form no plans, to promote the welfare of those who have no capacity, or no opportunity, and perhaps no inclination, to plan and devise for themselves? Will benevolent wishes, firm purposes of soul, and unwearied perseverance, even of fee. ble endeavours to do good, accomplish nothing? Do we not know that they often eventually accomplish much. Dr. Johnson says, "The mind is elevated and enlarg ed by mere purposes, though those purposes end as they began, in airy speculation." May it not then be numbered among the privileges of the invalid, that he can frame purposes for the good of others, which though they may be but partially carried into effect, have yet an ennobling tendency in his own mind, and an expansive influence in his own heart? But we do not live for ourselves, and the invalid thus taught, is perhaps of all people on earth most deeply sensible of this truth.

Again, the situation of the invalid affords leisure and opportunity for intellectual pursuits. Of him it may be said in the words of the poet,

"The intellectual world invites his care, Where he may range amid the wise and fair,

Untutored range."

By

in the active duties of life. mingling less in the bustle of society, he acquires a degree of abstractedness, a habit of deep thought and meditation, in some sort necessary to the author and man of science. Many a fine genius has undoubtedly been brought to shed its rays in the world, which but for the infirmities of a sickly constitution, would have been forever buried in the shades of obscurity and ignorance.

But the beauties of the natural world, in all their rich variety, are also spread before the invalid. A sensibility, the result perhaps of a finer and more delicate organization of the nervous system, (for aught we know, the connecting medium between mind and matter,) and nursed in the very congenial shades of retirement, often renders him exquisitely susceptible of the sublime and beautiful in nature. What though he may never peep at the crater of Etna, or ascend the snow-clad summit of Mont Blanc ? What though he may ever remain a stranger to the sublimity of the prospects from such elevations? Or what if the wonders of the eastern, and the natural glories of the western hemisphere are all unseen by him? The spacious firmament "with living sapphires," glowing" and illumined by the mild radiance of the silver moon, or the bright effulgence of the meridian sun-the vast expanse of waters, blue and boundless to the eye--suggest to his mind ideas of immensity, sublimity, and beauty, scarcely less exalting and joyous, than are excited by the view of those more wonderful, because more rare objects.

The invalid may have

"Attentive and believing faculties; And go abroad rejoicing in the joy Of beautiful and well created things: May love the voice of waters, and the sheen

Of silver fountains leaping to the sea; And thrill with the rich melody of birds, Living their life of music; may be glad

In the gay sunshine, reverent in the

storm;

May see a beauty in the stirring leaf, And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree;

And see, and hear, and breathe the evidence

Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world."

To him the verdure, and freshness of spring; the luxuriance, beauty, and mild gales of summer; the mellow lustre, rich bounties, and sober-suited scenes of autumn; the thought-inspiring glooms and grandeur of winter, with its "wild warfare of winds, and its revelry of storms and tempests," have peculiarly enrapturing charms. Looking around on the fair face of nature, in the ecstasy of feeling, he adopts the language of the poet :

'S weet is the breath of morn, her rising

sweet,

With charm of earliest birds; pleasant

the sun,

When first on this delightful land he spreads

His orient beams on herb, fruit, flower, Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile earth,

After soft showers, and sweet the coming on

Of grateful evening mild: the silent night, With her lone, solemn bird; and the fair

overruling Providence, which is constantly educing good from ill," controlling and directing all events in the wisest possible manner, and with reference to the highest good of all his creatures. He believes

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that this Providence cares for all" in a temporal sense, and has abundant experience of its mercies in preserving. protecting, and comforting him through many a scene of suffering and hour of trial.

Though, as a consequence of his peculiar organization, the invalid may at times feel a disadvantage in being "tremblingly alive all o'er," he is compensated by a more than ordinary sensibility to the sweet sympathies and charities of life, the endearments of home and friends. Though he "feel another's woc,' he is also a delighted sharer in the joys and happiness of all around him. His imagination in its occasional seasons of sickly musings, is indeed wont to brood over the "ills that flesh is heir to," evils that ap pertain to man in every climate, rank, and situation on earth, but in his brighter hours, (and those hours are not few) he beholds more joys than calamities, more happiness than misery, and is prompted more to cheerfulness of mind than to cherish gloomy sensations.

