with chains, he had at least received some relief from the Philippians, who, knowing his miserable condition, had, notwithstanding their own need, laid themselves under restraint in order to minister to his wants; but now he is altogether friendless-Luke, only is with him; he is forsaken of all others, and the winter about to set in. He would need a cloak; he had left his own with Carpus at Troas, two hundred leagues away; there was no one in the chilly dungeons of Rome to lend him one. Had he not joyfully quitted all for Jesus? Had he not counted all the honour of the world but dung, that he might win Christ? and was not he prepared to "endure all things for the elect's sake?" We were ourselves last year in Rome, at the commencement of November, on a rainy day; and with what vivid reality, under the influence of the evening cold, could we imagine the Apostle Paul down in the deep dungeons of the Capitol, dictating the last of his letters, regretting the absence of his cloak, and begging Timothy to bring it before the winter! such traits have been a source of encouragement, example, and joy! We call to mind, for instance, the pastor Juvet, in Switzerland, who, twenty years ago, was refused a blanket, in the prisons of the Canton of Vaud. There is also in the Catholic Church, the instance of Jerome of Prague, who was immured, during three hundred and forty days, in the dungeons of Constance, at the bottom of a dark and fetid tower, which he only left to be transferred to the hands of his murderers. Nor have we forgotten the sainted Bishop Hooper, among the English, led from his damp, unwholesome cell, covered with tattered clothes and borrowed cloak, to pass to the stake, resting upon a staff, and crippled with sciatic pains. Venerated brethren! happy martyrs! you then doubtless called to mind your brother Paul, shut up in the dungeons of Rome, suffering from cold and lack of raiment, asking for his cloak! Oh! how unhappy must he be who is insensible to such feelings, the affecting greatness of such details, the provident and divine sympathy they display,, the depth and the charm of such a mode of instruction!-but more unhappy still he who declares it to be human, because he does not understand it. It is thus that St. Paul, by these words, thrown as it were negligently among the closing commissions of a familiar epistle, sheds a glancing light upon his ministry, and in a passing re whole apostolical life; as a flash of lightning) will sometimes in the darkness irradiate the summit of our Alps; or like some persons, who utter their whole soul in a single look. DEVOTION MADE EASY. Who is there that would now remove from the inspired epistles so striking and touching a feature? Does not the Holy Ghost thereby introduce us into Paul's prison, to catch a sight of his affecting self-denial, and his poverty? just as he enables us to see, as it were with our own eyes, his earnest love, when a short time previously, writing to the Philippians, he says: "I weep as I write, because there are many among you who mind earthly things, whose end is de-mark, enables us to see the character of his struction." Do we not feel as if we beheld him in the prison, bound with his chain, his tears falling upon the parchment whilst thus writing? Can we not see his poor body; to-day ill clad, suffering, and benumbed; to-morrow, beheaded, and floating down the Tiber, awaiting the day when the earth shall yield her dead, and the sea shall give up the dead which are in it, and Christ shall transform our vile body, and make it like unto his own glorious body? And if these details are attractive, can you think they forward with his eyes fixed on a book which he held The moment he (the monk) perceived me, he came are not useful? And if they profit those who in his hand, and accosted me thus: "Would you not read them as a simple history, what do they not be infinitely obliged to any one who should open to become to him who believes in their Theopneus-lions of gold to have a key by which you might gain you the gates of paradise? Would you not give miltia, and who can say to himself, "O my soul! these words were written by Paul; but it is thy God who addresses them to thee." Who can tell the power and consolation which their very familiarity and tangibility may convey to the occupant of a dungeon or a hovel? Who can reckon the poor and the martyred, to whom * Or" Divine Inspiration." This paper is taken from Dr. Gaussen's admirable treatise under that title. IN the ninth of his Provincial Letters, Pascal details some of the fearful liberties taken by the Jesuits with Bible doctrines and morality. He says: admittance whenever you thought proper? You need not be at such expense; here is one-here are a hun dred for much less money." At first I was at a loss to know whether the good father was reading, or talking to me, but he soon put the matter beyond doubt by adding: These, sir, are the opening words of a fine book, written by Father