me to enjoy, in some measure, the sanctifying influences of Thy Spirit; Thou hast wrought in me an almost complete deadness to this world; Thou hast given me a deep hatred to sin, and a clearer light into Thy will and word. This I thankfully acknowledge. It is all of Thy grace and mercy." January 1st, 1828, she writes:-"The blessed work of entire

sanctification goes on. I feel a deadness to the world, and a resting in the will of God which no words can describe. Thou Searcher of Hearts, Thou knowest all things, Thou knowest that I love Thee, and that I have given Thee my little all, my undivided heart." January, 1829, she writes:-"Glory be to God, while I write my soul swells with gratitude to Him who has loved me, and washed me from my sins in His own blood. My evidence of entire sanctification is clear. I have often temptations to doubt. The enemy asks me where are found the fruits of holiness in me; and if he can persuade me to take off my eye from Jesus and look at myself, then my soul begins to sink; but I rise by believing, and am determined, at all events, by Divine aid, to believe myself to heaven." January 12th, 1830, she asks, "Where am I now? How do matters stand between God and my soul? Can I still say, upon strict scrutiny, the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin? Glory be to God, I can. In His fear I here register my testimony to the saving efficacy of that precious blood." January 2d, 1810:-"My soul is now alive to God. I feel at peace with God and all the world. I have no feeling of uncharitableness to any one. My peace flows as a river. If I know anything of my own heart, it is unreservedly the Lord's. My unfaithfulness has been great, great indeed; but the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth me from all sin.' Now, Lord, I am Thine for time and for eternity. Witness my hand, MARY PEARSON, Berwick." February 5th, 1843, after her unexpected recovery from a dangerous illness, she writes :-" During the first attack I was dreadfully assaulted by the powers of darkness; and my impression was, that I might probably die. I hastily glanced at my experience, and thought

་

'I nothing have, I nothing am.' Nothing will now avail me but the blood of Jesus. This is

All my hope, and all my plea,
For me the Saviour died.'

I then enjoyed a present heaven, while surrounded by my praying family. And while sitting under the ministry of the word, I very generally feel as if on the verge of heaven. The large anticipations of glory I enjoy are far more than tongue can tell, or many hearts conceive. I do highly appreciate our privileges as Wesleyans. Should I not be spared to write again, I can now say, it is well with my soul. I have more earnest longings after immortality. I cling to my dear family, and they seem to hold me here; yet I trust I love them in the Lord, and daily pray that I may meet them all in heaven." In the last record she has left, written February, 1845, after she became a widow, after some touching yet cheering allusions to the departed, she concludes, "As to myself, it is my most earnest desire to be found ready when the awful hour arrives in which I too must depart; and I sometimes think that hour is not far distant. My soul is now alive to God. My heart and treasure are in heaven. I often long to be there; but am willing to wait the Lord's time. I do believe this painful dispensation also has been sanctified to my soul. I feel as if all I have to do is to be ready to die. I can say I love my God with an undivided heart."

BASKET OF FRAGMENTS. FROM a passionate man, from an undisciplined man, and from an unguarded man, depart thou, and abide alone with God in silence.

Be temperate in thy diet, modest in thy apparel, prudent in thy speech, honest in thy manners, deliberate in counsel, strong in adversity, humble in prosperity, grateful for benefits, cheerful under contempt, patient under pain, and discreet in every action.

Be fearful of offending God, even in the very least neglects or defects of duty. Neither presume at success, nor despair at disappointment.

Let Christ be thy life; let Him be thy study and thy lesson; let Him be thy meditation and thy discourse. Let Christ be the salt of thy conversation, and the pleasantness of thy friendship; let Him be thy whole desire, thy whole gain; let Him be all thy hope and thy reward.

When thou seekest any other thing but God, thou shalt surely suffer loss; and if thou seekest not also God purely, thou shalt suffer loss in like manner.

FERRY-BOAT OF THE NILE.

ON Ezekiel xxvii. 7, Dr. Kitto observes thus:-"Fine Egyptian linen, embroidered, was not very well adapted, one would think, for the sails of vessels, in any other than holiday navigation; nor would it be very eligible even then. This consideration probably led the Targum and Vulgate to conclude that it would be better to understand the term to refer to a flag or ensign than to a sail..... If, howevor, we understand that the present description rather refers to the splendid pleasure-galleys of the merchant-princes of Tyre, than to ships intended for the business of navigation and commerce, sails may very well be understood. For the

fact is, that in Egypt, while the ordinary sails were white, those belonging to the pleasure-vessels of the King and the grandees appear to have been often painted with rich colours, or embroidered with fanciful devices. Sails of this sort were also furnished with a strong hem or border, neatly coloured, to strengthen and preserve them from injury. The sails of the ancient Egyptian vessels appear to have been always square, with a yard above and below. In this way they differ from those now used in Egypt and other parts of the Levant, which are generally furnished with triangular-shaped sails." (See the accompanying illustration.)

