promised; it is for you to believe in His | proof, and have not obeyed the voice of fatherly love, and to return it!" It is the duty and privilege of the baptized person thus to believe God's love as declared in infancy to himself, and to make a public profession of his personal acceptance of the blessings of the covenant of grace, by confessing Christ, and receiving Him at the Lord's Supper. But what a fearful aggravation of the guilt of the godless parent and child is this very baptism! How wicked in a parent to permit his baptized child to grow up in ignorance of his relationship to his God! How dare he conceal this from his offspring! Alas! many a parent, instead of being a very representative of God in the household-training his family in their infancy, by word and life, to know God by seeing God's image reflected in himself-trains them rather, by wicked words and a wicked life, to associate the name of Father with every abomination, and the name of God with all blasphemy! Yet this parent dedicated his child to God! This parent professed his desire that his child should love the God whom he himself hates, and believe in the Son whom he rejects, and receive the Spirit whom he himself resists and grieves! But should a child be instructed in the knowledge of the blessings offered to it in infancy, and reject them, refusing the adoption by the Father, union with the Son, and sanctification by the Spirit, this will be a fearful condemnation for ever! His rejection of God's offers does not make those offers less real; his unbelief in God's promises does not make those promises less true; and his enmity to God does not alter the fact of God's having so loved him as to have offered to him so many blessings, and bestowed upon him so many privileges. But his rejection of God's offers, his unbelief in God's promises, and his return of enmity for love, aggravates his guilt, and will haunt his lost spirit for ever! "The things of my peace," he may exclaim, " were offered to me by Word and sacrament; I might have known them; but I would not, and now they are for ever hid from my eyes! How have I hated instruction, and my heart despised re my teachers, nor inclined mine ear to those who instructed me! I was almost in all evil in the midst of the congregation and assembly!" Ye baptized unbelievers, consider your guilt in rejecting the offered blessing! Hear, ere it is too late, the affectionate pleadings and commands of your Father: "Turn, O backsliding children, saith the Lord; for I am wearied with you!" "Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings!" Let your reply be, "Behold we come unto thee! for thou art the Lord our God!" BAPTISMAL REGENERATION. What is imparted? What effected? If any change be produced, it surely ought to be stupendous, in order to justify the application of such a term; and it lence is the design of the whole institute. surely ought to be moral, for moral excelYet we look in vain for any such effects, or rather for any effects at all. Millions of the infants thus annually regenerated, present, in all respects, just the very same qualities, physical and moral, with those who have not been subjected to the process. Visibly do they grow up, neither wiser, nor holier, nor better, than the less fortunate infant who has been subjected to the unavailing baptism of the Presbyterian minister, or to no baptism at all. Here an amazing spiritual revolution-to describe which metaphor and hyperbole are exhausted-is supposed to be effected, which yet leaves absolutely no traces behind it, whether physical or is introduced to effect that of which, moral. Nothing less than omnipotence when effected, we have not the slightest evidence that it has been effected!Rogers. "Be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving your own selves."-JAMES i. 22.. Talk not of feelings and of frames When duties round thee lie; Waste not thy life in idle dreams Of what that life should be; Talk-it is easy,-dreams are sloth, Thy heart and hand, God wants them both, COMPILED FOR THE INSTRUCTION OF YOUNG READERS BY A QUONDAM SUPPOSE yourselves placed on some hill, on the surrounding landscape, and gather or height, with a wide country spread- the wayside flowers,-liker idlers in quest ing out before you as far as the eye of amusement than men on a journey. can reach. Suppose that you see two Not so the travellers on the narrow way. roads stretching away from the nearest | These plainly long to reach their distant point of the landscape to the opposite home. They seldom loiter; they seldom horizon; one on the left, and another on look around or behind them; their eyes the right; the one broad and pleasant, and their steps are evermore turned tothe other rough and narrow. Suppose, wards the far-off hills. And though they further, that on each of these roads you sometimes move but slowly along the behold a number of travellers,-on the steep and rugged path, and now and then broad road a vast multitude, -on the stumble, and even fall, still you can narrow road, a much smaller number; plainly see, that they have no wish to but all of them proceeding in the direc- tarry, but think it their duty to press on. tion of the distant hills. With this scene beneath your eye, let me ask you to attend the travellers on their journey, that you may learn their course and their destination. On looking at these two sets of travellers, you perceive that they differ as widely as the two roads on which they travel. Those on the broad road seem quite content to abide where they are. They are evidently in no haste. They saunter along at their ease; they gaze Yet, unlike as the two sets of travellers are to each other, there is one thing common to them both. Both, you may perceive, are moving onward-always onward. Every hour they are getting farther across the country, and nearer to the hills. A little longer, and your eye shall scarce discern them in the dim and hazy distance. And when they reach the dark shadows of the hills you shall lose them altogether. And is that