Barry of our society; for I never give you anything of my own." "What book is it?" asked I. "Here is its title," he replied: "Paradise opened DEVOTION MADE EASY. to Philagio, in a Hundred Devotions to the Mother of God, easily practised." "Indeed, father! and are each of these easy devotions a sufficient passport to heaven?" "It is," returned he. "Listen to what follows: 'The devotions to the Mother of God, which you will find in this book, are so many celestial keys, which will open wide to you the gates of paradise, provided you practise them; and, accordingly he says at the conclusion, 'that he is satisfied if you practise only one of them.' Pray, then, father, do teach me one of the easiest of them." 303 salvation, and that the least of them, if flowing from the exercise of faith and charity, as in the case of the saints who have practised them, are of great merit; but to make persons believe that, by practising these without reforming their wicked lives, they will be converted by them at the hour of death, or that God will raise them up again, does appear calculated rather to keep sinners going on in their evil courses, by deluding them with false peace and foolhardy confidence, than to draw them off from sin by that genuine conversion which grace alone can effect." "What does it matter," replied the monk, "by what road we enter paradise, provided we do enter "They are all easy," he replied; "for example-it? as our famous Father Binet, formerly our proSaluting the holy Virgin when you happen to meet her image-saying the little chaplet of the pleasures of the Virgin-fervently pronouncing the name of Mary-commissioning the angels to bow to her for us-wishing to build her as many churches as all the monarchs on earth have done - bidding her good morrow every morning, and good night in the evening-saying the Ave Maria every day, in honour of the heart of Mary'-which last devotion, he says, possesses the additional virtue of securing us the heart of the Virgin." 66 “But, father,” said I, only provided we give her our own in return, I presume?" "That," he replied, "is not absolutely necessary, when a person is too much attached to the world. Hear Father Barry: 'Heart for heart would, no doubt, be highly proper; but yours is rather too much attached to the world, too much bound up in the creature, so that I dare not advise you to offer, at present, that poor little slave which you call your heart. And so he contents himself with the Ave Maria which he had prescribed." Why, this is extremely easy work," said I, "and I should really think that nobody will be damned after that." "Alas!" said the monk, "I see you have no idea of the hardness of some people's hearts. There are some, sir, who would never engage to repeat, every day, even these simple words, Good day, Good evening, just because such a practice would require some exertion of memory. And, accordingly it became necessary for Father Barry to furnish them with expedients still easier, such as wearing a chaplet night and day on the arm, in the form of a bracelet, or carrying about one's person a rosary, or an image of the Virgin. And, tell me now,' as Father Barry says, if I have not provided you with easy devotions to obtain the good graces of Mary ?" " "Extremely easy, indeed, father," I observed. Yes," he said, "it is as much as could possibly be done, and I think should be quite satisfactory. For he must be a wretched creature indeed, who would not spare a single moment in all his life-time to put a chaplet on his arm, or a rosary in his ,pocket, and thus secure his salvation; and that too, with so much certainty that none who have tried the experiment have ever found to fail, in whatever way they may have lived; though, let me add, we exhort people not to omit holy living. Let me refer you to the example of this, given at p. 34; it is that of a female who, while she practised daily the devotion of saluting the images of the Virgin, spent all her days in mortal sin, and yet was saved after all, by the merit of that single act of devotion." "And how so?" cried I. "Our Saviour," he replied, "raised her up again, for the very purpose of showing it. So certain it is, that none can perish who practise any one of these devotions." "My dear sir," I observed, "I am fully aware that the devotions to the Virgin are a powerful mean of vincial, remarks on a similar subject, in his excellent "The Virgin will be answerable for that," returned he; "so says Father Barry in the concluding lines of his book: If, at the hour of death, the enemy should happen to put in some claim upon you, and occasion disturbance in the little commonwealth of your thoughts, you have only to say that Mary will answer for you, and that he must make his application to her."" "But, father, it might be possible to puzzle you, were one disposed to push the question a little further. Who, for example, has assured us that the Virgin will be answerable in this case ?" "Father Barry