spread sackcloth and ashes under him? and an acceptable day to the Lord?

Wilt thou call this a fast, Is not this the fast that I have chosen ?-to loose the bands of wickedness,―to undo the heavy burdens, to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thine house? When thou seest the naked, that thou cover him, and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh? Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thy righteousness shall go before thee, and the glory of the Lord shall be thy re-reward."

"Brethren of the house of Israel, where are our patriarchs and our prophets now? On whom has their mantle fallen? Where now is the trust of Abraham? Where is the piety of David? Where is the steadfastness of Moses-or the lofty thoughts of Elijah-or the bold prayers of Daniel? Where is the spirit of the past? Dead are ye-dead,—as your fathers who sleep each in his own sepulchre. Nay, more dead than they, for their spirits still speak to us from their resting place; and we turn to them to listen and to learn when our hearts feel as if seeking in the darkness after God. But ye-ye are dead,—like 'the' dead in the caves of Egypt. They stand yet, as they stood upon the earth a thousand years ago, each in the cold sepulchre of the mountain. There is the form of a living man; but it is only the dead flesh and the dry bones. The spirit is departed, and so it is not a man that is before you, but a monument of decaying dust. And such is the remnant of Israel."

"Ay, brethren, the fire is burning bright and high upon the altar of God, and the smoke of the burnt-offering goes up to heaven, from the courts of the temple of Zion. But look at the altar of your own heart. Cold, deserted, and broken is that altar now. No sacriis laid upon it; no fire is burning on it: no smoke goes up to heaven praying to be accepted there. The temple is silent; the worshippers have departed; and the voice of prayer and praise and thanksgiving is heard no more: Jehovah is not there; and where he is not is silence, and emptiness, and death.'

"The heart of this people is the desert-the dry desert of Israel; and through this desert the cry goeth forth to prepare the way before the messenger of the Most High. The mountains must be rent, and the rocks must be broken in pieces before the Lord. The stony heart must be softened the proud heart must be humbled: the heart of flesh must be purified by the fire of God's altar. The cold, grasping, and revengeful heart, must learn to love its neighbour as itself. He that now goes up into the Temple of Zion, must go down into the temple of his own soul, and must shut the doors

against the eyes of men, and cry in secret to Jehovah with the cry of one who seeketh his face earnestly. He who keepeth the solemn feasts and ordinances, must henceforth keep the full commandments of the Law. Your hearts must no more be as whited sepulchres, but as the true temples of the Lord. Then shall the Messiah come unto you, and ye shall hear his voice, and look upon the glory of his countenance. Then shall he teach you his way, and speak words unto you that were never spoken to your fathers. When ye have verily become the children of God, then shall his Messiah lead you to the truth of God. The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him, and he shall teach them his covenant. 'And, brethren, the time is at hand. and a thousand years will For he is even now here. you, but ye see him not.

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He standeth not afar off.

not roll by before that day appeareth. The messenger of God standeth among He cometh forth from the city of David, but no man heedeth his going. But yet a little while, and his voice will be heard in Israel. Yet a little while, and the Holy Spirit will descend upon his head, and a voice will be spoken from the sky that will separate him from his brethren, and will exalt him among the sons of men. Ye, perhaps, who listen to me now, ye will live to hear his voice, and to look upon the glory of his countenance. Ye may see the Sun of righteousness arise, and travel his bright course, and go down in the red clouds of the west, before your little suns shali set, and ye be gathered into the sepulchres of your fathers.

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Prepare ye, then, for the day of his appearing. Be like those who watch for the coming of their Lord. Repent, every one of you, of the sin that he hath committed, and turn unto Jehovah with your whole heart. Bring forth fruits worthy of repentance, and think not to say within yourselves, We have Abraham for our father." It will avail you nothing; for God is able, out of these stones, to raise up children unto Abraham. Repent-not with the words of your mouth, which are as wind. Say not to the Most High, "Lord, I repent me of the sin I have committed: I abase myself in dust and ashes. Hide my transgressions from thee, and forget that I have departed from thy law." But repent in deed, and in truth, as they whose sin has made their heart sore, and who tremble for their soul's salvation. For verily I say unto you, brethren, that the axe is laid to the root of the tree, and every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit will be hewn down, and cast into the fire. The olive tree will say, "Spare me, I am an olive tree." And the figtree will say, "What doest thou? I am a figtree." And the vine will say, "Behold, I am the vine of Eschol!" But the Lord of the Vineyard will answer to the olive-tree, "Where is thine olive ?"

and to the figtree, "Where is thy fruit?" and to the vine, "Where are the grapes that thou bearest ?" And if he looketh and findeth none, then he will say to the steward of the vineyard, down-why cumbereth it the ground?"

"Cut it

"Yea, brethren, the Messiah will come as a husbandman cometh to his threshing floor; his winnowing fan will be in his hand, and he will thoroughly sweep out the floor, and will divide the wheat from the chaff, and he will gather the wheat into his garner, but the chaff he will burn up with unquenchable fire."

Seeing, then, that the day is at hand, be not as those who say, The Lord delayeth his coming. Yet a little more sleep-a little more slumber.' Brethren-the trumpet will sound-the Lord will be at the gate, and his servants, instead of watching with their loins girt, and their lamps burning, will be-asleep. Woe unto those servants!"

In such language as this did the Prophet seek to rouse the attention of his hearers,-to awaken them to a sense of the present very low state of their spiritual condition; and to impress upon them the necessity of infusing more earnestness, warmth, and truth, into their religious life. He did not on the present occasion say much of the Messiah, or refer to the prophecies that foretold his coming. His object for the present seemed to be to prepare men to receive him; and to make them not only ready, but able, to listen to the words that he would speak in their ears, and to enter upon that more spiritual life which it would be his part to place

before them.

