ards and myself, that although the trouble we have had in preparing for this interesting meeting, has been very considerable, the success attending our exertions, upon which I think we have good reason to congratulate ourselves, has amply repaid us. This brilliant assemblage has fully compensated us for our toil: and I can safely promise, that we shall be ready again, no matter how soon we are called on, to undergo the same labour, provided we can secure the meeting of so many happy faces as I have the delight to see around me.

GOD THE FATHER.

[FROM a work lately published in Boston, entitled, The principles and results of the Ministry at Large,' by Dr. Tuckerman, we extract the following passage; it presents an affecting illustration of the fundamental truth of the Gospel, that God is our Father, and shows that, whatever human creeds may teach, this is the great doctrine of the Saviour, which is mighty to convert the soul.-B. C.]

This single sentiment, (that God is our Father,) understood, felt, and acted out as Christianity inculcates it, would redeem every sinner, and regenerate the world. How appropriately, therefore, has it the prominence which is given to it in the Christian scriptures! Inspire the most ignorant with this sentiment, and you make him wise; impart it to the feeblest, and you make him strong; give it to the poorest, and you make him rich; breathe it in the most troubled heart, and you communicate with it the best consolation, and the most efficient support; give it to the dying, and you give him the strongest assurance of immortal blessedness. Is not Christianity, then, worthy of all acceptation in the revelation which it makes to us of "the Father?" And does it not imply great guilt, and is it not a just cause of great misery, to be insensible and reckless of the privileges and happiness for which we, and all about us, were created as children of God?

Of the connexion of the filial sentiment in the human heart with God, and of the power which it may exert there in redeeming from sin, even in circumstances apparently most adverse to all hope of moral recovery, I will adduce an example which fell under my own observation. The case is an extreme one. But I have no doubt that even many not dissimilar cases might be adduced.

Early in the year 1827, as I was one morning on my way to the north part of this city, my attention was arrested by a crowd about the door of the United States Court House; and upon inquiry into the cause of it, I was informed that two pirates were about to receive sentence of death. I immediately entered the Court, and was soon very near, and in front of the prisoners. Here a spectacle was brought before me more painful than language can express. Nothing can be more unlike than was the countenance of each of these prisoners to that of the other. That of one expressed all the rage of a demon, and that of the other, the strongest possible contempt. Judge Story arose, and asked them if they had any cause to assign why the sentence of death should not be pronounced upon them? The first to whom I have referred, at once, and in all the madness of the most murderous rage, poured out a torrent of the most profane and revengeful language upon the District Attorney, and the Court. The other, with a sardonic grin-for it could hardly be called a smile-replied only, "the sooner the better." Judge Story said he had witnessed many very affecting scenes in the discharge of his judicial duties, but never one so painful as on that occasion. The sentence having been pronounced upon them, they were remanded to prison. It was quite impossible that I should take the course I had marked out for myself for the morning; and having followed these men to the prison, and obtained admission, I asked the turnkey to beg of one of them permission to enter his cell, with a view only to any services which it might be in my power to render him. The turnkey entered a cell, but very soon returned and said to me, " he will not allow you to enter." The door was on a-jar, and I entered the cell, saying to the turnkey, "please to come for me in an hour." He adjusted the bolts, turned the key in the lock, and left us. I offered my hand to the prisoner, which I think he did not take. I assured him of my great desire to serve him. His reply was, "I only wish to be in hell, where it is hot, and not in this cold place!" The hour passed, and the turnkey returned. Not the smallest apparent moral progress had been made in that hour, except in the circumstance that this unhappy man had consented to my request to pass an hour of the next day with him. He had said, in reply to my request to visit him again, "you may come if you

choose. I care nothing about it." I went next day, and the next, and the next, and endeavoured by every means in my power to get at his heart, and to make some impression there. I also closed each visit with prayer. It was now, however, quite perceptible that a change of feeling had begun in him. He had a father and mother living, and I had addressed myself in every way to his filial sensibilities. There seemed to be no other chord in his heart from which a moral vibration was to be obtained. I think it was on the fifth, or sixth day of my visits to him, that he said, "amen," at the conclusion of my prayers. He was now desirous and glad to see me. The remembrance of his parents was the great restorative of his sensibilities. On about the tenth, or twelfth day of my visits, he fell upon his knees when we prayed together. He had now a very deep seuse of his guilt, and the character of his penitence was most peculiarly filial. God was revealed to him as his Father, and his heart was penetrated and bowed as the heart of a greatly guilty, but sincerely repenting child. Every thought, and care, and interest was absorbed in the single desire of mercy-the forgiveness of his heavenly Father. I passed an hour with this man every day, during, I think, thirty-four, or thirtyfive days; and never have I heard such supplications, such entreaties for mercy, as I heard from his lips. In the midst of one of my prayers, he broke out in such impassioned and importunate cries to God, that it seemed to me as if the very stones of his cell might have responded to them. My own heart was well nigh broken by his anguish. And he died, apparently the most contrite being I had ever known. Whether other modes of appeal to him might have been as effectual, I know not. It is enough, and I bless God, that this to which I have referred, was at least a principal means of his moral recovery. This was the second of the men of whom I have spoken. The first committed suicide a day or two before the time appointed for execution.