will be answerable for her," he replied. "As for the profit and happiness to be derived from these devotions,' he says, I will be answerable for that; I will stand bail for the good Mother.'" "But, father, who is to be answerable for Father Barry ?" "How!" cried the monk; "for Father Barry? is he not a member of our society? and do you need to be told that our society is answerable for all the books of its members?" * "I would now say a little about the facilities we have invented for avoiding sin in worldly conversations and intrigues. One of the most embarrassing of these cases is how to avoid telling lies, particularly when one is anxious to induce a belief in what is false. In such cases, our doctrine of equivocations has been found of admirable service, according to which, as Sanchez has it, it is permitted to use ambiguous terms, leading people to understand them in another sense from that in which we understand them ourselves.'” "I know that already, father," said I. "We have published it so often," continued he, "that at length, it seems, everybody knows of it. But do you know what is to be done when no equivocal words can be got ?" "No, father." "I thought as much," said the Jesuit; "this is something new, sir; I mean the doctrine of mental reservations. 'A man may swear,' as Sanchez says in the same place, that he never did such a thing (though he actually did it), meaning within himself that he did not do so on a certain day, or before he was born, or understanding any other such circumstance, while the words which he employs have no such sense as would discover his meaning. And this is very convenient in many cases, and quite innocent, when necessary or conducive to one's health, honour, or advantage."" 66 Indeed, father! is that not a lie, and perjury to boot ?" "No," said the father; "Sanchez and Fillutius prove that it is not; for, says the latter, it is the intention that determines the quality of the action.' And he suggests a still surer method for avoiding falsehood, which is this: After saying aloud, I swear that I have not done that, to add in a low voice, today; or, after saying, aloud, I swear, to interpose in a whisper, that I say, and then continue aloud, that I have done that. This, you perceive, is telling the truth." "I grant it," said I; "it might possibly, however, be found to be telling the truth in a low key, and falsehood in a loud one; besides, I should be afraid that many people might not have sufficient presence of mind to avail themselves of these methods." "Our doctors," replied the Jesuit, "have taught in the same passage, for the benefit of such as might not be expert in the use of these reservations, that no more is required of them, to avoid lying, than simply to say that they have not done what they have done, provided they have, in general, the intention of giving to their language the sense which an able man would give to it." Be candid, now, and confess if you have not often felt yourself embarrassed, in consequence of not knowing this ?" Sometimes," said I. "And will you not also acknowledge," continued he, "that it would often prove very convenient to be absolved in conscience from keeping certain engagements one may have made ?" "The most convenient thing in the world," I replied. "Listen, then, to the general rule laid down by Escobar: Promises are not binding, when the person in making them had no intention to bind himself.. Now, it seldom happens that any have such an intention, unless when they confirm their promises by un oath or contract; so that when one simply says, I will do it, he means that he will do it, if he does not change his mind; for he does not wish, by saying that, to deprive himself of his liberty.' He gives other rules in the same strain, which you may consult for yourself, and tells us, in conclusion, that all this is taken from Molina and our other authors, and is therefore settled beyond all doubt."" "But," continued the monk, "just to show you how careful our fathers are about everything you can think of, I may mention that, after granting the ladies permission to gamble, and foreseeing that, in many cases, this license would be of little avail unless they had something to gamble with, they have established another maxim in their favour, which will be found in Escobar's chapter on larceny, n. 13: A wife,' says he, may gamble, and for this purpose may pilfer money from her husband.”” "Well, father, that is capital!" "There are many other good things besides that," said the father; "but we must waive them, and say a little about those more important maxims, which facilitate the practice of holy things-the manner of attending mass, for example. On this subject our great divines, Gaspard Hurtado, and Cominck, have taught that it is quite sufficient to be present at mass in body, though we may be absent in spirit, provided we maintain an outwardly respectful deportment.' Vasquez goes a step further, maintaining that one fulfils