and prayed that I might seek only the things which belong to Christ. I visited home but once during my collegiate course. I was then much occupied with my young intellect. No one can be said to be without the means of a good education who has possession of the Bible. My father died, and my mother soon followed him. Mrs M- was with her to the last. Their parting was as though it were but for a little season. I took my departure for a distant portion of the country. Years rolled away. The moss began to gather on the gravestones of my parents, and my whitening locks told me that I was no longer young. I was led to visit the place of my birth. I arrived on the evening before the Sabbath. I was invited to occupy the pulpit on the following day: I recognised but few familiar faces in the congregation. Many whom I had once known were resting by the side of my parents. Time had wrought its changes upon those who survived. I looked in vain for my mother's friend. On inquiry, I learned that she was still living. She resided in a distaut part of the township, had become extremely poor, and was entirely blind. On Monday morning I hastened to visit her. As I walked up the long ravine which led to her dwelling, the cold autumnal wind swept the falling leaves along my pathway, deepening the feeling of sadness which an early visit to the resting-place of the dead had awakened. Mrs M's house was nearly a mile from any habitation. It was time-worn, and sadly in need of repairs. I knocked at the door; a trembling voice bade me enter. "I cannot tell who you are till you speak," said she, "for I am stone blind." "You used to know my mother well, Mrs said I. "And you are the son of that precious woman," said she, her tears falling fast; "come near to me. I must put my arms around you; you are dear to me for her sake, and for Christ's sake too." After she had become composed, I sat down by her side. "I am very thankful to see you. I promised your mother to pray for you daily, and I have not forgotten my promise. My heart has rejoiced when I have heard of your labours in the Lord. Inas much as ye know that labour is not in vain in the Lord. Every thing else is in vain. I have seen and felt that. But labour in the Lord is not in vain. He that reapeth receiveth wages, and gathereth fruit unto life eternal. You have found Christ a blessed Master." "He has not been wanting in faithfulness to you." "Not one jot or tittle of his word has failed. All his promises have been yea and amen. I can say with one of old, In very faithfulness thou hast afflicted me."" "You have had your share of affliction; but you I have not failed to remember that whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." "I have experienced many and sore afflictions, but they were all necessary to fit me for His purposes. When there came a claim against our land, and it appeared that we must give it up, it seemed to me to be hard to part with it, and have nothing. But when the time came, it was not so hard as I expected. I found I needed something to make heaven seem more precious to me, and the loss of our property had that effect. When I felt that I had no home but heaven, I could give my heart more entirely to the work of preparing for heaven." "Did you remove to this place when you gave up your old home? "Yes, this place was offered us by a good man, and we had just moved here when my dear husband was taken sick and died. I felt it was a great mercy that he was taken home. He was very feeble, and could never have been very comfortable in this house. The Savlour knew it, and took him to the mansion which he had prepared for him. I knew that my loss was his gain, and that God had done it in mercy; still I wept sore. I had my Bible, and I could see to read; that bore me up in the deep waters. I can say with David, Unless thy law had been my delight, I should have perished in mine affliction."" How long since did your sight fail you?" "It is now nearly ten years since I saw the face of a friend, or read a word in the blessed Book. How thankful I am that I learned to love it in my youth, and that I have portions of it in my heart! Tell the young to commit to memory the Word of God, and then, if they become blind, they will have a source of comfort that cannot be taken away from them." "And you have not found any decay of your spiritual vision ?" "I think I have had clearer views of God than I ever had when I could see with the natural eye. I can fix my mind upon Him more entirely than I could when there was a world without to call off my attention. On this account, I sometimes feel as though I ought to be thankful that I am blind." "Are your temporal wants supplied?" "And you are ready to go hence when the Saviour calls?" "Having a desire to depart and be with Christ, I can say, at times, at least that I have that desire. There are times when I long to be with God. How precious are these thoughts unto me! They sometimes fill my soul, and make me indifferent to every thing else. Do you wish to know how to live above the world? Let the thoughts of God fill your mind. I used to think a great deal about myself and my shortcomings. While thus occupied I did not rise. Now my thoughts are chiefly occupied with God, and I am lifted above care and trouble, borne nearer and nearer to heaven." I continued the conversation, or rather listened to her remarks, till she became exhausted. I then prayed with her and bade her farewell. Soon after my return to my appointed field of labour, I heard of her decease. The friends were reunited, to part