service began it was a full heart which accompanied the prayers, and an exulting voice which swelled the psalms. That morning a distinguished stranger preached. The sermon was one long and lofty argument. Mrs. T. and the young people scarcely understood it. To the close attention and vigorous intellect of Mr. T. it was a transcendent treat. On the way home, his wife and daughter complained that they could not follow it. "It wanted steppingstones. I know what he wished to prove, but I could not see how he made it out." "If, there be a boat on the other side, you don't need steppingstones. Do you remember the curious ferry which we crossed last summer? There was a rope hung over, and the gunwale of the boat was fastened to it. The rope dipped under the current, but it rose as the boat moved on, and that rope and the rush of the river, were enough of themselves to carry us across. The sermon to-day had no steppingstones, but the text and the landingplace were joined together by one strong line; and if you did not see the full drift of it, that was only because the rope dipped under the river." And so the rest of the way he repeated the leading thoughts of the preacher, and brought them to the landing-place in their own style by the easy steppingstones. Rev. Dr. James Hamilton.

We have a

once conclude, is the home of peace and plenty, the storehouse of every comfort, or at least of everything that may contribute to render life easy. That, surely, is the true otium cum dignitate. Want and weariness are politely beckoned away from the door; the cold gripe of penury is unfelt; the chilling dews of the evening of life cannot fall on the head; the wolf of famine dares not enter there. From the exuberant fruit-blossoms that overhang the garden-wall, to the rich furniture that crowds every apartment, the idea of wealth, comfort, happiness is suggested. If earthly joys are to be measured by the frequency, and abundance, and gratification of earthly wishes and aspirations, then, without controversy, the magnate in the mansion is the truly happy man. None of the ills that poverty is heir to, no nightmare of crushing cares and anxieties, no sheeted spectres stalking through one's dormitory in the dark dead hour of midnight, no hairhung Damocles' sword endangering the safety of the head, can disturb the smooth dream of life, or change the wine of gladness into the sharp, sour vinegar of misery and disappointment. To few of these immunities is the humble manse a familiar acquaintance. It boasts of no great things, because it has none to boast of. The escutcheon that emblazons its walls runs counter to the vaunted ensigns of heraldry. Its simple, short motto is, "a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things that he hath." Well does that unostentatious dwelling-place know that the fairest rose has a worm concealed beneath its dewy leaves; that the snowiest cloud that hangs like a Koh-i-noor, a light-mountain, in a sultry summer sky, contains a latent electric fluid that may rend to rags the gaudiest gauze; that the torrent of time, that is ever rushing down from the high hill-sides of the past, must one day be for ever merged in the great gulph of eternity. Though often placed side by side in the smiling vale of peace, the manse and mansion are modelled after opposite styles of architecture. The means and appliances at command in building the

inner framework, invariably render the internal appearance of the ornamentation anything but alike in form.

The aim of the present paper is not to draw an odious contrast between the elbow-torn poverty of the one, and the full-blown plenty of the other. We shall endeavour to extract a page from the time-book of both, and invite the reader to look on this picture and on that.

The gray shadows of twilight were swiftly chasing each other across the horizon, and wrapping near and distant objects in their own dim drapery, as I sat one evening before a large window, and looked out on the last retiring traces of day. Before me, at the distance of a few hundred yards, lay the silent sea, lulled to sleep, with no ruffle on its face, and no murmur breaking from its mouth. All was deep quiet, as if inviting to thought and reflection. There was a small plot of garden-ground in front of the house, elegantly laid out in walks and "greeneries." A trim, newly-built greenhouse, filled with a great variety of plants, occupied the care and culture of one of the younger members of the family. Night was fast coming on. There was a pensive stillness in the air, such as the calm prelusive of the thunderclap, or the hush before the hour of battle. The hum of the neighbouring town was dying away, as the wearied sons of industry instinctively sought repose. There was enough of solemnity in the place and hour to fix the vagrant and volatile fancy; enough of light, amid the increasing gloom, to read the future in the present, and measure the present by the past. It was just such a moment as when the spirit feels itself disenthralled of its fetters, or when a prophetic spell enchains the shadowy forms of the past, and enchants the fleeting visions of the future. There are times when the chasm that separates between the things that have been and the things that shall be hereafter, is bridged over by the elastic band of the prescut, pass ing hour,-when the spirit pauses in its swift march across the confines of life, listens to the low expiring melodies that come up from the deeps of the past,

which is ever receding further from the reach; and then catches up the wild, bold notes of a music that is ever coming nearer and stronger. Thus it was I felt as I sat beside that window, and mused on the creations of a bygone eternity.