the precept of hearing mass, even though one should go with no such intention at all.' All this is repeatedly laid down by Escobar, who, in one passage, illustrates the point by the example of those who are dragged to mass by force, and who put on a fixed resolution not to listen to it." "Truly, sir," said I, "had any other person told me that, I would not have believed it." "In good sooth," he replied, it requires all the support which the authority of these great names can lend it; and so does the following maxim by the same Escobar, that even a wicked intention, joined to that of hearing mass rightly, does not hinder a man from fulfilling the service. But another very convenient device, suggested by our learned brother Turrian, is, that one may hear the half of a mass from one priest, and the other half from another; and that it makes no difference though he should hear first the conclusion of the one, and then the commencement of the other.' I might also mention that it has been decided by several of our doctors, to be lawful to hear the two halves of a mass at the same time, from the lips of two different priests, one of whom is commencing the mass, while the other is at the elevation;!, it being quite possible to attend to both parts at once, and two halves of a mass making a whole-duc medietates unam missam constituunt. From all which,' says Escobar, I conclude that you may hear mass in a very short period of time; if, for example, you should happen to hear four masses going on at the same time, so arranged that when the first is at the commencement, the second is at the gospel, the third at the consecration, and the last at the communion."" 66 Certainly, father, according to that plan, one may hear mass any day at Notre Dame in a twinkling." Well," replied he, "that just shows how admirable we have succeeded in facilitating the hearing of mass. But I am anxious now to show you how we have softened the use of the sacraments, and particularly that of penance. It is here that the benignity of our fathers shines in its truest splendour; and you will be really astonished to find that devotion, a thing which the world is so apt to boggle at, should have been treated by our doctors with such consummate skill, that, to use the words of Father' le Moine, in his Devotion made Easy, demolishing the bugbear which the devil had placed at its threshold, they have rendered it easier than vice, and more agreeable than pleasure; so that, in fact, simply to live is incomparably more irksome than to live, well. Is that not a marvellous change, now?" "Indeed, father, I cannot help telling you a bit of my mind: I am sadly afraid that you have overshot the mark, and that this indulgence of yours will shock more people than it will attract. The mass, for example, is a thing so grand and so holy, that, in the eyes of a great many, it would be enough to blast the credit of your doctors for ever, to show them how you have spoken of it." "With a certain class," replied the monk, “I allow that may be the case; but do you not know that we accommodate ourselves to all sorts of persons? You seem to have lost all recollection of what I have repeatedly told you on this point. The first time you are at leisure, therefore, I propose that we make this the theme of our conversation, deferring till then the lenitives we have introduced into the confessional. I promise to make you understand it so well that you will never forget it." THE CEDAR.* "The righteous shall grow like the cedar." THE cedar is a thirsty tree. It is distinguished from many of its kindred by its avarice of water. We once saw two of them at Chelsea, which were said to have grown rapidly for a hundred years, till two ponds in the garden were filled with rubbish; after * From "The Cedar," one of “ Nisbet's Series of Tracts,” London. 1 pride of my heart, from the humility and brokenness of spirit which struck me." But when you come to look closely into the matter, and inquire to what secret cause these lofty cedars owe their growth; whence is it that their influential and im which they grew no more. And we remembered the words of Ezekiel: "Behold, the Assyrian was a cedar in Lebanon, with fair branches, and a shadowing shroud. The waters made him great, the deep set him up on high. His boughs were multiplied, and his branches became long, because of the multi-pressive characters have derived their admirable tude of waters. All the fowls of heaven made their nests in his boughs, and under his branches did the beasts of the field bring forth their young, and under his shadow dwelt great nations. Thus fair was his grandeur, for his root was by great waters. The cedars in the garden of God could not hide him, the fir trees were not like him: all the trees of Eden envied him." (Ezek. xxxi. 3-9.) And so there are Christians planted by the rivers-believers of stately growth and luxuriant shadow-so tall that, even in the garden of God, and among the cedars, they