for my blessings, temporal and spiritual, knowing that of mercies I have unspeakably more, and of trials unspeakably less, than I deserve. Give me grace to love thee with my whole heart, and to give up myself unreservedly to thy service. Bless, I beseech thee, my relations, friends, and enemies, in time and eternity; make them living branches of Jesus the true Vine. Extend thy favours to our guilty land; direct its rulers to promote the welfare of the people, and the glory of thy Holy Name. Have mercy on the sick and afflicted, and sanctify to them their trials. Look down with compassion upon a world lying in the wicked one, and daily add numbers, both of Jews and Gentiles, to thy spiritual church. For this end, O Lord, be pleased to prosper all societies that are formed for their benefit. Show to them that be in error the light of thy truth; and hasten that glorious period, when the whole earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the seas. And, finally, at the last great and terrible day, when the elements shall melt with fervent heat, and all mankind shall stand before the judgment seat of Christ, grant that I, and all for whom I ought to pray, may hear the joyful sentence, Come, ye blessed children of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. I humbly ask these blessings for the alone sake and merits of Jesus Christ, my blessed Saviour and Redeemer. Amen.-Our Father which art in heaven, etc.

ENCOURAGEMENT TO REAL PRAYER, FROM EVERY BOOK IN THE BIBLE.

Gen. xxxii. 24-29. Exod. ii. 23–25. Lev. ix. 22-24. Num. xvi. 44-48. Deut. ix. 18-20. Josh. x. 12-14. Judg. x. 15, 16. Ruth ii. 12. 1 Sam. i. 27, 28. 2 Sam. xii. 13. Kings xvii. 20-22. 2 Kings xiii. 4. 1 Chron. xxi. 26, 27. 2 Chron. xxx. 18-20. Ezra ix. 5-9. Neh. ii. 4-6. Esther vii. 3-5. Job xxii. 27. Psa. xxxiv. 4—19. Prov. ii. 2-5. Eccles. viii. 12. Sol. Song iv. 16; v. 1. Isa. xxxviii. 1-5. Jer. xxix. 12. Lam. iii. 22-25. Ezek. xxxvi. 37. Dan. vi. 10-23. Hos. xiv. 1-8. Joel ii. 32. Amos v. 4. Obad. 17. Jonah ii. 1-10. Mic. vii. 7-9. Nahum i. 7. Hab. iii. 2-18. Zeph. iii. 8-12. Hag. i. 12, 13. Zech. ix. 12. Mal. iii. 16, 17. Matt. vii. 7—11. Mark v. 22-42. Luke xi. 9-13. John xiv. 13, 14. Acts xii. 5-11. Rom. x. 12, 13. 1 Cor. xv. 57. 2 Cor. xii. 7-10. Gal. vi. 7-9. Eph. vi. 18-20. Phil. iv. 6, 7. Col. iv. 2-4. 1 Thess. v. 17. 2 Thess. iii. 1, 2. 1 Tim. ii. 1-8. 2 Tim. i. 3. Titus ii. 7, 8. Philem. 4. Heb. iv. 15, 16. James i. 5-8. 1 Pet. iii. 12. 2 Pet. i. 10. 1 John v. 14, 15. 2 John 8. 3 John 2. Marg. Jude 20. Rev. viii. 3, 4.

MAN'S RESPONSE TO GOD.

WHOM, though I were righteous, yet would I not answer,' Job ix. 15. His supposition hath a negation in it, I am not righteous. Job did not deny the work of the Spirit, or the grace of God in him; but he would not own them in his pleadings with God. He could stand upon his terms with men, and let them know who he was and what he had done, (and it was reasonable he should,) but before God he had nothing to mention but Christ. In reference to the higher degree of grace for sanctification, we must forget all that is behind, and press on to that which is before, Phil. iii. 13, 14. And in reference to the whole grace of justification, we must forget all our sanctification. The less we remember our own righteousness, the more righteous we are in Christ. As we abate in ourselves, we increase in him. Christ draws the picture of an hypocrite to the life, Luke xviii. in the parable of a Pharisee and a publican going to the temple to pray; and the design of Christ in that parable, is held forth at ver. 9 to be the conviction of such as 66 trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and despised others." Now what did this Pharisee? He thanks God he was not as other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or as that publican; and then he reminds God that he gave tithes, and kept fasts twice a week; and so makes a goodly report of himself, both in the negative and in the affirmative, what he was and what he was not. Never did any good man tell God such a story of his own life as the Pharisee told. The saints love to do well, more than to hear well from others, much more than to hear well from themselves; they love to do good, more than to receive good, much more than to speak good of themselves. When Christ is represented sitting in judgment, Matt. xxv. 35, he tells the faithful of all their good deeds or acts of charity; "I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink : I was a stranger, and ye took me in: naked, and ye clothed me," etc. Hear how the saints answer, as if they had done no such thing: "When was this, Lord? When saw we thee hungry, and fed thee? We have forgot the time." They did so little mind the good they had done, that they remembered not they ever did it. The Lord keeps a faithful record of what his people do, but themselves do not. It is cur duty to remember to do good, but let God alone to

remember the good we have done. The Lord is not unrighteous to forget our labour of love, Heb. vi. 10; but we lose our righteousness, unless we forget it. If we much remember what we do, God will remember it but little. The servants of God know well enough when they do good: (to do good ignorantly is a degree of doing evil.) They know when they do good, and they know what good they do; but when it is done, it is to them as unknown. Caryl.

