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tion on doctrinal points, almost as well as many candidates for the ministry who had passed through the Theological Seminary!

She was also in the habit of taking notes of her pastor's sermons, and of writing out the points afterwards. In this way she strengthened her memory and understanding of the truth. Her heart was in the matter. Her high and holy ambition was to call out the powers of her mind, and to store it with that best of knowledge, which would at once beautify and strengthen it, while it also prepared her for greater usefulness in the Church.

That Clara early became a Sunday School teacher is a matter of Her wish to be useful led her to desire it; and her qualifications were so well known, that she was desired for such a post. Though when the time came for her to be transfered from her seat in the class to her new seat as a teacher, she could not but regret that she could be a scholar no longer! Yet, as she afterwards found, instead of learning less than before, she now actually learned more; for she had her self first to learn well what she was called to teach others.

That she became an excellent teacher, you may well believe. All her own training and study fitted her for the post. She knew how to study the lesson; and she also had sufficient conscience, perseverance, and love for her work to induce her to do it. She came to her class well prepared, and hence never failed to interest them. She was beloved by her class, and became a true blessing to all who, from time to time, came under her care.

All we have said of this member of the Phebe family, holds true of all others of this family. In whatever Church you find them, they all have these peculiarities; and it is by these, rather than by family name, that the true descendants of the ancient Phebe are everywhere recognized.

AN OLD POET DESCRIBETH A MISER.

His life was like a barrow hogge,
That liveth many a day,
Yet never once doth any good
Until men will him slay.

Or like a heap of filthy dung,
That lyeth in a whoard (Board);
Which never can do any good,
'Till it be spread abroad.

CHERISHED MEMORY.-The world has done homage to revelation. What names are dearer at the hearth-stone of cottage and palace than those of the patriarchs, bards and prophets of the Bible? What scenes like that of Moriah, Olivet and Calvary? What mountains like Lebanon? What city like Jerusalem? Who lingers not on Pisgah-and along the river of Canaan? Who knows not of Gethsemane and the Cross? Who weeps not with Mary at the tomb of the resurrection?

HOME-SICKNESS AND THE HOMEWARD WAY.

BY GOTTLIEB GRAUBART.

III.

Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay!
I never loved a tree or flower,

But 'twas the first to fade away.

I never loved a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die!

There is no other time like Sunday evening-a Sunday evening in autumn-and in the country! Only those who have lived in the country know what a peculiar quietude reigns around the homestead at this peaceful hour. It is as if a wave of heavenly rest and peace had strayed over into this restless and noisy world. In autumn too, when the energies of nature are retiring, and a spirit of sober truthfulness steals over the spirit, drawing it into sympathy with fading nature, reminding us that we all do fade like the leaf!

Delightful hour, how soon will night
Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign;
And morrow's quick returning light,
Must call us to the world again!

Who can ever forget the Sunday afternoons of his childhood! The thought of those hours comes to us in connection with every tender feeling, and makes us almost wish to be children again only to bring them back.

On such an afternoon towards evening-after we had attended public worship at the old Valley church in the forenoon-I took my pocket Bible and sought a retreat in the walnut grove near the house along a gentle slope on one side of the meadow. The valley for miles lay before me in almost the stillness of the grave. Along the mountain, a mile eastward, moved slowly and solemnly the shadows of a few clouds that hung over my head. In the west the mountains lay distant, quiet, and peaceful. The sinking sun shed aslant his yellow autumnal rays on fields and mountains, and on all the serene and peculiar quietude of Sunday evening!

I sat down upon the root of a patriarchal walnut, and opened my Bible at the 137th Psalm, the old Pastor's forenoon text: "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song." The lonely and forsaken tone of this passage

wrought upon me with such a strong sympathy, that my heart swelled and my eyes were wet. I thought my case resembled that of those captives, at least in their home-sickness, and the consequent distaste they had for every thing around them in Babylon. Even those songs of Zion which were once the joy of their hearts, were now painful as the memory of joys that cannot come again. I even thought my case worse than theirs, for they were companions in sorrow while I was alone; they knew why they wept, but my mind seemed to refuse to throw light upon what my heart

felt.

My thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind me: "Blessed are they that are home-sick, for they shall get home." It was the old school-master! He laid his hand upon my shoulder, as he sat down upon a root of the tree, and looking up into my face pleasantly said: "Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God." (Is. 50: 10.)

"Here you see, my dear boy, it is possible for a person to fear the Lord, and obey the will of his servant, and yet walk in darkness and have no light. His heart may be tender towards God, and he may fear and obey him with filial fear and obedience, and yet, for wise reasons, God may permit him to walk in darkness. God may be in favor with a penitent and may have accepted him, but may see fit not immediately to make it known to the penitent, but to discover it to him gradually. God partially veils his smiling countenance, and often entirely hides it, in order the more to draw out our desires and longings after him. This makes it our duty to 'trust in the name of the Lord, and to stay ourselves upon God.' The more our home-sickness is increased, the sooner will we get home. This feeling of dissatisfaction with all on earth, and this ardent and mysterious longing in you after something better, are the gentle drawings of the Father-follow them whither they lead and you will get home."

