i

thus bring them forth night after night-in beautiful vicissitude with day-to commune as it were with man, and whisper dimly of unknown forms of being, and of heavenly dwelling places in which the children of this dark world could have no portion? And then, that God who made them !-How wonderful! Did He make them all? Where was He ?-Was He every where ?-Had He no dwelling place?-Were those stars the pavement of His abode ?Was His Heaven up far away above those twinkling fires ?--And was He indeed the God of the whole universe?-Were all these His family?— Then was He not also the God of all the families upon this earth-of all people, and tongues, and nations?-Was not the God of Israel also the God of MAN, of all men, of the Egyptians, as of the child of Abraham? This thought sank deep into the heart of Moses. We may well believe that this thought-this dark question, as it would be to him-would sink deep into the mind of Moses. But it would probably rest there as an enquiry, and not as a truth,-an enquiry to which perhaps, during the yet long years of his pilgrimage, he never found the answer.

The years rolled on. The time at length arrived when Moses was to be called to his work. Pharaoh, who had reigned over Egypt, when he had fled into the desert, was now dead. All who had sought his life were probably passed away. His crime would be forgotten, and nothing would any longer forbid his return to the dwellings of his people. But still he went not. He did not see the way before him. He did not know how he could work out this deliverance of his people, or how he could induce them to accept him as their leader. It seemed as if he was listening for the voice of God to send him, and to guide him. At length that voice came. (To be continued.)

"MY PEACE I LEAVE WITH YOU."

NoT for the offender's sake

Alone, did Christ command us to forgive;
For calm, no anger, no remorse can shake,
Can only with the freely pardoning live.

How is the heart forlorn

If hate, revenge, or malice be its guest!
How shall the stern, the unforgiving rest,
With passion's angry struggles rent and torn?

Then shall the conflict cease,

Then only, when the offender is forgiven,
And every angry feeling lulled to rest,
The heart is reconciled to earth and heaven.

J. A.

ON the 9th of November, 1837, the father was taken to the new dwelling; and when the son heard him say, "Dear me, John, man, I am perfectly surprised to see that great house you have reared up for us," it is probable, says Alexander, "that he considered himself overpaid for all his labours."

John Bethune was both very laborious and naturally ingenious. Whenever anything had become indispensable, he never wasted time in questions as to who could be got to perform it, but set himself to work immediately; and he could generally imitate what he had seen done by others.

In the following February, the father, for whose comfort he had worked so hard, became ill, and died. This, the first family bereavement, was most acutely felt by the brothers. During the severe weather of that winter, John was partly engaged in improving his part of the "Lectures on Practical Economy," afterwards published. About this time, a literary gentleman, who had seen the MS. of these lectures, kindly offered to use his influence to procure for him a government situation. This, however, John gratefully declined, determining rather to support himself by his own industry. The small measure of success which his writings obtained, at length encouraged him, in 1838, to desist from manual labour, and confine himself to the pen and his own garden for profit. This change of life was probably the immediate cause of the destruction of his health, which had revived after his removal to the elevated spot on which the new dwelling was built. He had become the Secretary of the Newburgh Temperance Society, and towards the end of January, after sitting in the society's room, which was strongly heated by a stove, for some hours, he walked home on a night of intense frost, and thus caught the fatal cold which speedily produced the consumption with which he lingered till the 1st of September following. His brother dwells with affectionate interest on all the details of the long struggle between life and death. For some time it was thought that he chiefly suffered from his old disorder of the stomach, and he hoped to gain strength by taking more food than he had lately allowed himself, and more exercise in the open air, but he soon became very seriously ill. All that his devoted brother could do, was done to strengthen and to cheer, and he had at least that which he so well knew how to value,-a "couch by friendship spread."

His life had chiefly been passed in the open air, near a sheet of

water, the snows of winter or the green fields of summer around him, and the sky above. For these scenes he had early contracted a sort of friendship, and till the moment when his eyes grew dim he continued to look upon them with satisfaction.

He replied with gratitude to the kind inquiries made concerning his health, and for the little presents made him,--such as jelly, and fruit. On the morning before his death, after having sipped & little wine mixed with water,-the first he had tasted for many years, he spoke with firmness and composure of his approaching end. "You must not be cast down," he said, "though I am about to be taken away; nor sorrow as those who have no hope." He then called for his mother, "bade her sit down beside him, and tried to comfort and soothe her feelings as far as his own weakness would permit." He directed that there should be no unnecessary expense with respect to his funeral-that his coffin should be of the very plainest kind. "I am perfectly resigned to leave the world," he said; " my only sorrow is for the debts and expenses which have been incurred on my account, and that I leave my few friends to struggle with disappointment and difficulty."

Death at last came to him nearly without a struggle, and his countenance was like that of one sleeping. So died John Bethune, aged 27. "If," says the devoted brother, "he had some minor faults and who is without them? they must have been known to others: to the little family of which he was a member, his character appeared almost without a flaw."