cannot be hid. For clear-eyed, time-penetrating faith, such an overtopping saint was Abraham, who, athwart the expanse of nineteen centuries, could see Christ's day, and exult with a disciple's joy. For prompt gratitude and ecstatic adoration, such an exalted saint was David, whose "glorying" slept so lightly that the softest touch awoke it (Ps. lvii. 8), and whose palpitating psaltery was so accustomed to hallelujahs, that sorrow struck them out as readily as joy, and oft as he changed the cords the royal harp would only sing the praises of Jehovah. For high-hearted devotion to his God, such an elevated saint was Daniel, whose lofty statesmanship, and spotless career, and lovely bearing to his brethren, were but the various expressions of the selfsame thing to which he owed his miraculous escapes and his frequent revelations: "O man greatly beloved, thy prayer is heard." And for burning love to Jesus Christ-self-forgetful, self-consuming, such a pre-eminent saint was Paul, to whom the beloved image of his Master shone in every type and shadow of the old economy; who could trace the myrrh-dropping fingers on the tongs and snuffers of the tabernacle; who could hear the voice of Jesus through the roar of the Adriatic, and lean upon his arm before Nero's judgment-seat; to whom the affliction in which Christ came was more welcome than an angel-visitor, and as the summons to Christ's presence, death itself the object of desire. Such noble and commanding characters have there been, that none could hide them, and none were like them; and under the awe or the attraction of their goodness, good men wished to resemble them. "The grace, you always find that communion with God is the comprehensive source of their pre-eminent piety. They are abundant in religious exercises. They are mighty in the Scriptures. They are men of prayer. They are frequenters of the sanctuary. They are lovers of Christian fellowship. They are delighted observers of the Sabbath. But, after all, ordinances are to them but avenues or audience chambers. It is a Bible in which God speaks, a closet in which God hearkens, a sanctuary in which God's countenance shines, which they desire of the Lord, and seek to attain; and, finding these, they find the living God himself. Their fellowship is with the Father and the Son. They grow into the knowledge of the divine perfections. They grow in reverence, and trust, and love. They grow in perceptions of their own infinite vileness, and consequently in appreciation of the blood which pardons, and the Spirit who cleanses. They grow in self-distrust, and in dependence on God. They grow in self-condemnation, and in weariness for that world where they will sin no more. And whilst they are solidly growing in these inward experiences, they have, unawares to themselves, expanded the long branches and shadowing shroud of a great cedar. They have become the admiration and the resort of others. The affections of many nestle in their boughs, and under their shadow dwell those who seek to profit by their counsel and their company. And just as there is growth in the multitude of waters, so there is decrepitude and decay where the waters fail. Like the Chelsea cedars, you will meet with professors who, for many years together, have not grown an inch. The rubbish of secularity or idleness has filled up the two pools of Bible reading and secret prayers and a form of godliness, and a few evangelical phrases still remembered; a stunted top, and a bundle of scrubby branches, are all that remainsa memorial of their better days. Like the palm, it is evergreen. Though a native of the mountains, and used to wintry weather, it never sheds its leaves. And these leaves, as well as its bark and wood, are aromatic. Even when the snow is loading its branches, the cedar is fragrant; but it is in those blessed and vernal days when snows are melting, when the April sun is lavishing his light and heat to the balmy air, and the whole life of the mountain is gushing through the opening flowers and carolling birds and leaping lambs; it is then that, in the bursting of fresh foliage and in the flow of beaded gums, the cedar loads the air with incense, and flings afar "the smell of Lebanon." And so a gracious soul is ever fresh, ever vital, ever green. But there are times when the winter is past, and the Sun of Righteousness shines-the April season of the soul; times when a whole tide of happy life flows into the dilating spirit, and the joy of Jesus circulates expansive and reviving through every opening faculty and enlarging grace. And it is then -then, when every twig of the cedar is tufted with new softness and beauty, and when the nestling birds are singing in the branches-it is then, when the love of the Spirit circulates anew, and the soul exults in God its Saviour-it is then that it is good to be near the happy and fresh-filled believer. In such society, and at such a season, the atmosphere is odour. The south wind wakes, and