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been for years vainly trying to get some one to talk with me about the things of God, and you, a Protestant, come and introduce them unasked: how is it?"

Launay, in reply, urged him to go on the following Sunday and hear and judge for himself whether their preaching was not what he needed for his peace.

"That I cannot do," returned Julian, "for our priests tell us that you Protestants trample and spit upon the cross, revile the name of Christ, and do not believe in God!"

"That must be a mistake, as far as our minister is concerned at any rate," said Launay, "for he preaches about no one but Jesus; so give me your promise for next Sunday, and I will come myself and fetch you."

Still the old man hesitated; but after much persuasion the promise was given.

The following Saturday was the Feast of the Assumption, the greatest annual festival held in honour of the Virgin. In preparation for it Julian went the evening before to confession, and when the day arrived he spent nearly the whole of it in the church, where the gorgeous dresses of the priests, the costly decorations, the beauty and fragrance of the flowers, and the fine music, consisting of hymns in honour of Mary, were all calculated to allure the senses rather than to touch the heart. Yet Julian returned to his home full of increased devotion to the Holy Virgin. But when he lay down to rest he had not found peace of conscience. His confessor had often told him that his conscience was too tender. In one sense he was doubtless right it was far too tender to be satisfied with anything short of a sense of sin pardoned for the sake of merits greater than his own, and he had not yet realized the truth that "the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin."

(To be concluded in our next.)

Oh,

DEATH THE PATH TO GLORY.-Death to a good man is but passing through a dark entry, out of one little dusky room of his father's house, into another that is fair and large, lightsome and glorious, and divinely entertaining. may the rays and splendours of my heavenly apartment shoot far downward, and gild the dark entry with such a cheerful gleam, as to banish every fear when I shall be called to pass through.- Watts.

THE DIAMOND RING.

WHEN George Whitefield was at Providence, in Rhode Island, he stayed, for a day or two, with a family who, though courteous and honourable, were not religious. Up to the night of his going away, he had said nothing directly urging them to seek salvation. The thought made him uneasy, and kept him awake when he retired to rest. He finally resolved that he would not depart without making at least one earnest effort for their good. This was difficult, as he would not see his kind hosts again. But early in the morning, he took a diamond ring off his finger and wrote on a pane in the window, these words, "One thing thou lackest." The people of the house had an intense reverence for Whitefield, and when he was gone his late host went into the chamber and saw the writing. A tear was in his eye when its meaning flashed upon his mind. He exclaimed, "He never said a word about it, but this man loves me. Wife, come up here?" She came, and the family with her. She joined in the strain. "We did all we could to make him happy, but we could not; he was thinking about us." The girls and young men began weeping together. They knelt down, the whole six of them, and confessed their sins, there and then. They became and remained consistent members of a Christian church, A New York clergyman has one of the daughters in his congregation, and she has the pane of glass in her possession, a sacred memento of the eloquent and fervent preacher.

In looking at this incident many thoughts strike us. Amongst others the following:

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A good man is anxious to do good. He is unhappy if he is not useful. His peace of mind is dependent, to no small extent, on his labours for his Master. Whitefield was so full of zeal for God's glory and man's well-being that he could not, contradictory as it may sound, be at rest unless he was at work. It was a necessity of his spiritual nature. Residing under the hospitable roof of friends, he cannot feel peace until he has done something for their conversion. If he does not speak he writes. During his visit his tongue has been silent, therefore his ring must tell of religion and its importance. By one means or another, he must try to do good. A holy importunity filled his soul, and we know the happy result.

The philosophy of this, if we may so phrase it, is well

illustrated by an occurrence that took place in London some years ago. A sailor stood one day beside the cages of some birds, that chafed against the bars, tore their sunny plumage on the wires, and vainly struggled to be free. A way-worn and sun-browned man, like one returned from foreign lands, he looked sadly on these captives, till tears started in his eye. Turning round on their owner, he asked the price of one, paid it in strange gold, and opening the cage, set the prisoner free. Thus he did with another and another, till every bird had flown away, soaring to the skies. The crowd stared and stood amazed; they thought him mad, till in answer to their looks of questioning curiosity he replied, "I was once a captive; I know the sweets of liberty:" and so they who have experienced guilt and pardon, who have wandered from and returned to God, earnestly yearn and labour for the spiritual freedom of Satan's captives. Nor is that all. Not only out of compassion for the unsaved, but from love to Christ, converted persons labour for their fellow-creature's restoration to God. Does a man feel grateful to the skilful physician by whose talent and care he has been snatched from the open jaws of death? If so we all know what is one of the most certain and speedy indications of his thankfulness. It is this he speaks the praises of his deliverer, talks of him fervently and frequently, and does all that he can to induce invalids to seek his aid. "He cured me, and he will do the same for you if you ask him;" such is their language, natural and right; and this is the case with those who have visited the great Physician, and having "touched" the garment of his grace been made " perfectly whole.” They feel that they can never magnify his power enough. So deep is their sense of obligation to Him that they wish all to know by whose wisdom and might they have received moral health.

