in feeding the worm that never dies, and to heap fuel on the flame that is never quenched. May the mercy of God save us from such sin! Better were it to beg crumbs with Lazarus, and sit with Job on the dunghill, than to share riches, honour and power here, on condition of preaching another gospel, and prophesying smooth things, and crying, "Peace, peace," while God's own voice proclaims, "There is no peace to the wicked."

With these views, then, of the character of the gospel, let us ask ourselves, as in the sight of God, Have we the gospel that Paul preached, or do we receive another? If we receive that which he preached, do we obey it? If it be our hope and guide, let us hold it fast with an unwavering confidence, and defend it by a fearless profession, though man cavil at, or an angel contradict its testimonies; content with the assurance that what the Scriptures teach and the Spirit seals shall stand, though the elements melt with fervent heat, and the heavens pass away as a scroll when it is rolled together.

1. It is evidently the interest and duty of every hearer of the gospel to ascertain that he is receiving that system of truth which the apostles taught. The Word of God allows not, nor will his bar acquit those who have trusted indolently in the numbers attached to their sect, or in the wisdom or piety of their teachers, while careless as to their own personal experience of religion, and neglect the carnest study of those Scriptures that are to try every doctrine and judge every spirit. In Paul's time the gospel had its opposers among the Jews who sought after signs, and among the Greeks who looked for wisdom. And men now reject or modify the gospel for the same causes. Should modern systems, therefore, demand our faith and claim to supplant the gospel of Paul, either because of the signs and wonders that attest them and the new revelations they boast to have received, on the one hand, or because of the superior wisdom, refinement, and philosophy of those who defend them, on the other hand; we do well to remember that we receive such systems at our peril. And the woe that smites the teachers of these errors will not spare their followers.

2. Errors in religion are neither rare nor harmless. If even in apostolic times there were not wanting heresies of the most fatal character, we have no reason to expect that they should become less numerous or less fatal now that the age of miracles is past, and the presence of inspired and infallible teachers is withdrawn. And if, from these varied forms of religious belief, some would infer the harmlessness of error, and teach us that every system calling itself Christian has in the main the

great truths necessary to piety here and happiness hereafter, we need but bring their theory to the test of the text before us. The teachers opposing Paul, those at least in Galatia, preached apparently the same God and the same judgment and eternal retribution as did the apostle, nor is there any evidence that they disputed the divine mission of our Saviour. But there was an entire difference of statement as to the way of salvation. How did Paul act? Did he respect the independence of those who thus differed from him, and assert their essential union with himself in the great matters of the faith? The course that he pursued so resolutely himself, and so impressively urged upon others, was far different. Instead of dwelling on the opinions held in common, as furnishing a sufficient basis for concord, and acknowledging in the truths they yet retained the basis of a common Christianity, he denounced, without compromise or qualification, the opposing doctrine as being "another gospel." For it taught error as to the fundamental truth, the mode of a sinner's acceptance with God.

3. There are truths in religion of such vital importance that departure from them must destroy the soul. The holiness that the gospel came to foster is the effect of truth received in the love of it. And this truth is in its own nature harmonious and one. Truth cannot contradict itself; nor in science or art can there be two opposed and warring truths. So is it also in religion. The singleness of truth constitutes the basis of its exclusiveness. It claims for itself exclusively and without rival the faith and obedience of mankind; a claim that is exclusive because it is just, and that could not be consistent without requiring thus the rejection of all error. These exclusive claims are often misrepresented as involving the most odious intolerance and illiberality. But in truth there is no more a possibility of the existence of several true religions, than there is of the existence of more than one God. From the one Jehoval there can emanate but the one truth-developed, indeed, in different degrees at different ages; in Judaism the bud, in Christianity the expanded flower-but essentially, and in all ages, the one unchanged and unchangeable religion, revealing for man, the sinner, salvation through an atonement and Mediator of divine appointment. Much of error may be mingled with this truth in various minds; but there are vital errors which the Word of God has doomed as the seals of ruin in those who retain them. It recognizes in the Church of God one head and one foundation, and those only are acknowledged as the heirs of life who build on this foundation, and "who hold the head."

RITZ and Gretchen had each a garden of their own, which their father had prepared for them. He had planted them with bright flowers; and, still further to improve their beauty, he had surrounded each plot with stout stakes fixed in the ground, to the top of which osiers were fastened from stake to stake, so as to form arches upon which creeping plants might grow.

Little Gretchen was delighted. "Oh, Fritz," she cried, "now I can have some vines of my very own. What creepers will you have?"

"I shall have no creepers at all," replied Fritz, shaking his head very wisely. "You know how hard the autumn winds blow round the corner of the house just here; and, I am sure, if these slight arches are covered with broad vine leaves to catch the wind, they will all be blown down together."

"But surely," said Gretchen, "father would not have made the arches for us if we could not have creepers upon them."

"Perhaps father did not think of the wind," said Fritz, "or perhaps he thought, as indeed I do too, that the arches are very pretty without creepers."

garden were still as bare as they were on the day they were put up, and his plants, exposed to the full sunlight, looked parched and dry. But he said he could easily remedy that by giving them a little extra water; and every time the summer breeze shook the vineleaves, and tossed the long tendrils to and fro, he laughed at his sister for fancying that anything so easily moved by every breath could stand against a real strong wind.

At last in early autumn the first storm came. Gretchen heard the wind roaring round the house one night, as she lay in bed, and she trembled for her beloved vines. Both children went out early in the morning to see if any mischief had been done. To their surprise Fritz's garden was in confusion. The wind had caught the bare poles, thrown some of them down, and loosened almost all, besides breaking many of the unsheltered plants within the plot.