the spices flow. Heaven has opened, and the winter fled. God smiles, and the soul expands. The Holy Spirit stirs within, and verdure mantles to the topmost bough. And in the wafted gladness and delicious air, every alert disciple feels it is surely good to be here. We might have added, the cedar is sound to the last; and the believer perseveres to the end, "to show that the Lord is upright; he is a rock, and there is no unrighteousness with him." But we only mention one particular farther. The palm is most productive at the last. It brings forth in old age its largest, richest fruit. The cedar is most useful when dead. It is most productive when its place knows it no more. There is no timber like it. Firm in the grain, and capable of the finest polish, the tooth of no insect will touch it, and time himself can hardly destroy it. Diffusing a perpetual fragrance through the chambers which it ceils, the worm will not corrode the book which it protects, nor the moth corrupt the garment which it guards. All but immortal itself, it transfuses its amaranthine qualities to the objects around it; and however stately in the forest, or brave on the mountain's brow, it is more serviceable in Solomon's palace, and more sanctified when set up as pillars in the temple, and carved into door-posts and lintels for the house of the Lord. Every Christian is useful in his life, but the goodly cedars are most useful afterwards. Joseph while he lived saved much people alive, and his own lofty goodness was an impressive and elevating pattern to his relenting and admiring brethren. But as an instance of special providence, and an example of untarnished excellence amidst terrible temptations, Joseph dead has spoken to more than Joseph living. The sweet singer of Israel while he lived taught many to handle the harp, and infected not a few with his thankful adoring spirit. But David being dead yet singeth; and you can hardly name the psalm, or hymn, or spiritual song, of which the lesson was not learnt from the son of Jesse. Paul in his living day preached many a sermon, and made many a convert to the faith of Jesus. But Paul being dead yet preacheth; and they were sermons from his sepulchre which converted Luther, and Zuingle, and most of our modern evangelists. And Luther is dead; but the reformation lives. Calvin is dead; but his vindication of God's free and sovereign grace will never die. Knox, Melville, and Henderson are dead; but Scotland still retains a Sabbath and a Christian peasantry-a Bible in every house, and a school in every parish. Bunyan is dead; but his bright spirit still walks the earth in its * Pilgrim's Progress." Baxter is dead; but souls are still quickened by the "Saints' Rest," and the "Call to the Unconverted." Cowper is dead; but the "golden apples" are still as fresh as when newly gathered in the "silver basket" of the Olney Hymns. Eliot is dead; but the missionary enterprise is young. Henry Martyn is dead; but who can count the apostolic spirits who, phoenix-wise, have started from his funeral pile? Howard is dead; but modern philanthropy is only commencing its career. Raikes is dead; but the Sabbath-schools go on. Wilberforce is dead; but the negro will find for ages a protector in his memory. TAKE COURAGE. OH, the day was dark, Gusts of wind with rain, Fiercely on our feeble bark Beat the raging main. Evening came, and shed Calm o'er earth and sea. Verdant vale and mountain's head Looked out smilingly. Saint, your day of life Stormy thus may be. For the durance and the strife, Courage! one short day, Soon the storm shall cease: Eve shall brighten with a ray From the land of peace! LADY GREENHILL. MRS. RENTON, the subject of the following tra ditionary notices, was born in the parish of Douglas, and descended of a worthy family of¦ the name of Summerville, in the same place. She was, at the time tradition brings her into view, a widow. She had been married to the proprietor of a small estate called Greenhill, in the parish of Wiston. The mansion-house of the manor was situated at a short distance from the base of Tinto, the vicinity of which was the scene of much persecuting violence. Respecting the religious character of Mrs. Renton's husband tradition has said nothing. She herself, however, was a woman of real piety, and her abode was the ready asylum of the houseless wanderer who had voluntarily left all for Christ's sake. Lady Greenhill, as she was familiarly denominated, according to the custom of the times, was regarded as an influential person in the district where she resided, and her example was therefore considered as the more pernicious. It was known that she was guilty of reset and harbour, as well as of being attached in principle to the cause of the Covenanters, and hence the ruling party determined, if possible, to bring her to another way of thinking. In the district in which she lived, the lady was not solitary in her non-conformist practices. The parts about Tinto were often |