But the privileges I have principally in view, are those relating to invisible realities, bearing the proportion in point of importance, to many of those I have named, that eternity does to time, or the bliss of heaven to the poor and perishing pleasures of earth. And in this respect I think the invalid is unrivalled. He is constantly reminded by a monitor which speaks far more impressively than that of the Macedonian monarch, that his hold on life is by a very frail and feeble tenure. He hearkens to the still small voice which warns him that this is but

-"the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule" to another and immortal state of

existence, and he is led to inquire how that state can be rendered happy. He finds that he is here a probationer for eternity, and that on his character and conduct in this life, his well-being in the life to come, will depend. He feels that he is an accountable being, and the doctrine of retributive justice, of rewards and punishments" according to the deeds done in the body," bears with solemn weight upon his mind Owing to considerations of this kind, and being in a measure free from the tumultuous passions that agitate the minds of men in vigorous health amid the bustle of life, the vanities and glitter of the present scene have to him but few attractions. He is led to seek an "inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, that fadeth not away, eternal in the heavens ;" and is thus happily preserved from the temptations to which so many thousands fall victims. Many an invalid having "put on immortality" beyond the grave, will undoubtedly have reason in the realms of glory, to praise the God of all grace for the pains and sufferings of a sickly constitution of body during a few short years upon earth. True,"no chastening for the present seemeth joyous but grievous," but if it work for us the peaceable fruits of righteousness, "love, joy, peace, long-suffering," "tempe rance, patience, godliness, brotherly kindness, charity:" if it help to subdue our rebellious wills, and "bring every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ," well may we exclaim, with the fervor of the ancient martyr, "Welcome crosses, welcome afflictions and sufferings!" The book of revelation is ever at hand for the perusal of the invalid. There his knowledge of the Divine Being, and of the state of mankind, is confirmed and extended. He learns what God is, and what he has done and is doing for the race of fallen man; and with the discovery of his unlikeness to God, he has the remedy which will

restore him to his forfeited favour. He has opportunity to read of the Saviour, and to meditate on the wonderful work of redemption through Him, as revealed in the gospel, and, (as God often works by means) he is led cordially to embrace the way of salvation by Jesus Christ. May I not say that the religious invalid has fewer obstacles in the path of Christian progress, than he who is obliged, as it were, to fight his way through the crowds of conflicting cares and temptations that beset the path of the healthy, who live and act amid the allurements and turmoils of life? Trained by necessity to a life of outward self-denial, he may perhas find less difficulty in submitting to that selfdenial of heart which the gospel requires, as he sees how much his spiritual interest, his peace and comfort depend on it. Not that a selfish reference to his own enjoyment, is the highest actuating principle. The light which has shone into his heart, has revealed to him the superior excellence and beauty of religion. It has shewn him that God is the supreme fountain and source of all goodness-that in him is concentrated every possible perfection, and that whatever we admire as lovely and good and beautiful in the moral or natural world, is but a faint reflection of those attributes of the Deity. He is therefore drawn by a sweet attraction to love God for His own excellence and too seek union and communion with Him as his chief good, his highest happiness. Then, no moments are sweeter to him than those of retirement, and what the world calls solitude, to which he is perhaps necessitated to resort by reason of bodily weakness and infirmities. -Surely an immoral, unreflecting invalid, is the least excusable of all erring mortals! An unbelieving invalid is mad! more emphatically so than "an undevout astronomer."

C. K.

WEEKLY CONTRIBUTIONS.

Ir is the practice of some congregations to take up a collection every Sabbath. This practice seems to me, on several accounts, inexpedient.

In respect to any charitable purpose, or as a means of defraying the expenses of the congregation, funds so collected, are generally, I believe, of small importance. Many will give on a special call, and under the impulse of a definite appeal made to them, though they would contribute nothing on an ordinary occasion. They will give too from pride, being ashamed of witholding where all are liberal. But such

motives will have little effect where

course.

the collection becomes a matter of The majority of a congregation will soon grow tired of always giving; and with the exception of the few who give from principle, the collectors will carry round empty plates.

And this is another reason against the practice-it tends to a bad habit in the congregation. A habit of not giving, and of getting over their motives for giving-a habit of which they will find it easy to avail themselves even on a great call for charity. Or else, what is worse, a habit of thinking to save their credit and consciences by contributing only their six-pences and paltry cents. I do not speak diminutively of these sums except in regard to the ability of the giver. The widow's mite is, I know, of great value in the sight of the Lord; but the rich man's mite, a six-penny piece from heaps of silver-what is it but a despicable offering?

