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graces flourish cannot be removed without having at least some to lament his death.

But the true Christian lives not only for himself, but for others. He lives for usefulness. He feels that his duty is only partly done when he has presented the fairest developments of personal excellence. If he have a household, he will endeavour to train up his children for Christ. His influence will be felt in the workshop, in the countinghouse, in every place where men meet for the transaction of the business of life. An unobtrusive religion will make itself everywhere felt, elevating and sanctifying even the lowliest of the duties of the world. He will be characterized by public spirit, not for the sake of advantage or display, but from a real desire to do good; he will take a prominent part, if he have talent and opportunity, in every movement which contemplates the moral or the social elevation of his fellow men. Like David, he will thus endeavour to "serve his generation by the will of God." He will relieve the needy, comfort the sorrowing, and bind up the broken-hearted, not only "keeping himself unspotted from the world," but visiting the fatherless and widows in their affliction. It will be his especial endeavour to lead the souls of men to Christ, by gathering around him those whom, as a sabbath school teacher, he may instruct in the way of salvation;--and in various ways besides, as he may have talent or opportunity, seeking the accomplishment of the highest good. The man who does this, does it as he can, does it with all his might, and, when he can do it no more, still takes an interest in the endeavours of those who have entered into his labours, can scarcely pass away unregretted. He may be poor; he may be in some respects misunderstood; partial defects may obscure his excellence; but such a man cannot be taken from the midst of those whose work he has shared, and from amongst those whom he has endeavoured to bless, without being mourned as one who is greatly "desired."

It should be our aim to live so that our place shall know us at least a little while after we are gone; so that, as men speak of us, they shall do it with a beaming eye and a quivering lip. We shall thus pile our own monument and write our own epitaph, not on chiselled marble and in a flattering inscription, but in the remembrances of hearts that love us. We shall thus do good service for God when we can labour no more.

"What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
"Tis not the sculptured pile we heap;

In dews that heavens far distant weep,
Their turf may bloom.

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There is in St. Paul's Cathedral no monument of its architect, Sir Christopher Wren. There is only a plain tablet, which briefly records his name and his works; but the conclusion of the inscription which is graven on that tablet is truly sublime: "Reader! would you behold his monument, look round." It says, in effect, "This glorious structure is his memorial," And what better memorial can the Christian have than works of lasting usefulness, which praise him when he is no more, and which follow him to the throne of God!

Again we would say, let us not be misunderstood. The best reputation, even amongst the truly good, is not to be the great object of life. A man may win universal esteem, may secure a wide-spread reputation for all that is great and good, and yet be lost. On the other hand, a man may be held in no esteem by his fellow men, and yet be truly honoured of God. The great thing is to aim at God's approval; but yet, whilst regarding that as the great thing, it may be a solace and a joy that men regard us with love. If we live so that we shall be approved of God, it is most likely that we shall not "depart without being desired." And frequently the regrets and the respect of the good may be regarded as the reflection of the Divine approval, and whilst men are twining the chaplet to place on the good man's grave, the spirit itself may be crowned with celestial immortality! On the other hand, the dishonour, which tacitly or otherwise is pronounced on the bad man's memory, may be only the reflection of that curse which God himself has already pronounced on the unfaithful servant. The truly honoured grave is that of the man who has honoured God; the dishonoured grave is that of the man who has despised him. He himself has said, "Them that honour me, I will honour; but they that despise me shall be lightly esteemed."

Life is a noble thing. What capabilities of enjoyment, and still more what capabilities of influence and usefulness are bound up in one human life! And yet how sinfully are multitudes squandering them all away in trifling pleasures, in the pursuit of the grovelling and the sensual, or at best in the acquisition of this world's good. This is not to live; for that man cannot be said to live who is doing nothing to accomplish

the great ends of being; not securing his own salvation, not doing anything to save and bless his kind. The word of inspiration itself says, "She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." Reader, is this your case? If it be, resolve that your life shall be redeemed from all this vanity. As you feel how sinful you have been in wasting it, go to the foot of the cross, and there confess and deplore your guilt. There seek another life, that life which is quickened by the Spirit of God; and there, too, consecrate your affections and energies to Christ, and say, "The time past of my life is sufficient to have wrought the will of the flesh, I will now by Thy grace do Thy will." is not too late. Be assured the dedication will be accepted, and you may yet do good service for God, and be a blessing to the world. It may even now be possible for you to crowd so much of holy energy and of divinely directed zeal into your life, that it may be said of you, as it was said of the protomartyr Stephen-and nobler earthly honour could scarcely be recorded-" Devout men carried him to his burial, and made great lamentation over him."