FATAL SEVERITY.

A FEW weeks before my friend wrote to me, he had buried his eldest son, a fine, manly little fellow, about eight years of age. His death occurred under circumstances peculiarly painful. A younger brother had been ill for a month with an epidemic fever; every precaution was taken to guard the other members of the family; but this eldest son was so healthy, they had little VOL. VII.

fear for him: but his father forbade him going into the pools and docks near his school, which he sometimes visited. One evening this father came home wearied with a long day's labour, and vexed with some disappointment which had soured his naturally kind disposition. While he was sitting by the fire in this unhappy state of mind, his wife entered the apartment, and said, "Henry has just come in, and he is a

perfect fright; he is covered from head to foot with dock-mud, and is as wet as a drowned rat." "Where is he?" asked the

father, sternly.

"He is shivering over the kitchen-fire: he was afraid to come up here, when the girl told him you had come home." "Tell Jane to tell him to come here this instant," was the brief reply.

Presently the poor boy entered, half perished with cold and fright. His father glanced at his sad plight, reproached him bitterly for disobedience, spoke of the punishment awaiting him in the morning, and in a harsh voice said, "Now, sir, go to bed." "But, father," said the little fellow, "I want to tell you " "Not a word: go to bed!" With a peremptory stamp, an imperative wave of the hand to the door, and a frown on his brow, did that father close the door of explanation. When his boy had gone supperless and sad to his bed, the father sat restless and uneasy while supper was prepared, and he ate little. His wife saw the cause of his emotion, and remarked, "I think, my dear, you ought, at least, to have heard what Henry had to say my heart ached for him when he turned away, with his eyes full of tears. Henry is a good boy, after all. He is a tender-hearted, affectionate boy!" and the tears stood in the eyes of that forgiving mother.

As the father passed the bed-room where his boy was sleeping, he thought he would look in upon him before he retired to rest. He crept to his low cot, and bent over him. A big tear had stolen down the boy's cheek, but he was sleeping sweetly. The father deeply regretted his harshness as he gazed upon his son, and he resolved to alter his course to him in the morning. But that morning never came to that poor child in health. He awoke, the next morning, with a raging fever and wild delirium: in fortyeight hours he was in his shroud! He knew not his father or mother, when they were first called to his bedside, nor at any moment afterwards. Waiting, watching for one token of recognition, hour after hour, in speechless agony, did the unhappy father bend over the couch of his dying son: he would have given worlds to have whispered one kind word in his ear, but in vain.

Two days afterwards the undertaker came with the little coffin, and his son, a playmate of the dead boy, brought the stools on which it was to stand in the entry-hall. "I was with Henry," said the lad, "when he got into the water we were playing down at the long wharf,-Henry, and Charles Mumfrit, and I,-and the tide was out very low; and a beam ran out from the wharf, and Charles got on it to get a fishline, and he slipped off, and was struggling in the water. Henry threw off his cap, and jumped clear from the wharf into the water, and after a great deal of hard work got Charles out, and they waded up through the mud; and then I helped them to climb up the side. Charles told Henry not to say anything about it; for, if he did, his father would never let him go near the water again. Henry was very sorry, and all the way going home he kept saying, 'What will my father say when he sees me to-night? I wish I had not gone to the wharf.'" "Dear, brave boy!" exclaimed the bereaved father: "and this was the explanation which I cruelly refused to hear!" and hot and bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. Yet that stern father now learned that what he had treated with unwonted severity as a fault, was but the impulse of a generous nature. "Now," said the father, "every thing I see that ever belonged to him reminds me of the past. Yesterday I came across his boots, still covered with dock-mud, as when he last wore them. Many things speak to me vividly of my son's active life; but I cannot, no, I cannot recall any other expression of the dear boy's face, than that mute, mournful one with which he turned from me on that night I so hastily repulsed him, and my heart bleeds afresh." O, how careful should we be, in our daily conduct towards those little beings lent to us by God,how guardedly ought we to weigh every action against its motive,-lest in a moment of excitement we should do them wrong! Alas! perhaps few parents suspect how often the fierce rebuke, the sudden blow, is answered in their children by the tears, not of passion, nor of physical or mental pain, but of a loving yet grieved or outraged nature.-A, L. B.

