only God would now and then let us have our will instead of constraining us to do His will, we think that our life might be more happily ordered. Not that we are wicked enough to want our own way always; we can submit to God's will when it leads in our direction or exacts only easy sacrifices; but at times, in grave and critical emergencies, when perfect wisdom is most needed, His will, as expressed by His providence, seems very hard; we would rather trust our wisdom than His. He says to us, "Let me take your darling to my eternal rest and peace," and we shrink, as if instead of the All-wise Helpful Friend, we heard the voice of an avenging apparition. Or He says, "That station in life," or "That good work," or "That honourable ambition which you have set before you as an object of desire is one which would overtax your faculties. You are not strong enough for it. It would do you harm instead of good. And we ask, "Is it to be always thus ? Am I always to mortify my natural and laudable desires? Will He never let me have that for which I long?" We all know how common are such unbelieving selfasserting thoughts as these. And our narrative should surely teach us, that it is good for us, and often easier, however hard we think it, to have our prayer refused. Translated into its real meaning, our prayer too often is, that we may walk on some rough dangerous sea, in whose rising waves we, for want of faith, or for want of faith enough, should be engulphed. Like Peter we say, "Bid us come there, where we want to be," or “where we may display our superior strength." Sometimes the answer is, "Come," in order that we may know our weakness, and have our pride of wisdom brought low. Often the answer is, "Come not," in order that we may be saved from a danger too great, or a shame too keen. If God say, "Come," our pride is gratified for a moment, since we have our wish, but gratified only to receive the heavier fall. If He say, "Come not," the instant refusal mortities our pride, but saves us from a fall we could not well bear. Then, above all, we may be sure the refusal of our prayer is good and kind when our prayer is dictated by self-will or the love of self-display. If we shrink from any approaching loss, or if we court any honourable post, mainly because we are thinking of ourselves—our own happiness or our own importance-rather than of the good of others, the gratification of our self-pleasing desire would be very dangerous to us-could only be granted, indeed, that our self-love might have the keener wound. Had Peter got out of the boat to help Christ into the boat, or to beg His help for his brethren, we may think, we may believe, that he would not have begun to sink: love would have reinforced his faith, and the two, like ministering angels, would have borne him in their hands, and not suffered the waves to dash upon his feet too roughly. But as Peter wanted to show off-to get credit-to persuade himself and others that he was above the reach of fear; as his motive was partly love to Christ, and partly love of display, Peter must have the offending Adam washed out of him, and instead of walking triumphantly on the water, must be compelled to cry out in fear to Him who alone could save. And so with us; either by granting or by refusing our requests, God will purge away the selfishness which is native to us all. The Gospel has come that we may replace selfishness with charity. Its work must be done, its aim achieved. If we have such confidence in our own wisdom that we sit in judgment on our brethren, or think so poorly of our neighbours that we cannot be content unless we excel them, or suppose that we do; if even our most pious and faithful works are inspired as much by the desire to shine as by the desire to serve; then, by some means, in some way, at some time, this self-confident, self-seeking temper will surely be chastened out of us; we cannot carry it to the heaven which is ruled by love. 2. This narrative suggests a word or two on the miraculous power of faith. So long as Peter looks only to Christ, so long as he gathers up all powers of heart and mind and bends them on the Master, he walks on the rough sea as easily as on the green mountain slopes. 'Tis only when he begins to doubt, when his will wavers, and his thoughts tend now in this direction, now in that, that he begins to sink. At one moment shrieking at the Ghost, he no sooner sees in the Ghost the Friend, than he somewhat rashly assumes that he can do what he sees his Master do. But was it so very rash? As long as his faith is firm he does walk. At all events we may safely conclude that Christ became as we are, in order that we may become as He is. He took our infirmities that we may share His power. That man in his innocence had à miraculous control over the elements and laws and creatures of the natural world, seems beyond doubt. That in its gern and rudiment this miraculous power still subsists, seems indicated, as by other facts so also by this singular fact, that man's will still partially counteracts the law of gravitation-his body being sensibly lighter when he is awake than when he is asleep, as every nurse who has carried a child in her arms can attest. That this rudimental undeveloped power is quickened and developed by faith in God, is evident, both from the miraculous gifts of apostolic times, and by the direct assertions of Christ, that faith moves mountains and drains seas, and that all things are possible to him that believeth. So that we also may entertain the hope, entertain it for ourselves, that when faith has had its full work and that which is perfect is come, we, through the grace of Christ, may regain all that Adam lost, may enter an ampler paradise-a garden that shall also be a city, a city that shall also be a temple-and find all things put under our feet. 3. Nor can we take leave of this narrative without just briefly hinting at