I felt sure now from this last remark, that the old school-master knew my situation, and would give me all necessary farther instruction. In this hope I was not disappointed; for to the joy of my heart, he soon proceeded:

"My dear boy! that Bible is a wonderful book. It is, as it has been said, like a stream in which a lamb can wade, and an elephant swim. It is strong meat to the strong, and milk for babes. It yields nourishment according to the capacity of him who seeks to be fed by it. It is like a tree that when shaken will only drop that fruit which is ripe, and which alone is wholesome to him who shakes. Much of that book is, as yet, sealed to you; but it will gradually open to you its treasures. When the morning dawns, it produces a twilight on the earth, in which objects are seen imperfectly; then as the sun rises the objects on the earth are only partially illuminated, standing still with one side in the shade; mountain tops are bright, but vallies are still in gloom; so it is in the

word of God. In your soul the morning is just dawning, and the sun has scarcely risen, and consequently your spirit has only visions in the twilight; as the day advances the world of revelation, upon which you now so eagerly look, will emerge into the light more and more, until you see all things clearly. Now the scales are still partly on your eyes, and the veil remains untaken away. You see some things, but others which are written just as plainly you do not see. The Spirit is the interpreter of the word to each honest and sincere enquirer, and he will make it plain as fast as you need it on the homeward way. This the Spirit will not do in some wonderful supernatural way as by visions or inspiration, but by bringing you, under the discipline of various providences, into such circumstances as will prepare you to understand it The captive Jews in Babylon, as the old Pastor told us this morning, learned in Babylon what they could not learn at home. The prodigal son learned in a far country what he failed to learn in his father's house. You are at present under the tuition of the Spirit. He is preparing the ground for the good seed of the word, so that when it is sown it may fall into good soil prepared for it beforehand. The sced does not first prepare the ground into which it falls and then grow; the preparation of the ground belongs to another instrumentality. In nature, those seeds which are covered with hard shells, will not germinate in the spring if they have not been out through the winter in order that the frost may break them; so also in grace, the dark and cheerless wintery time of conviction and captivity are necessary to break the hard heart. Then when spring comes, and the Spirit, like a sweet south wind, comes over the heart, it will dissolve into tenderness and contrition and streams of penitence will flow. Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south, blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.' (Songs 4, 16.)"

To me this was a new and refreshing idea. I saw that it was folly in me to expect at once to see my way clear, and to have the same light, joy, and assurance as those who had for many years toiled up Zion's narrow way. I now saw clearer than before the force of his remark on faith-especially that faith learns as fast as it goes and no faster.

The old man resumed his remarks

"All men are naturally averse to divine things and rather seek after any thing else than the truth as it is in Jesus. Hence, though the truth of their sinfulness and danger, is held up to them, they will not see or feel it as long as their attention is so violently fixed on other interests. This makes it necessary that, first of all, their attention should be cut loose from those objects upon which it had been placed. This the Spirit does by removing those objects or making them unattractive. The object upon which their affections are placed flies suddenly away; or is changed into a serpent, while they are warming it into life upon the bosom of their confidence and love. In either case their affections, being cut loose, retire.

Those interests which are said by our Saviour to choke the word and make it unfruitful are three (1.) The cares of this world. (2.) The deceitfulness of riches. (3.) The lusts of other things. (Mark 4. 19.) The cares of this world! How true it is. What shall I eat, what shall I drink, and wherewithal shall I be clothed? These are the all-absorbing questions of many; and as long as they are bent on this chase not one word of God can enter their ears. If they are told that their heavenly father knoweth that they have need of these things, they do not hear it. Though the fowls of the air which neither sow, reap, nor gather into barns, and the lilies of the field clothed more richly than Solomon, are constantly preaching to them on the beauty and safety of divine dependence, yet they heed it not. Though their own reflections might teach them that they cannot add one cubit to their stature by taking thought, they take no time for reflection. For themselves and for their children they toil and drive; present cares more than is due, and future ones that may never come, rush in upon their hearts and choko every serious thought of eternity which would rise there. How shall the poor soul be redeemed from such a captivity as this? The Spirit knew full well how to accomplish it. He crosses their best laid plans. He confuses their wisest calculations. He disappoints their hopes, and makes all their carnal prudence end in foolishness. O does not experience prove what the poet has so forcibly sung:

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By sickness, too, God does often at short notice, and in a plain way, teach persons that all their cares are of no account without His blessing and favor. When the body is confined to the quiet and lonely sick room, how feeble and foolish then do all the cares of life appear! Sometimes it is true, even that will not fully cut loose the mind from its cares; for if the heart is quite hard, the mind will rush out into the world's vain rattle, even while the body is confined to the bed! Yet a sick bed is well calculated to call the mind from earthly cares and make it look up, and if it draw back from this gentle leading of the Spirit, it is to be feared it draws. back unto perdition! If the spirit, compelled to look upon the feeble limbs of its body lying helpless around it on a sick bed, is not made home sick, it is to be feared it never will get home! The children of Israel would not have been willing to leave Egypt had it not been that their lives were made bitter by oppression. If they had been permitted to live quietly on amid rich flocks and a fat soil in Goshen, they would not have been home-sick for Canaan, though it was the land of promise. The carth must be made dark before

the heavens are bright.

The deceitfulness of riches. Truly deceitful are riches, yet it of ten takes men a long time to find it out. They never give what they promise. They are often the sources of the most abrupt dis

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