the end of their course? With the naked eye, indeed, you can follow them no farther. But you have a prospect-glass by which you may pierce the haze and see them still. That prospect-glass is God's Holy Word; and you have only to put it to your eye and look through it, in order to perceive where the two roads end. Let us now descend from the hill, and take a nearer view of the two roads and the travellers. Each of the roads is approached, you will perceive, through a gate; the gate which admits to the broad road being wide and easily opened, but the gate to the narrow road strait and hard to enter. Now fix your eyes on the strait gate, and watch for a little the people who are before it. Some of them are trying to push in, but are caught and prevented by the bundles which they carry. Others walk up boldly, but suddenly stop and turn back on beholding the dreary look of the road beyond it. Here you see one who would Turn the glass, then, towards the hills on the left, and observe the place to which the broad road travellers are tending. Is it a gay and pleasant place, such as you might suppose a smooth and easy path would lead to? Ah! no. It is a place of weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth. It is a valley of Hinnom—a deep and dismal valley, girded on all sides by high and steep rocks, and covered at the bot-press in, but is ashamed to do so because tom with a lake of fire, whose waves boil and biss, and whose smoke riseth up for ever and ever. At a moment when they think not, the broad road brings the hapless travellers to the brink of the steep rocks; and as thick darkness falls upon them at the same moment, they plunge headlong over, to welter for evermore in the burning lake! But now turn the glass towards the hills on the right, and mark how very different is the place in which the narrow way terminates. Look at it! Is not that a happy place? Mark the eternal sunshine which gilds and gladdens it! Mark how green are its fields, how clear its glancing streams, how sweet and lovely its groves and gardens! It is a place where the flowers never fade, and the clouds never gather. Nay, better still, it is a place where sin is unknown, and death never enters. And who-who are these that walk in white under the fragrant trees, with shining crowns on their heads, and golden harps in their hands? Oh! can these be the men who lately trod with painful and weary steps yon steep and narrow way? What a change! Where now their toils and their tears? where now the howling waste and the stormy sky? To them the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, and the time of the singing of birds is come. The pilgrims' home is reached; and all the labours and dangers of the journey are forgotten in the fulness of everlasting joy of the jeers of some behind him; and there you see another holding back, because none of his companions will go in with him. That mother cannot get through, because she will not part with the child in her arms; and this old man finds the entrance too narrow for him, because he will not leave his bag of money behind. Yet, strange to say! the narrowness of the gate seems to be no bar or hindrance to any one who casts away his bundles and strives with all his might to push in. Though too narrow to let even the smallest people in without a struggle, the gate is yet wide enough to let in the largest, if they are really bent on entering. Of all others, the young are those who get in the easiest, as having fewest things to carry with them. Yet how very few young people do you see really trying to get in! Groups of children are playing outside the gate; but you may watch them a long while without seeing any one leaving his play and pushing in. Look at that fine high-spirited boy, whom his father is leading up to the gate. He is evidently loath to enter; but his father earnestly urges and entreats him,—and for a moment he looks as if he were ready to go in with the old man. But there comes by a party of merry young people, and they stretch out their hands to the poor boy, and look into his face with their laughing eyes;-and, lo! he slips away from his father, and is off with them towards the broad way. As he goes off, he looks round to his father, and says, “I shall only go a little way with them, and then turn back and follow you." But will he ever turn back? I fear he never will. But let us now leave the gates, and take a more leisurely survey of the two roads and their travellers. At its entrance, the broad road seems a very inviting path. It is wide and smooth; it is strewed with flowers, and shaded by trees; there are benches here and there under the trees, whereon to rest; and there are pleasant fruits hanging all around, whereof to eat. The travellers, too, appear merry and joyous. Nor, indeed, can you wonder that so many prefer this to the narrow way. But let us proceed along the path, and see whether this gay scene lasts. Alas! it does not last long. The mirth of the travellers declines as they get farther down the road, and at last dies away. The flowers which they stoop to gather fade as soon as they have them in their hands; and the fruit which they are fain to eat turns into dust the moment they put it to their lips. And the farther on, the worse do the travellers fare. Gloom and discontent come over the faces of even the merriest. They are ever turning round, as if something affrighted them; or else they are pushing on madly, as if they were running away from thought. And at last they get into thick darkness, where they are parted from one another; and ever and anon you may hear the frightful screams of one, and another, and another, as he stumbles over the unseen precipice, and plunges headlong down into the smoking lake. But what of the narrow road, and the wayfarers thereon? Does it also grow more dreary as it proceeds? Far otherwise. As seen, indeed, from the strait gate, it looks dreary; and, doubtless, it is for awhile rough, and steep, and closely hedged in with tearing thorns. But instead of getting