its symbolic prophetic significance. Christ stands on the eternal mountain, watching and interceding, while the ship, His Church, labours across the sea of Time. The winds are contrary; the sea runs high; there is much rough weather. It is hard work to keep a true course; and at times the danger is so great, the toil so severe, that Christ comes down from the mountain. By large effusions of His Spirit He reveals new aspects of truth-guides the ship on a new tack. He comes; and at first many say, "That Christ! That is a ghost-a spectre bred of foolish and heretical thought." Others, seeing His approach, cannot wait till He comes into the ship; they must throw themselves on a raging sea of doubt and controversy, in which they often begin to sink, and some are even cast away. How happy and large the hope, that when at last He comes aboard, all will worship Him, and say, " Of a truth Thou art the Son of God;" the storm will sink into a calm; and the ship, with all sails set and the colours flying, arrive at last at the desired haven ! "YOU DON'T TALK OF JESUS AT HOME." BY THE LATE REV. JAMES SMITH. In the neighbourhood of Ross, a lady who was in the habit of visiting the poor for benevolent purposes, took her little daughter with her. The child saw, heard, and was interested. But there was something which the child could not exactly make out. So, on the road home, she said, "Manıma, when you are out visiting the poor, you always talk about Jesus Christ to them, but you don't talk of Him at home." I need not say one word about how the lady felt, but if the remark had been made to us, how should we have felt? Would it have been just? Could it have been said with truth? In reference to too many, I fear, it may be said with too much truth. Many parents seem to think, that if they take their children to public worship, if they put good books into their hands, and if they have family prayer, they have done all that is necessary. They talk of almost all subjects before their children, and they talk with them on many points, but they do not talk of Jesus. They act as if they fancied that their children heard enough of Him, or knew all that was requisite for them to know. But is it so? Reader, are you a parent? Have you little ones around you? Do you notice how attentively they often listen to you? Do they hear you speak of Jesus? Do they hear you speak of Him as your highest love? As that Saviour who for you performed wondrous deeds, who for you suffered tremendous agonies, who for you achieved a most glorious conquest? Do they hear you speak of what He was, when in the bosom of His Father; of what He became, when a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief; and of what He is now, exalted above all principalities and powers? Do they hear you speak with admiration of His loving heart, of His all-atoning blood, and of His prevalent intercession at the right hand of God? Do they hear you dilate on His amazing condescension, in the visits He paid, the miracles He wrought, and in receiving and blessing even little children? Do they hear you speak of Jesus, as of a subject in which you feel a deep interest, of a Saviour to whom you feel the warmest love, and a friend in whom you place the strongest confidence? Could they conclude, from the frequency of which you speak of Jesus, the tender and majestic manner in which you speak of Jesus, and the reverence and gratitude that you feel towards Jesus, that He is your all in all ? My friends, I fear the best of us do not speak of Jesus so much or so frequently as we ought. We do not speak of Jesus before our children in the manner that we ought. We so speak to them of our parents and other relatives, as to interest them, excite desires in them, and so often as to draw out their love; but do we so speak of Jesus? Is there not utterly a fault among us on this subject? What is so interesting as the Gospel narratives ? What so calculated to affect the minds of the young, as a tender, touching, heartfelt representation of what the Lord Jesus did and suffered to save sinners? We have been surprised, sometimes, to find how little the children of professed Christians know of the Lord Jesus. It is not enough to say, "I give them the Bible, and put religious books into their hands." They should hear of Jesus in a father's manly tones, and they should hear of Jesus in the tender accents of a mother's tongue. They should hear their parents converse of Him as of the most interesting and profitable subject. They hear us speak of ministers and of Church members, and perhaps on these points they hear what they ought not. They hear us talk of books, and the occurrences of every day, but if they do not hear us talk of Jesus, the most important. subject is omitted. But we ought not merely to talk before them, but we ought to deal with them personally and closely. Every child should be spoken to alone. We should deal so closely with our children's consciences on the subject of religion, as to convince them that we desire the salvation of their souls above everything else. But so far from this, what anxiety is manifested about their health, their education, and their respectability, and what indifference about their never-dying souls! Reader, suppose thy child dying. His pulses are faint and few. He breathes short and hard. You approach his bedside. You take his hand in yours. He asks, "Father, did you think I was a sinner? Did you know it was possible I might die young? Were you aware that, without faith in Christ, I must for ever perish? Did you, father?" "I did, my child." "Then how could you be so cruel, so hard-hearted, as to treat me in the way you have? You never took me aside to talk to me seriously. You never endeavoured to impress upon my mind the importance of spiritual things, and you did not try to prevent it. Now I am lost, lost for ever, and you are the cause of it." How could you bear