I was but a temporary inmate of the mansion, a fine modern fabric, reared by one who is now "no more." Its owner, a "successful merchant" and a "Christian indeed, in whom was no guile," had erected this retreat as a covert for the evening of his days, -a window from which to look, during the sunset of life, on the blue belt of sky that lines the eternal hills of heaven. He had risen from obscurity to public eminence by the help of the Lord. He had earned the good-will, and esteem, and admiration of all who knew him, or who were capable of appreciating his worth. He was "an old man and full of days" before I became acquainted with him. The shadows of death were lengthening and darkening around his path; and in the strict sense of the expression, "he was dead to the world." It was refreshing to listen to the marked earnestness of tone and emphasis of feeling with which he breathed out his assurance of hope to the end. He had made choice of "the good part which could not be taken from him," and in so doing he had found it "possible to make the best of both worlds." He gradually sunk under the burden of age and infirmity; and, although apparently rallying from a severe attack, the last ary, "Behold the bridegroom cometh," summoned him away to another and, we firmly trust, a holier and a better world. The soul shook aside the bandages of earth, to be decked with the white linen of the seraphs in immortality. I saw the warm tears of tender regret gush down the cheeks of the surviving family, as they spoke of his decease to the consoling visitors. They were tears which welled up from the sacred fountains of the soul, and which told with a deeper and stronger expression than words can convey, that there was a wide rent, a gaping void in those aching hearts which

could only be filled upon the waking morn of eternity. There lay the cold, lifeless ashes of the departed, covered over with death's dark pall. It was a night of weeping in that house below, though a morning of joy in "the house of many mansions above." Words were spoken in a suppressed, mysterious undertone. There was a muffled sound of footsteps on the floor. Friends came in their sable attire, and formed the sad, slow, silent procession that was to convey "the last of earth" to the house "appointed for all living."

Behind that crumbling fragment of medieval times, that has stood in storm and sunshine for many a century, they have committed the dust to its kindred dust. The grass now grows green over that grave. The weeping yew bends over the sacred spot, and drops its tears on the verdant turf, as a constant, watchful mourner. The birds sing as cheerily on the column that rises where the head was laid, as if rejoicing over a new-made world; and strangers pass and repass on the neighbouring walk, forgetful that there he lies.

Amid the diversity of sentiments that were that day expressed in regard to the character of the deceased, there was but one voice touching the many sterling virtues of his life. It was not his untiring industry, which had developed itself in an early period of his history, and had continued to sustain him through trials and difficulties-not his tact in the mart of commerce-not his honesty of heart and purpose-not his bland and affable deportment, his kind, conciliatory manner to all who were employed by him, nor his warm shake of the hand in his friendly greeting. It was the higher and finer elements of his character that formed the general topics of conversation. They knew that a prince of men had that day fallen. The necessitous poor would now miss a true benefactor; the benevolent society a steady supporter; the bed-ridden sufferer a genuine sympathizer, a friend in need; the prayer-meeting a constant and punctual attendant; the church a member and a pillar; the eldership a

counselling and confiding brother; the pastor a prayerful adviser and powerful staff in perplexity; the family a faithful and affectionate father. Such was the simple faith and practical piety of one who "knew his calling and election," and lived "as a child of so great and so many mercies." In him the Saviour's command, "When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth," had its literal fulfilment.

It is to be regretted that such examples of faith, patience, charity, good works are so solitary and so rare. Those who hold a charter of wealth in possession are too apt to forget that it is from God they derive their title, and to Him they are responsible for the manner in which they dispose of "the chartered benefit." To say, because the apostle points out to Timothy "the love of money," or the crime of covetousness, as the root of all "the foolish and hurtful lusts which drown men in perdition,' that wealth itself is a curse and money an evil, is to exceed Scripture precept and example both in daring language. Verily the true mode of correcting abuses consists not in rushing to the antarctic pole of extremity with a counter error. Let us frankly admit that wealth is a boon, a bounty, a blessing; but, at the same time, let us retain our hold of the fact, that it is a heaven-sent, God-given mercy, a loan made for wise and holy ends. Let men of money see to it that "their riches are not corrupted, their garments motheaten, their gold and silver cankered, and the rust of them eating their flesh as with fire;" that the church of the Redeemer is not starving of hunger and nakedness, while they are wallowing in wantonness. Let them act the part of the holy patriarch, the wealthy sheikh of old Palestine, who sanctified his wealth by devoting it to God. "Abraham was very rich in cattle, in silver, and in gold." Job was "the greatest of all the men of the East." And yet these splendid worthies of antiquity were both men of faith and prayer, men of like passions, and infirmities, and trials with ourselves; but