no more for ever. May I follow them! -New York Observer. LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING KIRKSTALL O KIRKSTALL! through thy moss-grown aisles Though breaks the sun in golden smiles Fled is thy sculptured beauty now, And broken down thy pride: Though erst thy pealing organ broke Or vesper hymns more faintly spoke Long have the hands that rear'd this pile As those who worshipp'd here erewhile, Yet, softly silent to the soul That awful lesson comes,- Of those whose hearts beat high like thine, Where yonder noble arch displays And fixes the admiring gaze Or wakes the pensive sigh; THE LAPSE OF TIME. There incense burn'd, and tapers blazed, And rich profusion reign'd; And beauteous shrines, by time now razed, Now all, alas! is cold and dead- Here crowds adored, and wept, and pray'd, But deep in error's paths they stray'd Have found divine acceptance here. Perchance in this sequester'd spot Some faithful might be found; Some who o'er sense and sin had gain'd And here on earth the grace obtain'd Might too, with simple faith sincere, If JESUS here was thus adored, The only living "way If, through His grace a soul restored O Kirkstall! thou wert honour'd high; Else, vain were all thy pomps, and vain Thy storied tower, thy Gothic fane, The hallow'd cross, with sacred awe And look the symbol through, HIM we adore, in HIM we trust, Who came to bleed and die; Rejecting every hope beside, -Rev. Robert Newstead. THE LAPSE OF TIME. BY THE REV. JAMES HAMILTON, LONDON.* THERE is something very insidious in the lapse of time. When you pass the frontiers of a new country, they stop you at once and demand your passport. They look to see whence you have come, and whither you are going; and every thing reminds you of the * In tract, "Days Noted and Numbered." 509 transition. The dress of the people is peculiar. Their language is strange. The streets and houses, the conveyances, the style of every thing, is new. And often the features of the landscape are foreign. Unwonted crops grow in the fields, and unfamiliar trees stand in the hedgerows, and quaint and unaccountable creatures flit over your head, or hurry across your path. And at any given moment you have only to look up, in order to remember, "This is no more my native land; this is no longer the country in which I woke up yesterday." But marked and conspicuous as is our progress in space, we recognise no such decided transitions in our progress through time. When you pass the frontiers of a new year, there is no one there with authority to demand your passport; no one who forcibly arrests you, and asks, Whence comest thou? or, Whither art thou going? Art thou bound for the better country, and hast thou a safe conduct in the name of the Lord of the land? But you just pass on 46, 47, 48-and every year repeats, We demand no passport; be sure you can show it at the journey's end, for it is certain to be needed there. And as nothing stops you at the border, so in the new year itself there is nothing distinguishable from the year that went before. The sun rises and the sun sets. Your friends are about you all the same. You ply your business or amusements just as you did afore, and all things continue as they were. And it is the same with the more signal epochs. The infant passes on to childhood, and the child to youth, and the youth to manhood, and the man to old age, and he can hardly tell when or how he crossed the boundary. On our globes and maps we have lines to mark the parallels of distance-but these lines are only on the map. Crossing the equator or the tropic, you see no score in the water, no line in the sky to mark it; and the vessel gives no lurch, no alarum sounds from the welkin, no call is emitted from the deep, and it is only the man of skill, the pilot or the captain, with his eye on the signs of heaven, who can tell that an event has happened, and that a definite portion of the voyage is completed. And, so far, our life is like a voyage on the open sea, every day repeating its predecessor- the same watery plain around, and the same blue dome above-each so like the other, that you might fancy the charmed ship was standing still. But it is not so. The watery plain of to-day is far in advance of the plain of yesterday, and the blue dome of to-day may be very like its predecessors, but it is fashioned from quite another sky. However, it is easy to see how insidious this process is, and how illusive might be the consequence. Imagine that in the ship were some passengers-a few young men, candidates for an important post in a distant empire. They may reasonably calculate on the voyage lasting three months or four; and provided that, before their arrival, they have acquired a certain science, or learned a competent amount of a given language, they will instantly be promoted to a lucrative and honourable appointment. The first few days are lost in the bustle of setting all to rights, and in the pangs of the long adieu. But at last one or 66 66 two settle down in solid earnest, and betake themselves to the study of the all-important subject, and have not been at it long till they alight on the key which makes their after progress easy and delightful. To them the voyage is not irksome, and the end of it is full of expectation. But their comrades pass the time in idleness. They play cards, and smoke, and read romances, and invent all sorts of frolics to while away the tedium of captivity; and if a more sober companion venture to remonstrate, they exclaim, "Lots of time. Look how little signs of land. True, we have been