this? But would it not, in many cases, be just? Or, suppose the great white throne appearing, and the Judge seated thereon, and you meet your children there. One of them points to you, and says, "There is my father; he professed religion, but he treated me as if he disbelieved it; he never dealt closely with me about my eternal welfare. I charge my father with neglecting my soul, and as guilty of my blood." Another points to you, and says, "There is my mother; she showed great anxiety about my body, but she never showed half the anxiety about She never knelt by my side in prayer. my soul. I never heard her plead with God for my soul, nor did she ever, in downright earnest, plead with me. I charge her, before the Judge of all, with cruelty to my soul and throughout all eternity I shall curse the day I ever had such a parent." Parents! parents! by all the tender ties that unite you to your children, I beseech you to seek, first, principally, and most earnestly, the conversion of your children in early life. Never let a child of yours be able to say, with truth, "You did not talk about Jesus Christ at home;" or, "My mother or my father did not make my salvation their concern.' FIDELITY IN LITTLE THINGS. WE are apt to suppose little things to be of little consequence. But faithfulness in little things often proves to be, literally, faithfulness in much. By this I mean that little things are, in their connexions and consequences, of immense importance. A heedless young man does up and delivers in a small package, not the substance called for, but another closely resembling it. A slight mistake, one might think. An unpractised eye would not detect it, but instead of a useful medicine he has substituted a deadly poison, and life is the forfeit, the destruction of a family perhaps. There is a man whose business it is to keep a light burning that friendly light is to be constant, reliable; it is to shine along a dangerous coast, and when the sky is dark and the winds tempestuous, and the waves are rolling the angry flood, the bewildered mariner may see that light, may know his position, may sail clear of rocks and quick-sands into a desired haven. But on some stormy night the keeper of the lighthouse is indolent or sleepy, he trims not his lamp, lights it not in season, or lets it go out during the night watches. He fancies the disappearance of his light for an hour or two is a little thing. But just at that time a vessel is on the dark waters; the voyagers look anxiously after that light, they lose their bearings; the ship strikes, and is wrecked. Just then that light was missing. It was but a little thing, but it caused the dread calamity. Enter a certain workshop, where is heard the sound of the hammer. The mechanic is driving a rivet. Why clench that rivet? Why so particular? See that it be well headed; let there be no carelessness; do your work faithfully. Why so many words, and such pains about a single rivet? A steamer is clearing the wharf. Of choice timber, well built, richly furnished, with precious freight, with many souls on board, she ploughs the deep gallantly. In the dim distance she is now scarcely seen; soon is lost from view. Far out on mid-ocean she encounters head-winds and a heavy sea; the timbers creak, the vessel labours ; steam is let on, a mighty pressure, the vast machinery plies its giant strokes, the pent up forces within will master the elements. But while working its way victoriously, while the noble steamer is commanding unbounded confidence, a dread explosion! vessel, cargo, life-all a wreck! Ah! in the boiler there was a rivet insecure; there was a weak point. It was small, but it was enough. Did that man with the hammer think a rivet a little thing? Was he right? Let results answer. The child in the family is accustomed to see wine and strong drink on the dinner-table, to see them brought for ward to crown the festive entertainment. It is a little thing, that little glass. The child acquires a love for it. Appetite grows. To that small beginning may be traced the blighting of earthly prospects and the ruin of the soul. The young girl is taught to dance, a little thing surely, only certain graceful movements of the body. Anything wrong here? Nothing more than this, that it places the child in the way of temptation, and many have been courted, flattered, enticed, led into irregularity and vice, who would have escaped if they had never learned this so-called accomplishment. A father sets before his son the example of profanity. He only uses » word, it may be a little word of t e letters. That son grows upp: fan The little word is the small thread which draws after it the cord of larger size; that cord draws along the cable; and finally comes iniquity, "drawn as with a cart-rope." The mother is unfaithful. She neglects to make her little one obedient, to subdue its will. It grows up selfish, way. ward, passionate, disciplined into nothing better; it passes into life headstrong, fretful, unhappy, unless always petted and gratified; uncomfortable to all around, disobedient and perverse towards God, and passes into eternity with a will never subdued towards man or God, to be restless, wretched, condemned for ever. Little business transactions, in time, give the impression to your son, clerk, apprentice, partner, customer, that a slight deviation from integrity is of little consequence. Teach any one to be dishonest in trivial affairs, and the results of that example and tuition you can never calculate. You may be opening a little channel to the pent-up waters; then the waters shall work their own way, opening for themselves an everenlarging course, till the little channel has become a flood-gate. By that apparently insignificant act of dishonesty you may plant the seed of crime, and train up the giant swindler and forger. Again, fidelity is always the same principle with whatever concerned ; and |