Here, then, is a principle of our religion, to the prevalent recognition and application of which I look for much of the regenerating influence to be exerted by Christianity upon its believers. Would that by giving it any prominence in the connexion into which I have here brought it, I could give any increase to its power even in a single heart! Let the rich and the poor, the

lowly and the exalted, alike feel that they are children of one Father, even God, and need I ask, what will be the interest with which they will regard each other? Let this be a living and prevailing principle in any soul; or in other words, let a Christian sense of his filial relation to God be to, any soul a reality, and I will answer for the proportionate fidelity of that soul, to every social sentiment and duty. And to the feebleness of this sentiment where it exists, and to the narrow and unchristian views which are taken of it where it is received, I think that very much of the disunion and disorder, and the vice and misery of christendom are to be ascribed. In the spirit of this sentiment, let us read the records of our faith and duties in the New Testament. In this spirit let us engage in every office of private and of social worship. And in this spirit let us live and communicate with our fellow-beings. Listen> reverently and submissively to the voice of Jesus, and to the voice of conscience, as to the voice of the Universal Father. Then will you have taken the first and most important step at once, for the accomplishment of the objects of Christianity in respect to yourself, and for the excitement of your strongest interest in the extension of its blessings to all around you.

THE RAINY SUNDAY.

Every body knows what a rainy Sunday is. It is to a great many persons the most gloomy day in the whole year. To many, Sunday is a weary day, let it be clear or stormy; but I gladly believe that to many more it is a day of happiness and holy rest. I have two accounts to give of the way in which a rainy Sunday was passed, and none of our readers are too small, I think, to observe the difference.

Richard and Susan were down stairs early in the morning, to have their breakfast, and go to Sunday-School. They both observed it was raining, but nothing was said about staying at home on account of it. They had only belonged to the school two Sundays, and as, on both of them the weather had been clear, they could not tell whether their mother would allow them to go this day in the rain, or not. However, just as Susan was putting on her over shoes, their mother came into the room. 'You need not put on those shoes, Susan,' said she, 'it is too wet for you to go to Sunday-School.'

Do you think so, mamma,' said Susan, 'you know I went to school yesterday when it rained.'

I know you did, my dear; but going to school in the week is a very different thing from going on Sunday.' 'How is it different, mamma? It is a shorter walk

to Sunday school,' said Richard.

Yes, it is shorter, I know; but I am not going to have Susan's new dress and bonnet spoiled, by trampling along the street in the rain; nor your new clothes, either, Richard.'

Mamma, I will wear my school bonnet and a calico frock, if you will let me go,' exclaimed Susan, earnestly. And I will wear my every-day clothes, mamma,' aded Richard.

'Let me hear no more, children,' said the mother, sternly; do you think I am going to send my family out on a Sunday, dressed like the poorest children in the school? a pretty sight it would be, truly!'

The disappointed brother and sister were silent. What they might have said to their mother that was improper, I cannot tell, if they had not both remembered the commandment which says "Honor thy father and thy mother.' They had the ten commandments for their lesson that morning, and this one, of course, was fresh in their memories. When their mother left the room, they consoled themselves with hearing each other recite their lessons, which they knew perfectly.

'We shall go to church, any how, sister,' said Richard, for father and mother have gone every Sunday now for three or four weeks.”

'No, brother,' said Susan mournfully, they have only gone when the weather has been clear; one Sunday it rained, and they staid at home; but let us beg them to go this morning.'

So, when the parents came into the parlor, Richard and Susan both asked them to let them go to church with them.

To church!' exclaimed Mr. S. be crazy, Dick.'

Why you must

No father, but sister and I want to go very much; and we thought if you would take me under your umbrella, and mother would take Susan under her's, we could go very nicely.'

'No, my son; content yourself at home to-day. These Sunday Schools have put strange notions in your head;