I cannot help noticing, by the way, what a curious comment the small change of a contribution sometimes furnishes, on human selfishness. You shall shall find more dimes than shilling pieces, and a a larger proportion of pistareens than quarters,-and for this reason: a dime cast upon the plate, sounds

just as loud to the credit of the contributor as a shilling piece, and a pistareen answers just as well as a quarter. Your neighbor's ears will not detect the difference.

If the practice of having a weekly contribution deters any from attending public worship, this is another reason for its discontinuance. That it does have this effect to some extent is probable. There are in every congregation some who are already indifferent to God's house, and with these a small mo

tive will turn the scale. The small

sacrifice of giving a trifle, or the small mortification of not giving, will come in to the help of their sloth, and decide them to stay at home. The house of worship should have as many attractive and as few repulsive things about it as possible, and where no great object is accomplished by a weekly contribution, this last consideration may be a sufficient reason why it should be omitted.

AN ANTIDOTE TO DULL PREACHING.

you

BUT first, O complainer of tedious sermons, let me put to these queries: and these may suggest the remedy.

Whether you do not rise later, instead of earlier, on Sabbath morning than on any other in the week?

Whether you do not eat more, instead of less, at least in proportion to the exercise you take on that day; and consequently,

Whether you do not bring with you more drowsiness to divine worship than to your weekly business?

I never see a congregation here and there falling asleep and dozing under the pulpit, and then waking up at the close, to complain of the dulness of the preacher, but I think of the physician's advice to the luxurious courtier : You must eat less, or exercise more, or take physic, or be sick.” Physic and exercise are not remedies for the Sabbath; but you must rise earlier and

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eat less, or you will nod to dull preaching. "Sloth casteth into a deep sleep," and "the full soul loatheth an honey-comb."

The preacher has enough to contend with in the natural stupidity of the heart it were hard to require him, to overcome not only your spiritual sloth, but your physical lethargy added to it,--to expect of him to preach with liveliness and interest, when you have unseasonably slept away the interest of his discourse on your couch, and fed yourself with dulness at your table.

Exercise therefore the self denial

which the day requires of you, and not only shall you bring to the house of worship an approving conscience and a cheerful mind, but you shall make the preacher seem to be more interesting than he was wont to be; he shall never be so dull but your wakeful mind shall find something in his sermon, or, at the least, in the hymns and Scriptures which he reads, and in the sacred associations of the place, upon which you may meditate with profit, and say it is good for you to be there. VIGIL.

THE SERMONS OF DR. SAMUEL CLARKE.

To the scholar the name of Samuel Clarke is familiar in the title page of the very common edition of Homer, attended with numerous learned annotations from his pen. To the mathematician he is not unknown as one of the early and most illustrious followers and the personal friend of Newton; having translated at the request of the great philosopher, "his treatise of Optics into that pure and intelligible Latin which sent it all over Europe in a plainer and less ambiguous style than the English language will sometimes permit." The met aphysician knows him as the author of a professed a priori demonstration of the Divine existence and attributes; and as having been the antagonist of Leibnitz in a certain more than half forgotten controversy respecting liberty and necessity, the reality of space, and other subjects of like nature. And the the ologian who has heard of Dr. Samuel Clarke, the Arian antagonist of Waterland, remembers him as one of the many errorists whom the allteeming, all-embracing church of England has been proud to cherish.

It is hardly necessary to say of such a man that he stood among the first and foremost of his day. His biography written by Hoadley, then bishop of Salisbury, and afterwards of Winchester, speaks of him in no limited terms of eulogy. At the age of twenty he had so distinguished himself in the University of Cambridge that the bishop of Norwich, to whose diocese he belonged, determined to patronize him "as a young man of a genius much exalted above the common rank." As soon as he had attained the prescribed age for ordination, he was appointed chaplain to that prelate, and was received into the familiarity and friendship of his patron "to such a remarkable degree that he lived in that station" "with all the decent freedoms of a brother and an equal rather than an inferior." By the bounty or interest of this powerful friend he was provided with a parish in the city of Norwich and another in the vicinity, of both which places he appears to have received the emoluments, while he retained his station in the family of the bishop; for his biographer remarks that the parishes, both together were of very inconsiderable