A CHRISTIAN.

From the German of Luther.

A CHRISTIAN is a child of God, a brother of Christ, a temple of the Holy Spirit, an heir of the kingdom, a companion of angels, a lord of the world, and a partaker of the Divine nature. The glory of a Christian is Christ in heaven, and the glory of Christ is a Christian on the earth. He is a true child of God who is clothed with the righteousness of Christ, and walks in holy fear and willing obedience before his Father. He shines as a light in the world, and as a rose among thorns. He is a beautiful creature of the renewing grace of God, over whom the holy angels rejoice, and everywhere accompany him with delight. He is a wonder of the world, a terror of devils, an ornament to the church, the desire of heaven. His heart is full of joy, his eyes full of tears, his mouth full of sighs, and his hands full of good works.

ADVANTAGE OF AFFLICTION.

If the storm-beaten, benighted, and weary traveller, instead of tramping along a miry road on foot, travelled in a coach and six on the turnpike road, and had every comfort around him, do you think that he would fully enjoy the friendly hearth and the happy home at the end of his journey? Oh no! It is the wind and the rain, the rough path, the cold, the darkness, and the toil, that makes his fire-side brighter, and the comforts of his habitation doubly sweet to him. Pilgrim to Zion think of this! Earthly trials and afflictions are not joyous, but grievous, yet what a value do they give to our heavenly expectations. While called to bear the cross, let it remind us of the crown!

A PROFITABLE REMARK.

THE other day I overheard the observation, "God is in downright earnest with us; but the worst of it is, that we are not always in downright earnest with God." The thought appeared to me a profitable one, not only for myself, but for others also, so I wrote it down, reader, that you might have an opportunity of reading it in the Tract Magazine.

A CONTRAST

WHEN I was at college, I formed an acquaintance with a young man of elevated rank and great expectations. Our rooms were upon the same staircase, and we were almost inseparable companions. But, on quitting the university, I lost sight of my friend. I heard, however, at some distance of time, that, having succeeded to the family title and estate, he had gone abroad for a period of three years. In about eighteen months after this, circumstances carried me to the continent; and, one day, as I was at a public place in Florence, I saw a young Englishman whose features, though bronzed and matured, I speedily recognized as those of Sir William It was a mutual pleasure to meet. We talked over past days and future prospects, and, in short, agreed, as long as it was possible, to travel together. We visited Rome and Naples; fearless of the banditti which then infested Calabria, we traversed that province; we explored the island of Sicily, and then prepared, by leisurely journeys, to return through France into England.

Sir William was a delightful companion. He had taste and information; he was fond of antiquarian research, and well acquainted with the modern literature of the countries through which we were travelling; his amusements were rational, and his moral conduct irreproachable; his disposition was kind and generous, and he possessed an inexhaustible flow of cheerful spirits. On one point alone we differed. I found with regret that my friend had adopted the notion, that, if a man was but sincere in the religion he professed, it mattered not, provided his conduct was decent, what faith he had embraced. He defended his opinions with much zeal, but always with perfect good humour; and though certainly I combated his arguments, yet I have often since regretted that I did not use all the opportunities I had for convincing him of the truth. Alas! had I been more faithful, perhaps, by God's blessing, the deep misery of after days might have been averted. But I was scarcely myself at that time, thoroughly alive to the importance of vital godliness.

After some months' companionship we parted. Circumstances had occurred to prevent my returning to England with Sir William, and I took up my residence as British chaplain in a sea-port town, giving him a promise that my first visit, when I did again see my native country, should be to him. Some years, however, elapsed before I was able to redeem my pledge.

At length, one fine autumn, I repaired to

Park.

I found the baronet the same kind friend I had always known him. He had now married; his wife was a most amiable lady, and he had a family of three children. It was gratifying to see his conduct as an affectionate husband and indulgent father. He was esteemed by the neighbouring gentlemen, and beloved by his numerous tenantry. He had everything around him, of a worldly nature, which could tend to comfort; but yet I thought that I discerned occasionally a trace of care upon his open forehead. It was only at times; for he was in conversation as cheerful, and in society as interesting as ever. I did not like to question him, as I concluded he would of himself, from the ingenuousness of his character, lead to the subject, if he thought fit to speak of it at all. I waited, therefore, though with some anxiety, yet with a hope that perhaps there was no ground for my surmise. One thing I observed, that he never touched on a religious topic. He appeared once on the Sunday at the parish church, but that was the only sign given of his professing any religion at all. And when I strove to direct the discourse to this subject, he evidently took pains to change or break off the conversation.

When I had been at the park about a fortnight, Sir William said to me one morning, as he was mounting his horse to go a hunting, "Emerson, you are fond of visiting cottages; there's a poor man just dying, about a mile off; he was run over last night, I hear, by a wagon, and is in great distress. I wish you would call there in your walk to-day, and see if there is any relief we can send him." With these words he galloped off. In about an hour's time, as I was sallying forth to the cottage he had described, my attention was arrested by a crowd of persons at a distance, moving slowly towards me. I quickened my steps, and was overwhelmed with horror and grief when I saw that they were bearing an apparently lifeless body, which I instantly perceived to be that of my friend. To rush to his side, and grasp his hand, and to question his attendants what fatal accident had occurred, was the work of an instant. I with difficulty learned from their incoherent answers, that, in leaping a hedge, his horse had fallen, and, dashing him with violence against the ground had rolled upon