When the Prophet ceased to speak, and sat down upon the rock on which he had been standing, there was a deep silence among the audience he had been addressing. He had given them much to think of, and they pondered these things in their hearts. After a few minutes, they began gradually to disperse, and in groups of two or three to take their way in different directions towards the river side, or the more open country to the north and west. The Prophet was left almost alone under the tree that spread its branches above the rock where he was sitting, but a few of his late auditors still lingered near him, and among these might be seen our two friends, the newly-arrived pilgrims from Galilee.

It is not the Where, but the How, that constitutes my real value; my worth or my worthlessness in the eye of God. At the day of final reckoning, He will not ask me, Where hast thou lived, but What hast thou done,-where are the proofs that thou hast fulfilled thy mission with all thy might ?-Maccall.

THE SUNDAY SCHOLAR, OR, HEARING AND DOING. ONE bright Sunday afternoon, a little troop of boys and girls passed along the quiet streets of a country town, on their return from Sunday school. The life, and in some degree, the head also of the party, appeared to be a lad about eleven years old, whose glowing countenance and quick step told of inward happiness. Apparently, however, though an evident favorite with his school-fellows, he did not find in them sufficient sympathy with his present delight, for he soon separated himself from their company, and ran home at great speed to pour out his full heart to his mother, secure of exciting her interest and attention.

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His mother, whose name was Wilson, resided in one of a small row of houses, in one of the bye-streets of the town; she was a widow in humble, though not distressed circumstances, and was much respected by all who knew her. The anxieties of the week, and the exertions she was obliged to make for the support and education of her children, rendered the stillness and rest of the Sunday particularly welcome to her, and on the Sunday afternoon in question, she was sitting in her tidy kitchen reading her Bible, when her little son burst in, quite breathless with the haste he had made. "O! mother! mother!" cried he, speaking at first, in short detached sentences, only think, Mr. John Williams, that's our teacher you know,-I heard him tell Mr. Harvey, that I was the best behaved boy in the whole school; and mother, Mr. Harvey came and asked me some questions himself, and praised me for answering them so well, because it showed I was attentive, he said." I am glad to hear it," said his mother, leaving the open window at which she had been seated, and coming forward to kiss him, "Mr. Harvey is such a good gentlemen. that he would not praise you unless you deserved it." "Oh! he's so kind, you can't think; he asked after you, mother, and said he thought he saw you this morning; he said too, he supposed I should soon be earning something for myself, as I was getting such a great boy, oh! I do like going to his school so much, and so does Polly too, though she's not so quick as me by half." "Fye! Charley, I don't like to hear you say that. Polly is a very good girl, and if she is not so quick as you it's not her fault; but why did she not come in with you?" "Oh! she was dawdling so with Jane Wright and the rest, that I grew tired, and left them, for I wanted so to tell you about Mr. Harvey, mother, I knew you would be pleased." "I'm glad, darling, you thought of me," said Mrs. Wilson, "I waited to see you. come home, but now I'm going out." "Out on Sunday! mother?" "Yes, dear, I've just heard poor old Nancy Grey has had another

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stroke, and I'm going to see if I can't be of some use to her, as her daughter, you know, is such a sickly body; now I'm sure you won't be selfish, and wish me to stay with you." No mother, no, she wants you more than we do." "I'm sorry to leave you though, dear, but I know Polly and you will be good children while I'm gone." "Oh! mother," cried Charles, looking eagerly up into his mother's face, "it's such a fine, nice, bright day, that I should like so to take Polly a walk up Birfield Hill. Now you'll let us go, won't you mother? do please, it would be such fun." Mrs. Wilson, who was desirous to make the Sunday particularly pleasant to her children, willingly granted her son's request, on condition, however, that he should not lead his sister down by any of the steep or dangerous paths of the Hill, and that he would return home before sun-set. Charles readily promised to keep to these conditions, which appeared to him to be easy enough, and, as soon as Mary had come in, Mrs. Wilson tied on her bonnet and departed to her neighbour's. The two children filled their pockets with the thick slices of bread which their mother had cut for their tea, and set off in high spirits for their walk, leaving the house in the charge of an old woman of the name of Cox, who lodged in the upper story. The evening was remarkably clear and beautiful, and, as they passed along the streets in the outskirts of the town, the children amused themselves with watching the windows lighting up, one by one, in the golden sun-beams, and looking, "just as if Charles declared, "they were having candles put into them for an illumination." When, however, they had reached the lane leading to Birfield Hill, the sunshine fell no longer upon bricks and mortar. but upon trees whose early summer foliage it turned to a yet more brilliant green.

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Charles and Mary had been walking in silence some minutes, when the latter suddenly exclaimed,--more, however, as if she were speaking to herself than to her companion," Yes, I understand now why Mr. Harvey said we ought to be grateful." Grateful! cried her brother, "what do you mean?" Oh! Charley, I'm sure what Mr. Harvey said was very true, for everything looks so pretty about us, and the blackbirds and thrushes do sing so very sweetly." "I know all that, but I don't remember that Mr. Harvey said anything about being grateful." "Don't you? I could not understand a great deal of his sermon, to be sure, but I could that. Why Charley, he said himself, he thought his very youngest hearer could understand just that, so I tried very hard to see if I couldn't, for I'm sure those two children in the next pew were much younger than me, and I wonder you shouldn't remember it, Charley." Charles muttered a confession, that he had been thinking all sermon time, what questions he would