by the payment of one hundred pounds sterling to the merciless and mercenary murderers. But nothing could avail to save the lives of the young woman and her widowed friend.

The day of execution came, the 11th of May, 1685, bright it may be with fresh smiles of the reviving year, but dark and terrible to many a sympathizing heart. Windram and his troop guarded the victims to the place of doom, accompanied by a crowd of people, filled with fear and wonder, and still doubting whether the horrid deed would be done. The stakes were driven deep into the oozy sand. That to which the aged widow was tied was placed farthest in, that she might perish first. The tide began to flow, the water rose around them, the hoarse rough billows came advancing on, swelling and mounting inch by inch, over limb, and breast, and neck, and lip of the pious and venerable matron, while her young companion in martyrdom, still in shallow water, gazed on the awful scene, and knew that in a few minutes more her sufferings would be the same. At this dreadful moment some heartless ruffian asked Margaret Wilson what she thought now of her fellow-martyr, in her dying agonies? Calmly she answered,

'What do I see but Christ, in one of his members, wrestling there! Think you that we are the sufferers? No, it is Christ in us; for he sends none a warfare on their own charges.'

But the water now began to swell cold and deadly round and over her own bosom; and that her last breath might be expended in the worship of God, she sung the twenty-fifth psalm, repeated a portion of the eighth chapter of the epistle to the Romans, and prayed till her voice was lost amid the rising waves. Before life was quite extinct, the torturers cut the cords that bound her to the stake, dragged her out, waited till she was restored to consciousness, and then asked her if she would pray for the king. She answered,

'I wish the salvation of all men, and the damnation of none.' 'Dear Margaret,' exclaimed one of the spectators, in accents of love and sorrow, 'say God save the king! say God save the king!' With the steady composure of one for whom life had few attractions and death no terrors, she replied, God save him, if he will, for it is his salvation I desire.' Her relatives and friends immediately cried aloud to the officer, 'O, sir, she has said it, she has said it!' The ruthless monster, reluctant thus to lose his victim, re

quired her to answer the abjuration oath. In the same firm tone she answered,

'I will not; I am one of Christ's children; let me go!'

By his command she was again plunged into the heaving waters, and, after a brief struggle, the spirit of this virgin martyr entered into the rest and peace of everlasting happiness.

Sweet was the memory of Margaret, in the hearts of those who knew and loved her, and there was love that the historian knew not of, and we have not ventured to take liberties with the record he has left us. The spirit of Margaret is what we love and would hold to the imitation of the world. — N. Y. Observer. up

LOVE OF HOME.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanted shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;

In every clime, the magnet of his soul,

Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

'Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?'
Art thou a man? a patriot?-look around;
O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

To do good is a most blessed work, compared with which every other sinks into insignificance. But it will be evident, on a moment's thought, that in order essentially to benefit others, we must begin with ourselves. Our own hearts must glow with the benevolence of heaven.

We may do good by the culture of a right spirit. This is a spirit humble and lowly, yet bold and zealous for God; generous and liberal, but not time-serving; hating and denouncing sin, but pitying and loving the sinner; a spirit which forgives injuries, prays for enemies, and returns good for evil. The exhibition of such a temper cannot fail to do good. It is a principal desideratum in many a benevolent enterprise. If this disposition is ours it will be seen and known, notwithstanding any infelicities of natural character. And it will make upon beholders a strong impression. It will arouse the Christian to activity, and induce the sinner to respect, if not to love, the religion of Christ.

We may do good by prayer, for ourselves and for others. For ourselves that we may cherish the spirit just described; that we may retain the disposition to be useful, when others grow weary; and that we may never forget, however engrossed, the paramount claims of God, and the mighty end of our existence. And no pen can portray, for no finite mind can estimate, the good we may obtain for others by our intercessions. We may thus reach multitudes whom our eyes will never behold, and convey to them the richest blessings in the gift of God. We can enfranchise the bondman, break the yoke of intemperance, freight ships with Bibles and missionaries for heathen lands, affect, healthfully, our own national councils, and diffuse a saving influence through the world.

We may do good by beneficent actions. We can feed the hungry and clothe the naked. We can extend to the afflicted our condolence, making their burdens ours, and, by words of kindness and personal attentions, alleviate their sufferings. We may encourage honest industry, struggling with adversity, and, by a little timely aid, restore courage to the fainting. And it is not so much the

amount bestowed, which promotes happiness, as the sweet influence of sympathy. We may purchase tracts and scatter them, and thus be the happy instrument of checking vice, giving a right turn to a youthful mind, or rescuing a soul from death. We can make a beneficial impression upon our associates, as lovers of peace and order, defending the wrongfully accused, and firmly advocating sound principles. We can give our names and efforts to tried philanthropic enterprises, and, through their agency, impart to destitute nations our own invaluable privileges.

Without enumerating other methods of doing good, let me invite you, my dear young friends, to reflect upon some of the great motives which summon you to this appropriate and heavenly work.

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You are called to it by the express command of God. His language is, 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. Therefore, all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them; for this is the law and the prophets. To do good, and to communicate, forget not, for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.' The Scriptures abound with such teachings. Their author is a God, whose name is Love; who so loved the world that he gave for it his well-beloved son; a God, whose goodness pervades heaven and earth, in forms without number. He knows, infinitely well, the blessedness of benevolence, and he wishes us to partake of the identical joy which dwells in his own bosom. If the injunctions of a father should have weight, God is 'the kindest and best of fathers.' If the heart's wish of a dear friend deserves regard, who else is such a friend? If benefactors rightfully claim some deference, what are all other benefactors to him? He calls you to this work - his own work,- by his own high authority,- by his gifts of mercy, his surpassing, illimitable goodness.

The example of the blessed Saviour invites you to the work. He dwelt in primeval, uncreated light, the glory of his own attributes, when, as yet, suns and stars were unmade. And when the morning stars began their ceaseless hymn, it was He whom they sang. Angels peerlessly bright, and as holy as beautiful, adored him. Throughout their shining orders, one impulse moved, one song employed them. And could the Son of the Blessed,' turn away his ear from music like this? He could, and did. The story has been sung to you in your cradle, lisped by you in the Sabbath-school, chanted in the choir, echoed from the pulpit, prayed over, wept