straighter and more thorny, it grows always smoother and wider. To those who enter upon it when young, it very soon becomes plain and pleasant; and though to others it is longer toilsome, yet to them also it ere long becomes easy. The rough stones under their feet give place by degrees to soft green turf. The steep places become less hard to climb. Flowers, too, begin to blossom around the travellers; the thorns turn often into bunches of roses; and clusters of ripe grapes, whereof they eat just enough to refresh their lips, hang here and there by the wayside. Nor does this road, like the other, grow dark towards its close. It grows brighter and brighter; and by the time the travellers begin to near the happy valley, so bright a light shines down from the sky, that they are able to catch a glimpse of the groves and the gardens; and as they hasten on towards their home, you may overhear them singing cheerily, "Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." FIRE IN THE WOODS. I CAN conceive of nothing in this world more awful than one of those fires which have frequently rushed through forests in North America, with more fearful rapidity and destructive fury than any lava-stream that ever poured from the fiercest volcano. The first time I ever saw the traces of such a conflagration was in Nova Scotia, between Halifax and Truro, on the road to Pictou. The driver of the stage-and a better or merrier never mounted a box, or guided a team through mud and over corduroy-pointed me out the spot in which he and his charge had a most narrow escape. While pursuing his journey along one of these forest roads, ramparted on each side by tall trees that shew but a narrow strip of blue sky overhead, he found himself involved in volumes of smoke bursting from the woods. It did not require the experience of an inhabitant of the great Western Continent to reveal to him instantly his terrible posi But what was such a fire even, to the memorable one which devastated Miramichi, in New Brunswick, about twentyfive years ago! That terrific conflagration is unparalleled in the history of consumed forests. It broke out on the 7th October 1825, about sixty miles above the town of Newcastle, at one in the afternoon, and before ten the same night it had reached twenty miles be. yond; thus traversing, in nine hours, a distance of eighty miles of forest, with a breadth of about twenty-five! Over this great tract of country everything was destroyed; 160 persons perished; not a tree was left; the very fish in the streams were scorched and found lying afterwards dead in heaps; almost £240,000 of property was lost! tion. The woods were on fire! But fallen! or had the fire caught us farther whether the fire was far off or near, he back!-five minutes more would have could not tell. If far off, he knew it was done it, sir!" That same fire consumed making towards him with the speed of a space of forest ten miles long, and three a race-horse; if near, a few minutes must broad! involve him in the conflagration. Suddenly the fire burst before him! It was crossing the road, and forming a canopy overhead; sending long tongues of flame, with wreathes of smoke, from one tree top to another; crackling and roaring as it sped upon its devouring path; licking up the tufted heads of the pines, while the wind whirled them onwards to extend the conflagration. What was to be done? To retreat was useless. Miles of forest were behind ready to be consumed. There was one hope only of escape. Nathan had heard in the morning a report, that a mill had been burnt. The spot where it had stood was about 600 yards ahead. He argued, that the fire having been there, and consumed everything, could not again have visited the same place. He determined to make a desperate rush through fire and smoke to reach the clearance. The conflagration was as yet above him like a glowing arch, though it had partially extended to the ground on either side. He had six horses to be sure, tried animals, who knew his voice, and whom he seemed to love as friends; but such a coach!lumbering and springless, and full of passengers too, chiefly ladies; and such roads!—a combination of trunks of trees buried in thick mud. But on he must go, or perish. Bending his head down, blind, hardly able to breathe, Nathan, lashing his horses, and shouting to the trembling, terrified creatures, and while the ladies screamed in agony of fear, went plunging and tossing through the terrific scene! A few minutes more, and there is no hope, for the coach is scorched, and about to take fire; and the horses are getting unmanageable! Another desperate rush-he has reached the clearance, and there is the mill, a mass of charred wood, surrounded by a forest of ebony trunks growing out of charred earth;the fire has passed, and Nathan is safe! Oh! sir," he said, "it was frightful! Think only if a horse had stumbled or But soon The morning of that dreadful day was calm and sultry; but, in an instant, smoke swept over the town of Newcastle, (situated on the river Miramichi,) which turned day unto night. The darkness was so unexpected-so sudden-so profound-that many cried that the judgment had come. the true cause was suspected. Suspicions were speedily followed by certainty, as the flames were seen bursting through the gloom. Every one made for the river; some got into boats moored near the beach, some on rafts of timber, while others stood in the water. Terrified mothers with their families, decrepit old men and women, and, worse than all, the sick and dying, were hurried, in despairing crowds, to the stream, to escape the flames which were already devouring their houses, and making a bonfire of the thriving town. Each succeeding hour added some new horror to the scene. The rarefaction and exhaustion of the air by the intense heat over so great a space, caused, as was supposed, such a rush of cold air from the ocean, that a hur ricane rushed in fury along the river, tearing burning trees up by the roots, hurling flaming branches through the air for five |