in the Museum. A very remarkable instance, the Reporter thought, of how much one may do, by patient perseverance, in overcoming difficulties.

Early next morning the Reporter and his friends bade good-bye to old Antwerp, and in a very short time they were flying along the rails on their way to Holland. Very pleased were they at seeing this interesting town, and very thankful too that they were not born there. For, after all, cathedrals, and churches, and crosses, and paintings, and images, can do very little for the soul. They cannot teach one how to live or how to die.

"None but Jesus, none but Jesus,

Can do helpless sinners good."

Here the Reporter must stop for the present. Next month he will finish his holiday notes by giving some account of what he saw and did in Holland. The more he thinks of the Popish images of Antwerp, of which he has spoken, the more he loves dear Old England, with her schools, and Bibles, and teachers; and the more does he feel that the hymn referred to last month expresses the feelings of his heart, where it says,—

"I was not born as thousands are,
Where God is scarcely known,
And taught to pray a useless prayer
To blocks of wood and stone.

"My God, I thank thee, who hast plann'd
A better lot for me,

And placed me in this happy land,
Where I may hear of thee."

MY WANTS.

I WANT to feed on Jesus' word,
I want communion with my Lord,

I want salvation full and free,
I want my Father's face to see,
I want to prove each promise sweet,
I want to live at Jesus' feet,
I want his mercy every day,
I want upholding all the way,
I want to live as Jesus' bride,
I want in his dear wounds to hide,
I want to prize his fulness more,
I want his person to adore,

I want to hear his heavenly voice,
I want in Jesus to rejoice,
I want to joy in him by faith,
I want to credit all he saith,
I want to trust him with my all,
I want on his dear name to call,
I want to die to all things here,
I want on him to cast my care,
I want to see his Gospel spread,
I want on Satan's power to tread,
I want to see the proud made sad,
I want to see poor mourners glad,
I want to see the hungry fed,
I want by Jesus to be led,

I want him as my guide and friend,
I want him to my journey's end,
I want him as my priest and king,`
I want his precious love to sing,
I want him as my rock and tower,
I want him in each trying hour,
I want him as my brother dear,
I want my Jesus ever near,
I want his eye, his hand, his heart,
I want with all beside to party

I want him as my daily bread,
I want him as my living head,
I want him as my hiding place,
I want him as my God of grace,
I want him as my life and peace,
I want him as my righteousness,
I want his great atoning blood,
I want to bathe in that dear flood,
I want his Spirit's voice to hear,
I want the love that casts out fear,
I want him now in Achor's vale,
I want him when all hell assail,
I want him when my flesh gives way,
I want him as my only stay,

I want his smiles, his looks of grace,
I want to see him face to face,
I want his wisdom, strength, and love,
I want with him to dwell above.

NEARLY HOME.

A

"ALMOST well, and nearly at home," said the dying Baxter, when asked by a friend how he was. martyr, when approaching the stake, being questioned as to how he felt, answered, "Never better; for now I know I am almost at home." Then, looking over the meadows between him and the place where he was to be immediately burned, he said, "Only two more stiles to get over, and then I am at my Father's house." "Dying," said the Rev. S. Medley, "is a sweet work, sweet work; home! home!" Another on his death-bed said, "I am going home as fast as I can, and I bless God that I have a good home to go to.”

BE KIND.

KIND words, looks, and acts are the small currency of social life, each of considerable value, but in the aggregate forming the wealth of society. They are the "excellent oil" which keeps the machinery from rusting, wearing, or cracking. They are the dew that refreshes and nourishes the otherwise arid fields. They are the sunshine of an else murky, dreary world.

For soon within a narrow shroud

'Twould hide away, and seem to die;

And then I thought upon the time
When I within the grave should lie,
To rise with a more glorious form
Than deck'd the brilliant butterfly.