out of port six weeks; but it does not feel to me as if we had moved a hundred miles. Besides, man, we have first to pass the Cape, and after that we may manage very well." And thus on it goes, till one morning there is a loud huzza, and "Land a-head!" every passenger springs on deck. "What land?" Why, the land to which we all are bound." "Impossible; we have not passed the Cape." Yes, indeed; but we did not put in there. Yonder is the coast. We shall drop anchor to-night, and must get on shore to-morrow." And then you may see how blank and pale the faces of the loiterers are. They feel that all is lost. One takes up the neglected volume, and wonders whether any thing may be done in the remaining hours; but it all looks so strange and intricate, that in despair he flings it down. "To-morrow is the examination day. Tomorrow is the day of trial. It is no use now. I have played the fool, and lost my opportunity." Whilst their wiser friends lift up their heads with joy, because their promotion draweth nigh. With no trepidation, except so much as every thoughtful spirit feels when a solemn event is near, without foreboding and without levity, they look forth to the nearer towers and brightening minarets of that famed city, which has been the goal of many wishes and the home of many a dream. And, as they calmly get ready for the hour of landing, the only sorrow that they feel is for their heedless companions, who have lost a glorious opportunity to make their calling and election sure. And so, my dear friends, we here are a ship-full of voyagers bound for eternity. There is a certain "wisdom" which, if we learn it on the passage, will secure us a welcome and a high promotion whenever we land. It is the knowledge of Christ crucified. If we know him, and are found sufficiently acquainted with him, he is the Lord of the better country, and whether we land to-night, or be left a long while at sea, he will say, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." But, from the delusion I spoke of, few set about learning this knowledge in time. Every day looks so like its brother-yesterday as lifelike as the day before, and the present day as hale and hopeful as either, that it becomes very natural to say, "To- morrow will be as this day, and much more abundant." And so the golden moments glide away. One is constantly adjusting his berth, and finds new employment every day in making it more comfortable or more complete; and will perhaps be so engaged the night when the anchor drops, and the sails are furled. And many more amuse themselves. They take up the volume which contains the grand lesson, and look a few minutes at it, and put it past, and skip away to some favourite diversion; whilst they know full well, or fear too sadly, that they have not reached the main secret yet. And so in various ways, instead of giving all diligence to be found in Christ at his appearing, many are squandering in frivolity their precious term of probation. Oh, dear brethren! it is time to be numbering the days. It is time to apply your hearts unto wisdom. It is time to read-time to listen for the great hereafter. It is time to take up that blessed book with which at the outset God graciously furnished you, and make sure of that excellent knowledge, without which you cannot see his face in peace. It is time to be seeking an interest in the Lord Jesus Christ. It is time to be done with trifles; time to break away from silly or ensnaring company, and give yourselves resolutely to the one thing needful. "When you can read your title clear And wipe your weeping eyes." When you can say, "I know whom I have believed "when you can aver, “I am persuaded that Christ is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him"-when you have found in the blood of Jesus a cleansing from all your sin, and in Ilis merits your own title to glory-a wondrous relief will come over your spirit, and you will have no forebodings about the end of the voyage. When we announce, parallel, the intelligence will cause you no perturbaas now we announce, that we are crossing another tion. And should you wake up at midnight and hear the hurrying steps and novel voices which bespeak the vessel come to port, you may calmly rise and make ready, for your friend is there, and your title is here. The Gospel you believe, and the Saviour you know. THE WORLD'S VIRTUE NO GROUND OF RIGHTEOUSNESS. [THE following passage is lengthened, but, as the reader will find, highly powerful and impressive. It forms part of a Lecture in Dr Chalmers' " Institutes of Theology," a noble contribution to Theological Science, to which we shall take an early opportunity of adverting more particularly.—Ed. C. T.] Nothing can exceed the terms of degradation in which the Bible arraigns, nay vilifies, our naturecharging us at one time with the destitution of all godliness, when it speaks of us living without God in the world; but, far more monstrous than this, charging us at another time with the direct opposite of godliness, as when it speaks of the carnal mind being enmity against God. Could we but gain the conscience over to these statements of Scripture, the work of conviction would be wellnigh perfected; and man, stripped of every plea or every palliative by which he could at all sustain a dependence upon himself, would become a likelier subject for the calls and invitations of the gospel. The terms of a violated law might all the more readily shut him up unto the faith-because reduced by the sense of his own worthlessness to a thankful acquiescence in the over |