How many are there who have praise in the world, concerning whom the members of their own families could tell many a dismal tale! No jealousy, not the smallest feeling of grudge, appears to have darkened the breast of the generous elder brother, generous, methinks, alike when he took the humbler part of an assistant to the more gifted one, when he gratefully accepted his aid, and when in every way he returned, as best he could, those ministrations of kindness. "In his manner," says Alexander, "he was simple and unaffected. Through life he studied so to regulate his conduct as that no one should be able, with justice, to fix a quarrel on him; and if insulted without a cause, he never stooped to seek a mean revenge, rather choosing to withdraw at once from all further intercourse with the offending individual." His piety was unaffected.

"As valor lies in hearts, and not in swords, Religion is in thoughts, and not in words," was a sentiment of his own, and he acted upon it. He was patient of cold, hunger, and fatigue, and possessed almost unexam

pled perseverance. At times, to avoid incurring debts, he lived upon oatmeal and potatoes, but by his industry and forbearance, he was enabled to 66 owe no man anything, but love," and in general, had something to spare from his earnings for those still poorer than himself. The labour which he bestowed on writing for the press, was at times very great. On one occasion, he told his brother that he analysed every sentence which he wrote, to see that there was not a superfluous word in it.-Yet, "he frequently wrote from motives altogether apart from money-getting." The greatest pains and labour which an author can bestow, will not in all cases insure success, and such a scanty education and limited view of society as the Bethunes enjoyed, made their efforts less likely to meet it. Yet some of John Bethune's poetry is correct and full of feeling, and the "Lectures on Practical Economy," though they were not received as their writers hoped, received marked praise from the editors of several newspapers. extracts from his poems shall, if the editor of this Magazine approve, be sometimes inserted here. The foregoing short narrative has been compiled by one who feels a true respect for such annals of talent and worth. The writers of fictions are often accused of exaggeration, but this has been a true tale.

Some

E. C.

THE SUNDAY SCHOLAR; OR, HEARING AND DOING.

(Concluded from page 196).

Os the afternoon of the following Wednesday, Mr. Harvey paid his promised visit. The time happened to be rather inconvenient, for Mrs. Wilson, much to her own vexation, was in the midst of a grand wash, and consequently not very fit to be seen, while Charles, who had opened the door to the minister, felt so ill at ease in his presence, that he slipped away, without even offering him a chair, a piece of neglect which called forth many apologies from his mother, when at length she made her appearance with her hands hastily wiped upon her apron, and her face flushed with the honour of receiving so respected a visitor.

"I wanted to know how your little girl was going on, Mrs. Wilson," said Mr. Harvey, "her sprain is not serious, I hope."

No, sir, thank you; I thought it was at first, poor thing, but now she's getting on quite wonderful; and I trust in a week or two she'll be about again as well as ever."

"She seems a very good child," said Mr. Harvey; "all that I saw of her pleased me exceedingly."

"Yes, sir, she gives me no trouble, I'm thankful to say," her eyes brightening with pleasure, "and I'm sure I'm truly obliged to you for all your kindness to her, it was so condescending I'm sure." Mr. Harvey put a stop to her thanks, and she then ventured to express her pleasure "that Charles should be thought so good a boy at school."

Yes, he behaves very well at school," said Mr. Harvey, “and I hope he behaves well at home too. I was sorry to hear, though, Mrs. Wilson," Mrs. Wilson knew what was coming, and she quite interrupted Mr. Harvey in her eagerness to excuse her son, to whom she was perhaps a little too indulgent.

Mr. Harvey listened to her patiently, and then said, "I wish to have a little talk with Charles, so I came on his half-holiday, can I see him Mrs. Wilson? don't be afraid," said he smiling, as she rather unwillingly answered, 'Yes,' "but as you are busy I need not detain you any longer."

Mrs. Wilson left the room, and sent her son into it; the boy made no resistance, but came like a culprit to the presence of a judge, and stood balancing himself upon one leg, and twisting his arms about in a very odd way while waiting for the minister to begin. Contrary to his expectations, Mr. Harvey first spoke of the necessity of his soon endeavouring to earn something for his mother, and then he gradually led the conversation to the duty which he owed to so kind and considerate a parent, who had taken such care of him from infancy, and had denied herself so many comforts in order to give him a good education. Seeing that Charles, who was really attached to his mother, looked touched and attentive, Mr. Harvey continued, "Now; shall I tell you why I was so very sorry to hear last Sunday of your disobedience?"

"Yes, sir, please," Charles replied, much surprised to think that he could have done anything to make Mr. Harvey feel sorry.

"Perhaps I shall best explain what I mean, if I ask you why it is that you like coming to Sunday school?"

"Because sir, I like learning good things."

"Very true, and as far as it goes it is a good motive; but what is the use of your learning these good things? what is the use of your being taught to read, and understand the Gospels, for instance, if they do not tend to make you a better boy in your every-day conduct? Are you sure that you do not come to receive instruction in order that you may be thought clever by others, rather than for the sake of learning your own duty?"