some sin the bruised spirit under vexationthe weeping of the soul in some bitterness of disappointment. It was not until the "undress " of life was assumed, that you saw the reality of character, or observed those closer lineaments of the features by which you were led either to admire or to love.

Prosperity never brings out character. As the waters of the ocean, unruffled by the wind, present but a lifeless picture of stillness, and we give them no heed, so in the even course of á prosperous life-it presents nothing observable. It may be good, or it may not; but it presents nothing observable. We want the storm, the hurricane, the tempest; we want the passions of man in agitation in order to have our attention arrested. It is then that our eyes are fixed; we observe and watch; we examine into the soul-see into it-know what it is made of. It is then that shades of character present themselves in their truth. There is no hypocrisy when we kneel down by a sick-bed, and hear the tale of sin or shame. There is no mistake when we read in the convulsed features of the penitent the anguish of recording

memory brooding over the past. There is no punctilio or etiquette, none of the finenesses of phraseology, or the ambiguities of talk when stern poverty is by, or danger threatens, or sickness wears us down, or when the compunction of an alarmed conscience brings us to a knowledge of ourselves, in the bitterness of a dying soul. There is no pretence, or hiding of ourselves, or making ourselves appear different from what we are by the affectation of a world's finery, when solemn Death, with his stern and invincible claim, points out his victim, and says now prepare to meet thy God.

No: these are the times of truthfulness; and therefore these are the times when thoughtful men measure each other, and know each other best.

Hence the simple reason of the general current of these little tales. Let them be read, as they are written, for food of thoughtfulness about deep things; not for sentiment, or a passing hour of levity, but for a witness of what has been said in the watchings of reality.

I am very willing, for my humble share in their coming forth into the world, to place them

before a "gentle reader;" for she who wrote them is one, in spiritual things, of my wellbeloved children, and being "gentle" herself, would crave, as of me, so of all who read, the love and the truthfulness of a child of Christ.

W. J. E. B.

TALES OF
OF KIRKBECK.

BALDWIN'S SCAR.

JESU, Who Thy servants' talk
Joinest in their mournful walk,
Knowing all, Thyself unknown :
Be Thou ever, Lord, beside me,
With Thine eye and counsel guide me,
In the heart's deep converse shewn.

"Jesu, Whom with glory crowned,
Light of Light, in light enthroned,
Angel-choirs and Saints adore:
Lord! from those Thy mansions bright,
Hearkening to their prayer of might,
Watch and bless me evermore.

"Hear, Creator, Good and Great!
Hear me, Saviour, Mild and Sweet!
Hear me, Holy Paraclete!

GOD, Triune, my GoD, mine All!
Saviour, Who from sin hast freed me,
Through death's darksome valley lead me,
Homeward to my Father's hall.”

THERE are few places without their scenes of local interest, their traditions of more or less remoteness, in which truth and fiction often become so inextricably entangled, that any attempt to trace their threads apart would only end in total defeat. Perhaps a mountain country

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