EFFORTS FOR USEFULNESS.

Ir was about the year 1812, that in the discharge of my professional duties, I was requested to attend on Lieut. R., who was the subject of severe but transient disease. I had been struck with the personal appearance and honourable conduct of this young officer. I think I never knew a handsomer man of twenty-five-one of more pleasing manners, or more gentlemanly feelings, He was universally beloved and respected; and for these circumstances his company was so generally sought after, that he became devoted to all the follies and unsatisfying pursuits of pleasure, falsely so called. On recovering his usual degree of health, he called on me to request that I would report him off the sick list; and at the same time, tendered me some pecuniary acknowledgement for my professional services, stating that he had been accustomed to remunerate my predecessor. My answer was, of course, that which christian principle would suggest to any honest man paid by the country. This seemed to strike Lieut. R., and he exclaimed with an oath, Doctor, there must be something more than I thought in you Methodists." I give you his own words.

66

Early in the afternoon of that day, he called at my apartments with a ticket for the theatre, which I knew he could only have obtained by paying an exorbitant price, there being two celebrated performers from London that night, which, for some time previously, had raised the box tickets to four times their ordinary value. On his presenting it to me, I expressed my sense of obligation for his intended favour, but told him that neither my principles nor my inclination would permit me to use it. Being in the act of arranging some tracts, I put into his hand "The death of Altamont," a tract published by the Religious Tract Society, with merely observing to him, "As you seem so anxious to confer an obligation on me, put this little book into your pocket, and read it to oblige me."

He left me to dress for the theatre, to which place he went early, to secure a seat. He sat in a corner-box, and, as he afterwards told me, merely to pass away some part of the previous time before the play began, he took the tract from his pocket, and began to read it. So signal and mighty were the operations of the Spirit of God on his mind, that he became wholly and ex

clusively absorbed in the contents of the tract; and at the termination of the play, after midnight, he left the theatre without having felt the slightest interest in the performances; to use his own words,"Conscience was the only performer before me that night." It was about three o'clock in the morning, that, after having, on his return from the theatre, thrown himself undressed on the bed, and in vain attempted to drown the voice of God in oblivion, he came over to my apartments, and, loudly knocking at the door, requested to be admitted. As long as memory retains his seat, I can never forget his haggard looks, and his tremulous voice. With a look of despair, and in a manner which seemed to carry with it a conviction of irretrievable ruin, he exclaimed, "Tell me, oh ! tell me, is it possible that I can obtain mercy and forgiveness from the offended God of Altamont? Tell me, oh ! tell me, if you really think I possibly can?" Hastily dressing myself, we sat together on the sofa, he in a state of restless agony, which expressed itself by incessant weeping and wringing of the hands, reiterating again and again the question he had just put to me. I at once led him to the throne of grace-wrestled along with him that He would reveal himself in all his mighty, enlivening, and consolatory power, who ever lives to save to the uttermost all who come to God by him. Whilst on our knees, I brought before him the boundless mercy of Jehovah, and the freeness and fulness of that salvation which whosoever will may receive, without money and without price. And it was worth living for to witness the eagerness with which he listened to the simple tale of redeeming love, and the glad tidings of free and full salvation by faith in the atoning blood of Jesus. The same day and night he scarcely tasted food, or took any rest; and no drowning man could more vehemently call for assistance, nor any famishing man more greedily devour the means of support, than he sought for warrant in the promises of the gospel, to lay hold of the hope there set before him.

In a few days, it pleased God to enable him to cast himself as a ruined, helpless sinner into the arms of Jesus. And I can never forget the expression of his countenance, pale and languid as it was with groanings and cries, which had been his meat day and night, when on entering his room early on the fourth morning it became

74

almost illuminated with tears of sacred joy, and he exclaimed, "I have found him whom my soul loveth, the friend of sinners, who his own self says, Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out; look at it, do look at it, in this precious book which you gave me," at the same moment holding up a New Testament, which was to him the pearl of great price. I had on the preceeding day directed his attention to the following passages of Scripture, among several others, Luke ii. 10, John iii. 14—17, vi. 37, Rom, x. 4, 1 Tim. i. 15, Heb. vii. 25, 1 John i. 9, 2 Ch. i. 2. He had committed them and many other passages of Holy Writ to memory, and dwelt on them with indescribable satisfaction.

From this hour, having credited the simple declaration of truth, he went on his way rejoicing, knowing in whom he had believed, and that he would keep that which he had committed to his trust, to the solemn hour when he should be called to appear at the dread tribunal of a righteous God, where inflexible justice would be satisfied with nothing short of that robe which hides and cancels all our sins.

