'The joy of the hypocrite is but for a moment.' 'Bread of deceit is sweet to a man; but afterwards his mouth shall be filled with gravel.'

"There is something cheering in the merry sound of the bells, though it is midnight, and without a little liveliness we can hardly go through the world as we should do. Maurice is always cheerful, and he is sure to keep up the spirits of his fellow-ringers. Pull away, Maurice! for, if you could, you would, I know, ring out dark looks, and discontent, and repining, and ring in contentment and inside sunshine, and thankfulness to the great Giver of our unnumbered mercies. Maurice has cleared away many a cobweb, and flung around him many a beam of joy. He always looks pleasant. ‘A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance: but by sorrow of heart the spirit is broken.'

"How they will manage with Andrew I cannot tell, for he is seldom long without a quarrel with somebody. His heart is, in a manner, as hot as his own forge. They call him 'Angry Andrew,' and well they may. A lusty arm has the blacksmith, and I suppose he is one of the best ringers among them. Ring on, Andrew! would that you could ring out of the world all bitterness and wrath, anger, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, and ring in forbearance and kindness of heart, and love and charity. Get rid of your angry spirit, Andrew, and then you will be a better father, a better neighbour, a better friend, and a better man. 'Be not hasty in

"Long have I known Abel, but never did I know a falsity come out of his mouth. He loves truth, speaks truth, and practises truth, for he does not say one thing and do another. He is one of the very best men in the belfry. Ring away, Abel! Ring out the shadow, and ring in the substance. Ring out the dross, and ring in the gold. Ring out the false, and ring in the truehearted. 'Lying lips are abomination to the Lord: but they that deal truly are his delight.'

66

Ring away, all of you! Ring out the old year, and ring in the new! Ring out old cares, old wrongs, old prejudices, old quarrels, and old heart-burnings, and ring in new hopes, new improvements, new methods of doing good to all around, and new desires and determinations to amend all that is amiss, and to 'live in peace with God, and in charity with all mankind."

There! Let us go away now. Michael Rowe has done his part, it remains for us to do ours. If we get no good from what we have heard, it will be our own fault.

Among so many useful hints

Sure we shall get a few,
From ringing out the old year,
And ringing in the new.

EARLY PIETY.

BY REV. JOHN TODD.

A FEW years since, a man and his wife arrived in the town of M N. Y., as permanent residents. They were young, lately married, and their prospects for the future

were bright and cheering. They purchased a farm in M, which was then a new country, and had happily spent two or three years in this situation, when, by a mysterious providence, the young man was called from this world. With his surviving widow, he left two lovely twin infants, to deplore a loss which time could not retrieve. The widow sought comfort in vain from the limited circle of fer acquaintance. There was no minister of the gospel in that region to direct her to the great Source of comfort; nor was there a pious friend who could direct her footsteps to the cross of Jesus. But she went to her Bible, and, by the assistance of the Spirit of truth, found that consolation which a selfish world can neither bestow nor taste. She mourned, indeed, a husband who was no more; but she was cheered by the hope that God would protect her and hers. She wept over her innocent babes; and resolved, that while she lived, they should never want a mother's care. As they grew up, she endeavoured to teach them the first principles of religion, but they received only her instructions. One week after another rolled away -one sabbath after another dawned upon the wilderness, but they brought none of its privileges. The wilderness had never echoed with the sound of the church-going bell. The solitary places had never been gladdened by the sound of the footsteps of him who proclaims glad tidings of great joy. The feeling mother clasped her little boys to her aching bosom, and sighed and wept for the opportunity of taking them by the hand, and

leading them up to the courts of God. In the days of her childhood she had possessed great advantages; and she now mourned that her babes could only receive instruction from her lips. Alas! no man of God came to instruct to cheer-to gladden the bosom of her who, for years, had never heard the whisper of love from the servants of her Saviour. When the little boys were five years old, and before they were old enough to be sensible of their loss, a consumption had fastened upon their tender parent, and she was soon encircled in the cold arms of death. She steadily watched the certain issue of her disease; and, even in her last moments, commended her children to him who is "a Father to the fatherless." A few moments before she expired, she kissed her little boys, who wept, almost without knowing why, on feeling the last grasp of the clay-cold hand of their mother. "It is hard," said she to a neighbour who was present, "it is hard for a mother to leave two such helpless babes without friends, and without any one to protect them; but I leave them in the hands of God, and I do believe he will protect them. My last prayer shall be for my poor, destitute orphans."

After the death of their mother they were received into the house of a neighbour, a poor widow. In less than a year, one of them was stretched beside his mother beneath the sod.