Gretchen's vine-clad arches, on the contrary, were all standing. Only one or two of them were bent a little forward by the wind (which was an injury easy enough to repair); and the plants in the centre of the garden, sheltered by the vines from the violence of the storm, were unharmed.

Their father joined them as they were still looking in astonishment at a scene so different from what they had expected, and they turned eagerly to him for an ex

So she got the vines she wanted, and planted one at each corner of her garden, that they might spread all round it.

The summer went on. Gretchen's vines grew and flourished, till they had climbed over all the arches, and twined round each other, making a green crown all round the plot, and shading the flowers from the too great heat of the sun; while the rough stakes in Fritz's

blown down, and not Gretchen's, when mine had nothing on them to catch the wind as hers had?"

"They had less to keep them up, my boy; nothing, in fact, but the hold that each stake had for itself in the ground, and the slight osiers at the top, some of which you see are snapped in two. Gretchen's arches are all bound firmly together by the strong living branches of her vines."

"Then my dear useful vines held my arches up in

66

Nothing, sir, but learning my task," replied John. Cowardly fear made the boy a third time wander from truth.

And this was not because John had never been told the evil of falsehood. Mrs. Jeffries, a pious woman, who kept her lips pure from untruth, had often warned her son against his besetting sin. His brave father, then absent at sea, was as honest in his talk as he was in his dealings. John had not the excuse of not knowing the danger and guilt of wandering from truth, but he had got into a sad habit of careless speaking. He had never found any harm come of it, he said; he could not see any danger in it. No more can we see infection in poisoned air, though in breathing that air we may risk health and life.

John's sins of the tongue were not confined to untruthfulness. When lessons were over and the schoolboys ran out into the playground, John had a quarrel with a boy called Sam, over a game of marbles. They did not, indeed, come to blows, but they pelted each other with bad names-too bad for me to put down on paper. The quarrel was made up at last, before the boys set off for their several homes, and John felt no trouble in his conscience on account of the vile language which he had used.

The home of John Jeffries was full two miles from his school, his walk was therefore rather a long one, and he parted from all his companions. The afternoon was exceedingly hot; John was tired after the househunting expedition of the preceding day. The turf by the wayside looked so green and inviting that John put down his books and stretched himself at full length on the grass, where he soon fell sound asleep.

"Why, if that is not John Jeffries fast asleep on the turf!" exclaimed Bertie Dayborn, who chanced to be riding with a companion towards his home, which was near the spot. "Here, Eustace, just take my bridle and lead my pony to the stable; I'll go and wake up John and have a bit of fun with him. I like to be with John, he's such a funny chap; he's always setting me laughing."

Down jumped Bertie from the saddle; he threw his rein to Eustace, and softly approached the sleeping boy, intending to tickle his face with the whip which he held in his hand but Bertie forgot his intention when he heard John muttering in his sleep, and bent down, trying to make out what were the words which he uttered. "I can't-I can't rub it out!" was all that Bertie could catch. John looked uneasy in his sleep, knitted his brow, moved his hands, and then suddenly opened his eyes with a start, and looked up in the face of his friend.

"Bertie, is that you?" he exclaimed, jumping up from the grass.

"Ay, it's I, old fellow, who have caught you napping. I've sent home the pony, and I mean to walk with you

houses. Why do you look so grave and glum? I think you are still half asleep !”

"I've been dreaming," replied John Jeffries, and he rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"I daresay that you dreamed something funny-that is what you are always doing. What was it that you could not rub out, which seemed to trouble you so? You often tell me odd things that you dream."

"I am afraid that I have often told you odd things when I had not dreamed them," replied John, too well aware how often he had altered and added to his dreams, to make them more funny and strange. John was beginning to think that it might be wiser and safer not to repeat dreams at all.

"But I want to hear this one!" cried Bertie, linking his arm in that of his friend, as the two boys began to walk slowly along the hot dusty road.

"I have had an odd dream," said John, thoughtfully. "It seemed to have much more meaning in it than most of my dreams ever have. I'll tell you about it, BertieI'll tell you exactly what I dreamed. I suppose that it was my house-hunting with my mother that put the thoughts into my head.”

"I daresay that you were in your dream scrambling up a hill too steep for a goat, with Mrs. Jeffries panting and puffing behind you," laughed Bertie.

"The hill which we went up yesterday was not so very steep," said John, gravely; "you could have ridden up it on your pony; and it was only one of the chairs in the cottage that had a leg that was broken. I talked a great deal of nonsense this morning.”

"Well, no matter, it was very amusing. But tell me what was your dream."

"I fancied that I was house-hunting still, but I do not think that my mother was with me. I was going through one of the prettiest houses that ever I saw, and a strange old woman was showing me over it. I said, This is just the place to suit my mother; and won't it please my father, who likes everything neat, when he comes back from sea?' For, Bertie, the paper on the walls was white as milk, not a speck nor a spot upon it; only where the sun shone on the paper I saw a pattern of gold which I had not noticed at first. I dreamed that I praised the pattern to the woman who was showing me the house, and she said, 'Ah! yes; the people who lived here last spoke none but good words, and they have made this pattern of gold; for this is a witness-paper, you see, and all that is spoken in any of the rooms leaves a mark behind on the wall.'"

"A witness-paper!" exclaimed Bertie; "I never beard of such a paper in my life."

"Nor I," said John, "except in this dream. Well, all in a moment I lost sight of the woman, and I fancied myself living in a room in that house which was covered with the white witness-paper. I was placing the furniture, and drawing up the blinds, getting all ready for my father, when who should come in but you."