Within a month he was called to embark for the West Indies, and scarcely had he reached that unhealthy climate, even before embarking, when it pleased God in his mysterious providence, to arrest him by yellow fever, and in a few days to call him to the realms of perfect purity and bliss. On the day preceeding his embarkation, he had supplied himself liberally with bibles and tracts for distribution to all on board, and his separation from me was one which may be imagined, but which I dare not trust myself to describe. I was to hear from him on his arrival in Jamaica, but the first account of him was an official report of his death, and this was soon followed by the return of his faithful confidential servant man, who told me with the deepest sorrow, that after a sudden attack of fever, which deprived him of his reason, he recovered his consciousness and requested the presence of all his brother officers, to whom, in his expiring moments, he preached Christ crucified as the only refuge from the wrath to come, and the only source of solid happiness; during this time he held in his quivering hand the identical tract that he received from me before going to the theatre, and, with this messenger of mercy, grasped more firmly as life fled, he expired amid the lamentations of those who esteemed him as a man and an officer, and was buried with the tract pressed to his heart.

THE LOST CHILD AND THE LAMB.

A little child wandered from its mother's cottage, on the prairie, in search of flowers. Pleased with the pursuit, and finding new

pleasures the more she sought, it was nearly night before she thought of returning. But in vain she retraced her steps. She was lost in the pathless meadows. The thick clump of trees that she had passed were no guide, and she could not tell whether home was between her and the setting sun or not.

She sat down and wept. She looked in all directions, in hope of seeing some one to lead her homeward, but no one appeared. She strained her eyes, now dim with tears, to catch sight of the smoke curling from the cot she had left. It was like looking out on the ocean with no sail in view. She I was alone in the wilderness. Hours had passed since she had left her mother's arms. A few hours more, and the dark night would be around her, the stars would look down upon her, and her locks would be wet with the dew.

She knelt on the ground and prayed. Her mother in the cottage was beyond the reach of her voice, but her heavenly Father, she knew, was always near, and could hear her feeblest cry. Mary had been taught to say, Our Father,' and in this time of sorrow, when friends were far away, and there was none to help, she called upon him who has said to little children, 'Come unto me.'

Mary had closed her eyes in prayer, and when she opened them, comforted in spirit, and almost resigned to her fate, willing to trust God for the future, and to sleep, if needful, on the grass, with his arm around her, and his love above her, she espied a lamb. It was seeking the tenderest herbs among the tall grass, and had strayed away from its mother and the flock, so that Mary saw at a glance she had a companion in her solitude, and her heart was gladdened as if she heard the voice and saw the face of a friend.

The lamb was happy also. It played at her side, and took the little tufts of grass from her hand, as readily as if Mary had been its friend from infancy.

And then the lamb leaped away, and looked back to see if its new-found playmate would follow. Mary's heart went out after the lamb, and she followed her heart. Now the little thing would sport by her side, and then would rush forward as if about to forsake her altogether, but soon it would return, or wait until she had come up with it. Mary had no thought, no anxiety whatever as to whither the lamb was leading her. She was lost-she had no friend to help her in her distress-the lamb had found her in loneliness, and she loved it, and she loved to follow it, and she would go wherever it should go. So she went on, until she began to be weary of the way, but not of her company.

The sun was just setting-a summer sun,

and her shadow stretched away before her, as if she were tall as a tree. She was thinking of home, and wondering if she should ever find the way back to her mother's house and her mother's heart, when the lamb, of a sudden, sprang away over a gentle knoll, and as she reached it, her sporting playmate had found the flock from which it had strayed, and they were all, the lamb and Mary, within sight of home. The Lamb had led Mary home.

Who has not sometimes felt as this child, away from his Father's house, in search of pleasure till he is lost. He knows not whither to look for some one to guide him homeward. He prays. His eye of faith, blinded just now with tears of grief because he has wandered, catches sight of the Lamb, who leads him to his Father's house, where his tears are wiped away, and he is welcomed to the mansions, and folded in the arms, of eternal love -New York Observer.

AND THEN?

Filippo Neri was living at one of the Italian universities, when a young man, whom he had known as a boy, ran up to him with a face full of delight, and told him that what he had been long wishing above all things in the world, was at length fulfilled, his parents having just given him leave to study the law; and that thereupon he had come to the law school at this university; on account of its great fame, and meant to spare no pains or labour in getting through his studies as quickly and as well as possible. In this way he ran on a long time; and when at last he came to stop, the holy man, who had been listening to him with great patience and kindness, said, 'Well! and when you have got through your course of studies, what do you mean to do then?'

"Then I shall take my doctor's degree,' answered the young man.

And then?" asked Filippo Neri again. 'And then,' continued the youth, 'I shall have a number of difficult and knotty cases to manage, shall catch people's notice by my eloquence and zeal, and gain a great reputation.'

And then?' repeated the holy man. 'And then,' replied the youth, why then, there can't be a question, I shall be promoted to some high office or other; besides I shall make money, and grow rich.'

'And then,' replied Filippo.

And then,' pursued the young lawyer'then I shall live comfortably and honourably, in wealth and dignity, and shall be able to look forward quietly to a happy old age.'

75

And then?' asked the holy man. 'And then,' said the youth-and then -and then-then I shall die.'

Here Filippo lifted his voice and again asked, ' And then ?' Whereupon the young man made no answer, but cast down his head, and went away. This last 'And then?' had pierced like a flash of lightning into his soul, and he could not get quit of it. Soon after he forsook the study of the law, and gave hinself up to the ministry of Christ, and spent the remainder of his days in his service.