About this time, a pious young lady came to reside in the place. She too was an orphan, but was not comfortless. It was her first inquiry how she could do good to the spi

ritually destitute villagers around her.

In the course of one of her afternoon walks, she met a little boy straggling by the side of the road. There was a something in his countenance which excited interest at once, though he was exceedingly ragged. The young lady was struck with his appearance, and immediately entered into conversation with him.

"What is your name, my little boy?" said she, gently. "James."

"Where do you live?"

"With widow Parker, just in the edge of the wood there, in that little log-house; can't you see it?"

"I see it; but is widow Parker your mother?"

"No. I had a mother last year, and she loved me. She used to take care of me and of my brother John. She made our clothes, and taught us to say our prayers and catechisms. Oh! she was a most good mother." "But where is your mother?" said the lady, soothingly.

"Oh! madam, she is dead. Do you see that graveyard yonder?" "Yes."

66 And the great maple tree which stands in the further corner of it?" "Yes, I see it."

"Well, my poor mother was buried under that tree, and my brother John lies there too. They were both buried deep in the ground, though my mother's grave was the deepest. I shall never see them again; never, never, as long as I live. Will you go with me, and see the graves?" continued he, looking at the lady with great earnestness and simplicity.

The short account which the little boy gave of himself awakened the best feelings of the young lady, and she had been devising some plan by which to do him good. For the present, she declined visiting the grave, but continued to converse with him, and to gain his confidence. She found him very ignorant, having never been at school; and the instructions of his pious mother, not having her to repeat and enforce them by precept and example, were nearly forgotten.

A sabbath school had never been established in the place, and whether it was practicable to establish one was doubtful; but she determined to make the experiment. Accordingly, she visited every little cottage in the village, and urged that the children might be assembled on the next Lord's day, and a school formed. A proposal of this kind was new, was from a new comer, and was unpopular. All the old women in the place entered their protest against such innovations. For the first three sabbaths, the young lady had no other scholar besides her little James. But she had already been taught, that however faint our prospects of doing good at first may be, we should not be discouraged. Our labour may not be lost, though the first blow may not produce much effect. She was sorry that she had so few scholars, but she bent all her energies to the instruction of her little boy, and afterwards felt that Providence had ordered it wisely.

But in a few weeks the prejudices of the people began to wear away; and before the summer closed, this

school embraced every child whose age would allow it to attend.

It was the second summer after the establishment of this school, and after little James had become well acquainted with his testament and catechism, that his health also began to fail. This good young lady beheld his gradual decay with anxiety, visited him frequently, and always wept after having left him. She used often to walk out with him, and endeavour to cheer him by her conversation.

One pleasant afternoon she led him out by the hand, and at his request visited the spot where lay his mother and little brother. Their graves were both covered with grass, and on the smaller grave were some beautiful flowerets. It was in the cool of a serene summer's day, as they sat by the graves in silence, neither of them feeling like speaking. The lady gazed at the pale countenance of the little boy, upon whose system a lingering disease was preying; while he looked at her with an eye that seemed to say, "I have not long to enjoy your society." With-¦ out saying a word, he cut a small stick, and measured the exact length of his little brother's grave, and again seated himself by the lady. She appeared sad, while he calmly addressed her:

"You see, Miss S, that this little grave is shorter than mine will be."

She pressed his little bony hand within her own, and he continued

"You know not how much I love you-how much I thank you. Before you taught me, I knew nothing

of death; nothing about heaven, or God, or angels; I was a very wicked boy till you met me. I love you much, very much; but I would say something-something else”—

"And what would you say, James?" inquired the lady, trying to compose her own feelings.

“Do you think I shall ever get

well?"

"Indeed, I hope you will; but why ask that question?"

"Because I feel I shall not live long; I believe I shall soon die. I shall then be laid beside my poor mother, and she will then have her two little boys, one on each side of her. But do not cry, Miss S; I am not afraid to die. You told me, and the Testament tells me, that Christ will suffer little children to come unto him; and though I know I am a very sinful little boy, yet I think I shall be happy, for I love this Saviour who can save such a wicked boy as I am. And I sometimes think I shall soon meet mother and little brother in happiness. I know you will come too, won't you? When I am dead, I wish you to tell the sabbath scholars how much I loved them all: tell them they must all die, and may die soon; and tell them to come and measure the grave of little James, and then prepare to die."

The young lady wept, and could not answer him at that time. But she was enabled to converse with him many times afterwards on the grounds of his hope; and was satisfied that this little lamb was indeed of the fold of Jesus. She was sitting by his bedside, and, with her own