The New Testament is eloquent in its assertion of this. All the Christians of whom it speaks seem to have been preachers, either in public or in private. Believers became propagandists. Convinced and enlightened by Jesus, the woman of Samaria leaves her water-pot, goes into the city and says, "Is not this the Christ?" Andrew hearing John the Baptist exclaim, "Behold the Lamb of God!" finds his brother Simon and cries, “We have found the Messias," and he brought him to Jesus. Philip, called by the Saviour, "findeth Nathanael, and saith, We have found

him of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets did write." Saul, transformed into Paul, is as zealous for his Master as he used to be against him, and the language of his life was this, "I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except these bonds." With facts like these before him, let that man take alarm who, while he professes to be a Christian, never attempts anything for the salvation of others. Whatever may be his theology, however numerous his privileges, he lacks one of the cardinal evidences of regeneration. It matters little to what section of the church he may belong, it profits nothing that he fancies and others reckon him " a changed character;" he has reason to suspect himself. "If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his ;" and that Spirit is preeminently a spirit of usefulness.

Small and insignificant incidents often produce great spiritual results. The doors by which we enter God's kingdom sometimes turn on little hinges. Herein the earthly is typical of the heavenly, the material of the moral. Important discoveries and inventions are proverbially associated with trivial beginnings. To wit: a man sees a lamp swinging to and fro in a cathedral, and it suggests to him the theory of the pendulum. Another beholds an apple drop from a tree, and it leads to his finding out the law of gravitation. A third watches the motion of a frog's legs under dissection, and the consequence is a knowledge of galvanism. A fourth observes the waifs drifted from unknown shores by the ocean-tides, and he is thereby put upon a track of thought and action which reaps as its reward the discovery of a new world. Very recently an interesting example of the fact in question has been afforded. Medical skill has made it possible to render a portion of the body insensible to pain. By the outward application of ether to the skin, an operation can be performed without pain. What an unspeakable boon will this prove to the victims of accident and disease! It is beyond human power to calculate the amount of physical agony that will be prevented. How came this new treatment into existence? By the circumstance of Dr. Richardson having eau de Cologne sprinkled upon his forehead from a common vaporisor.

Wonderful as is all this, it is not so wonderful as those illustrations of the same principle which the spread of the gospel affords. The occurrence which forms the basis of

our present remarks strikingly shows such to be the case. The salvation of one soul is a great event-so great that no words can do justice to it. God rejoices over it, as the father does over the prodigal son's return. Christ rejoices over it, as the shepherd does over the lost sheep's recovery. The Holy Ghost rejoices over it, as a woman does over the discovery of her missing money. Heaven rejoices over it, "more than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance." And if a single sinner saved is the cause of such holy gladness, how much more is that of a whole family? For a household to become "a household of faith," and natural kindred to be cemented by spiritual relationship, is indeed a great event. Yet writing four-only four-words on a window pane was the means of accomplishing this.

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Such is usually the Divine method of working. Now, as of old, God chooses "the weak things of this world to confound the mighty.' "The kingdom of heaven cometh not with observation.' The cause of Christ, like its originator, does not "strive, nor cry, nor lift up its" voice in the streets." Oh, what an encouragement to fidelity in labouring for the Redeemer! The feeblest agency, earnestly and prayerfully used, may become a vast power for good. One day a young man entered a church in one of the provinces. Being a stranger, he was shown into a seat. A lady who sat by his side said within herself, "Is there nothing I can do for this fellow-creature's good? I will sow beside all waters." When they rose to sing she offered him part of her book. In a certain verse the following line occurred: My Saviour and my God." She quietly took out her pencil and made a mark under the word " my." It proved to be the arrow of conviction. Alas," thought he, "I cannot honestly sing that. I cannot say, "My Saviour and my God." He was brought to feel anxious about his eternal welfare, and in the end he learned to say, "He loved me, and gave himself for me." The holy and devoted R. M. M'Cheyne seemed never to miss an opportunity of attempting to do good. Being in an enginehouse once, his attention was attracted by the fierce-burning furnace. He looked at the engine-man and said, "What does that remind you of?" He then departed, but not before he had left such a deep impression as resulted in conversion. But why give further examples? Time would fail us to tell of them. Let the servants of Christ never despair. Their exertions may seem paltry and feeble,

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