to sins, which once they would have blushed to mention. Dead to all sense of shame, breaking loose from the innocence of their childhood, casting off the comely habits and pious practices of a paternal home, they plunge into excess of riot; and, borne on by the impetus they have acquired in the descent, like one running down hill who can not stop although he would, when they reach the mouth of the pit they are borne over into perdition. They change, but, like "Seducers," they "wax worse and worse." The night grows darker and darker; the edge of conscience duller and duller; the process of petrifaction goes on in their heart, till it acquires the hardness of stone; and, wallowing in the mire of the lowest sensuality, they can make a boast of sins-sins, in regard to which, on the day when they left their father's roof, with his blessing on their head, and a mother's warm tears on their cheek, they would have said with feelings of indignant abhorrence-"Is thy servant a dog that he should do such a thing." What a melancholy change!

In blessed and beautiful contrast to a metamorphosis so sad, has the change in you taken an opposite direction? Can you say, I am not what once I was,but better, godlier, holier! Happy are you! Happy, although, afraid of presumption, and in the blushing modesty of a spiritual childhood, you can venture no further than one who was urged to say whether she had been converted? How modest, yet how satisfactory her reply! That, she answered, I cannot-that I dare not say; but there is a change somewhere; either I am changed, or the world is changed. If you can say so, it is well. Such an answer leaves no room for painful doubts. Our little child-watching with curious eye the apparent motion of objects-calls out

in ecstasy, and bids us see how hedge and house are flying past our carriage. It is not these that move, nor is it the fixed and firm shore, with its trees and fields, and boats at anchor, and harbors and headlands, that is gliding by the cabin windows. That is an illu sion of the eye. The motion is not in them but us. And if the world is growing less in your eye, it shows that you are retreating from it, rising above it, and ascending in the arms of grace to higher regions; and if the fashion of this world, to our eye, seems passing away, it is because we ourselves are passing-passing and pressing on in the way to heaven: Sin never changes. And if what was once lovely looks loathsome now-if what was once desired is detested now, if what was once sought we now shun and shrink from, it is not because sin is changed, but blessed be God, and praise be to his grace we are changed. Our eyes are opened; the scales have dropt from them; and the solution of the problem may be found in the blind man's answer" Whereas I was blind, now I see."

The Heart of
of Stone.

A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh.EZEKIEL XXXvi. 26.

THERE is a mine of sound sense in the adage of an old divine, "seriousness is the greatest wisdom, temperance the most efficient physic, and a good conscience the very best estate." Early habits of selfrestraint, total abstinence from all excess, diligence in business, attention to our duties, and that tranquility of mind which piety breeds, and which those enjoy who are at peace with God,-these, we confidently af firm, would do more to abate disease than all our physicians, much more to feed the hungry, and clothe the naked, than our Poor Laws and charitable institutions, and very much more than any Acts of Parlia ment to promote the comforts of the people, and preserve the liberties of the commonwealth. The older we grow, and the more our observation enlarges, the deeper grows our conviction, that "godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come."

1

One of the most remarkable instances of the truth, which it was ever our good fortune to see, presented itself in the immediate vicinity of this church. A weary day had passed in visiting a degraded neighborhood. The scenes were sad, sickening, repulsive. Famine, fever, want, squalid nakedness, moral and

physical impurities, drunkenness, death, and the devil were all reigning there. Those only who have known the sickness and sinking of heart which the miseries of such scenes produce, especially when aggravated by a close and foul atmosphere, can imagine the gratification and surprise with which, on opening a door, we stepped into a comfortable apartment. Its whitewashed walls were hung round with prints; the furniture shone like a looking-glass; and a bright fire was dancing merrily over a clean hearth-stone. It was an oasis in the desert. And we well remember, ere question was asked or answered, of saying to ourselves, "Surely the fear of God is in this place; this must be the house of a church-going family." It proved to be So. A blind man dwelt there. It was a home where squalid poverty might have been excused. And from it we carried away with us a lively sense of the temporal advantages of piety; and felt inclined to chalk these words on the blind man's door, as a lesson to his neighbors-"The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding."

Suppose and we suppose nothing impossible, nor in coming days improbable, for the promise waits fulfillment, "a nation shall be born in a day "-suppose, then, that in the plentitude of divine grace, God should bend an eye of pity on the wretched inhabitants of our immediate neighborhood, and pour down his Spirit on them in showers from heaven. At present, with a few bright exceptions, they are the votaries and victims of dissipation-I say votaries and victims, because vice is such a damning thing, that he who begins by ministering at her altar always ends by becoming the sacrifice. Around us thousands live who never enter a house of God. Their children, unless they are

fortunate enough to die early, are reared in ignorance, vice, and crime; and by habits of intemperance, many of them have reduced themselves to pinching hunger, ill-relieved by the uncertain supplies of charity, and the most squalid wretchedness. Now, suppose that God were pleased to send life to these "dry bones," that from lip to lip, and house to house, the cry were passing, "Oh, sirs, what shall I do to be saved?" that the last shilling that vice had left, were spent for the purchase of a Bible; that, like water by men parched in the desert, and dying of thirst, God's word were bought, borrowed, or begged, and that, rising to the summons of the Sabbath bell, these streets, where only a solitary worshiper may now be seen, were filled with the unaccustomed spectacle of a ragged crowd pouring into the houses of God;-how soon would their common aspect change? A few weeks, and we should hardly recognize them.

Save these picturesque and old-fashioned tenements, the blue heavens above, that rocky citadel with its frowning batteries, yonder noble arm of the sea, and the same green fields, rich valleys and romantic crags, of the everlasting hills around us, all old things else would have passed away. Prisons, that now complain of crowded cells, would be found too large; and many churches, cold now with empty pews, would be found too small. The smoldering fever would, like an unfed fire, go out for want of fuel; and rank churchyards would grow green at Christmas, for lack of their too-frequent burials. The brutal features of dissipa tion would give place to an expression of intelligence and humanity; roses would blow on childhood's pal lid cheek, and mother's smiles would chase the sadness from many a poor, sallow, infant face. Then, under