It

J. F. SHAW, BOOKSELLER, SOUTHAMPTON ROW, AND
PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON ;

AND W. INNES, BOOKSELLER, SOUTH HANOVER STREET, EDINBURGH.

J. & W. Rider, Printers, 14, Bartholomew Close, London.

HEART COMMUNION.

NOT far from Avignon, in the south of France, is a mountain which may be descried from all parts, and which is called, from its loftiness and exposure to storms, "The mountain of the winds." Petrarch once toiled up that hill, and has left a minute account of his journey in one of his letters. After describing the glory of the prospect (crossed as it is by the arrowy Rhone, cutting plains, and skirting hills clothed. with vineyards, and oliveyards, and bounded by the blue Mediterranean in the distance), he tells us that he took out his favorite book, the "Confessions of Augustine," to read on the spot as the sun was going down, when his eye lighted on the following passage: "Men go far to observe the summits of mountains, and the waters of the ocean, and the springs and courses of rivers, and the immensity of the sea, but themselves they neglect." The coincidence between this thought and his own circumstances struck him powerfully, and he reflected on the folly of mortals, who, neglecting the most precious part of their nature, go to seek with difficulty abroad what they might easily meet with at home. The words of the Christian Father are true. The comment of the Poet is just.

Men do go in search of outward wonders to the neglect of the study of what they carry within them wherever they go. The external universe does indeed fully repay the curiosity which it excites in minds of sensibility and taste; the only thing to be lamented is, that men who love communing with nature omit to commune with their own selves also.

The Divine lesson, "commune with your own hearts," is of infinite moment, and the strongest statements warranted by truth had need be made on the subject, since there is so little of this employment amongst us.

Men are loath to engage in it. Self-knowledge is by no means common. It would be curious, if it were not so affecting, to think how many people there are intimately acquainted with a vast range of subjects-history, science, literature, art, who are thoroughly ignorant of their own spiritual nature, its capacities, condition, and destiny, its state before God, its relation to Christ, and its prospects for eternity. The man's soul is a dark centre, with a luminous circumference. To him

the outward world is open, the inward shut; abroad he finds acquaintance, at home he is a stranger. Many are even better acquainted with the character of others than with their own. Wisely has it been remarked, that " suppose any number of persons acquainted with one another: the judgments they formed of one another would, on the whole account, be nearer the truth than those which they entertain of their own selves, notwithstanding the great advantage men have for knowing themselves better than others can.' Yet really it is strange that there should be so much mistake and ignorance on the subject, for, looking at the constant presence of one's own heart, it would seem that a true and just acquaintance with it were an easy thing. Not to hold self-communion must surely require an effort-various expedients must be devised to prevent it; it must be like having at home an unwelcome lodger,— like taking abroad a distasteful companion. No doubt, men have to strive hard, and to be ingenious, to veil the face of the mysterious inmate, to stifle the voice of the intrusive guest, to divert attention from the inward whisperings. The end some have in view, in business, and travelling, and amusement, is just this to escape from themselves. They are spectre

haunted mortals-their hearts are dark shadows following them everywhere. They would give the world to be utterly self-forgetful. It is a terrible fact, that: with the fear of something outward there may be hope. What relief is there for the fear of what you carry within? Think of the struggle some have to elude the consciousness of guilty secrets,—the frantic efforts of a prisoner to burst the chain by which his gaoler holds him,-a face averted with agony from the dark entrance of a hell-like cave, while a Fury stands behind, pushing on the scared one, telling him, "you must look in,”—such images are feeble types of the hopeless struggle. Suspicion, horror, dread, sometimes prevent self-communion, but not always. The pre-occupation of the thoughts, society, study, entertainment, levity, often excite an unwillingness to look within, or rather remove the state of the heart, as a subject of inquiry and meditation, quite into the background. Some who feel neither positive terror nor total indifference have a lurking suspicion that all is not right, and so waive selfinquiry, as people sometimes shrink from looking into their affairs, when they have some unpleasant surmises that things will be found to be going on wrong. Your unwillingness to enter on the duty is really a reason why you should delay it no longer.

Commune, then, with your own heart-but not with that

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