The question which Filippo Neri put to the young lawyer, is one which we should put frequently to ourselves. When we have done all that we are doing, all that we aim at doing, all that we dream of doing, even supposing that all our dreams are accomplished, that every wish of our heart is fulfilled, still we may ask, What will we do, what will we be, then? Whenever we cast out thoughts forward, never let them stop short on this side of the let them not grave; stop short at the grave itself; but when we have followed ourselves thither, and have seen ourselves laid therein, still ask ourselves the searching question, And then? Christian Treasury.

ples.'

Idleness the greatest prodigality. 'Two kinds of idleness,-a listless, and an active.

'If industrious, we should direct our efforts to right ends.

'Possibly it may require as much (industry) to be best billiard player as to be senior wrangler.

"The endowments of nature we cannot command, but we can cultivate those given.

'My experience, that men of great talents are apt to do nothing for want of vigour. ‘Vigour―energy-resolution,-firmness of purpose-these carry the day.'

THE TRAVELLER'S PROSPECT.

In this wilderness world so barren and dreary,
How cheering to think of that rest;

The calm for the troubled, the home for the weary,

The abode of the happy and blest.

There sorrow and sighing for ever shall cease,
And praises each tongue shall employ;
The long depressed captive then set at release,
Shall be filled with unspeakable joy.

There sits the Redeemer, His countenance beaming,
With fulness of love all divine;

And clothed in his righteousness, saints stand exclaiming,

The honour and glory is thine.

We hope soon to be there, the prospects reviving, Whilst struggling along by the way;

Then to Jesus we'll look, and his promise believing, Haste on to the glorious day.

Bardon.

R. W.

A MOTHER'S HOUR OF PRAYER.

"Twas silent eve, the sun had set
But on the sky there lingered yet
Mid snowy clouds a golden hue,
Reflected on the water blue.

And from the greenwood shade was heard
The distant song of vesper bird,
Upon the low breeze floating by,
Like spirits message from the sky;
In that most holy hour given,

To wing each thought from earth to heaven.

E'er long that golden light had fled,
The dew lay thick on violet bed;
And the red rose had sank to rest,
With sparkling jewels in its breast,
How beautiful the heavens now!
Bright, glorious, as an angel's brow,
From the deep blue the stars look down,
Brilliant as gems in seraph's crown,
And stainless as when first their beam,
Was mirror'd deep in Eden's stream,
In that sweet hour of calm repose,
To heaven the voice of prayer arose;
A mother's prayer, that well might bring
The shadow of an angel's wing
To rest upon her boy, who slept
Unconscious that his mother kept
Watch by his bed, and softly pray'd,
While moonbeams o'er his pillow stray'd,
Bathing his cherub brow in light,
And gleaming mid his ringlets bright.
Thou beauteous child! and can it be,
That earth hath sorrowing for thee?
Yet, sleep in peace, though time may bring
No thornless roses on its wing
For that pure, peaceful brow to wear,
A mother's tear hath trembled there,
And unseen angels linger near,
That prayer of faith and love to hear,
Which, borne o'er heaven's starry plain,
Shall wake a louder, sweeter strain,
While seraphs tune their harps above,
To heaven's own deathless song of love,
And moonbeams come with gentle smile,
To make earth beautiful the while;
Peace to that mother's heart, for she
Hath left her child, O God, with thee.

THE FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN.

Come, gather closer to my side,
My little smitten flock,
And I will tell of Him who brought
Pure water from the rock;
Who boldly led God's people forth
From Egypt's wrath and guile,
And once a cradled babe did float
All helpless on the Nile.

You're weary, precious ones, your eyes
Are wandering far and wide;
Think ye of her who knew so well
Your tender thoughts to guide?
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore
Your fixed attention claim?
Ah! never from your hearts erase
That blessed mother's name.

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn—
My youngest infant dove,

Come, press thy velvet cheek to mine,
And learn the lay of love;

My sheltering arms can clasp you all,
My poor deserted throng;

Cling as you used to cling to her
Who sings the angel's song.

Begin, sweet birds, the accustom'd strain,
Come, warble loud and clear;

Alas, alas, you're weeping all,
You're sobbing in my ear.

Good night! go say the prayer she taught,
Beside your little bed;

The lips that used to bless you there
Are silent with the dead.

A father's hand your course may guide
Amid the thorns of life,

His care protect those shrinking plants
That dread the storm of life;

But who upon your infant hearts

Shall like that mother write?

Who touch the strings that rule the soul 2 Dear smitten flock, good night.

PROVIDENCE.

Just as a mother with sweet pious face

Yearns towards her little children from her seat.
Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,
Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet;
And while from actions, looks, complaints,
pretences,

She learns their feelings and their various will,
To this a look, to that a word dispenses,

And whether stern or smiling, loves them still;-
So Providence for us, high, infinite,
Makes our necessities its watchful task,
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants:
And even if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies because 'twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, or, in denying, grants.