THE SWIFT WALKER. HAVE you ever seen a professional walker? I have; and can never forget the impression he made upon me. A short time ago I observed a number of persons approach the spot on which I was standing, when suddenly I discerned amongst them a man whose whole appearance soon told me he

was the centre of attraction. O, what an earnest look he had! He walked as though his very life depended on his progress. His eyes were fixed intently forward with a longing gaze. His countenance was pale, and worn with exertion of no ordinary kind. He turned neither to the right hand nor the left; talked not as he went on his way, lest

he might be hindered; stopped not to rest, only ate as he travelled on, giving himself no time for a settled meal, but steadily, earnestly, and unflinchingly walked on his weary way. What, think you, was this walker's object? He had undertaken, for the sake of a few perishing pounds, to walk from the town of - to London and back, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles, in the short space of twenty-four hours! And through the whole of the livelong night he travelled on-on-on. When I saw him, he was near the end of his journey. He had allowed himself no solid food for many days before he commenced his task. His dress was disencumbered from everything that might impede his progress, and his whole mind and thoughts were intent on obtaining the reward. However, a short time after I had seen him pass, he became too exhausted to proceed; he halted for a short time, tried again, but could go no further. He failed at last; he lost his reward.

What a lesson did this walker teach me! Reader, may you learn something from him also. You and I have a prize held out before us. O, it is far better than perishing money. All the gold of California is as dross compared to it. The brilliant "Mountain of Light," which we saw in the Great Exhibition, and which is said to be of untold value, is as nothing to it; for when everything of time has crumbled and perished, this prize will shine with intense glory. It is a crown of glory that fadeth not away." Are you walking on the right road to obtain this prize?

Methinks I see a man there, who tells me he hopes to win it at the last. He, too, like the walker of whom I have told you, has an earnest look. He "rises up early, and late takes rest, and eats the bread of carefulness;" he does not seem to be resting by the roadside, or eating of the fruits by the way. He toils on and on, weary and faint; but, alas! he is not keeping to the straight

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and narrow path which is sure to lead to it. He is walking in the by-path of outward observances, self-righteousness, and worldly carefulness. I fear he will not gain the crown ere his short space of time be gone. I see another, with a merry eye and light step, bounding forth in a path quite diverse from the one which ends in the prize. retrace your steps, ere it be too late! For a little season brightness may shine on your path, but when the night cometh, and the chill air blows on you, and the clouds and darkness encompass you, and your brief hours are sped, where will your brightness be? Then "you will lie down in sorrow," and miss the crown. Others I observe starting well, and for a time looking and walking in the direction of the prize, but they, alas! are encumbered by the world's honours, or riches, or pleasures. Their eyes are fixed on the bright flowers by the wayside, their ears drinking in the glad sound of mirth around them. They turn first to the right hand, then to the left; or they sit by the wayside to take their ease, and rest on the grassy mounds. They talk with their gay companions, and the moments slip by, and the hours speed on their wing, and their little day is gone ere they reach the goal! The children of this world are truly wiser in their generation than the children of light. Learn a lesson from "the swift walker." "So run that you may obtain." Arise, start on your journey in the cool of the day; linger not by the way; look upwards to heaven's brightness for a strength not your own. So shall you "walk and not faint." Cast aside all encumbrances which would impede your progress. "Gird up the loins of your mind; be sober, and hope to the end." Take with you the staff of God's promises to lean on, the word of His truth to feed on, the power of His love to sustain you, and with a cheerful and earnest walk, you will soon arrive at your destination, and gain that glorious prize, which will make you glad through eternity.-C. M. P. M.

home, which parents are the chief instruments in forming, to what a serious extent are they accountable for the future happiness of their children, and of their children's children. Our own character and condition are greatly affected by the principles, habits, and examples which prevailed in the homes of our forefathers, and in like manner will our descendants feel the effect of those which prevail in ours. What responsibility, then, attaches to parents, and how great is the power which they possess, for good or evil, over their offspring! Those parents who feel this, and wish conscientiously to

discharge their obligation, will be anxious, in a matter of such moment, to be guided aright.

What, then, should be the distinguishing feature of domestic education, and what its vital element? We answer, that that education which it behoves parents to give their children, should be essentially RELIGIOUS. Religion must be its basis and its finish, its foundation and its topstone. And in order to impart this, they must not only personally enjoy it, in its heavenly light and purity, honour it in their family and public devotions, and exemplify it in their daily conduct, but also TEACH IT. It is not enough that parents pray and hope that their children may be brought to walk in the light and joy of religion: they must make them acquainted with its doctrines, privileges, and precepts. There is a work to be done, a toilsome labour to be performed. The command to Israel was not only that the words of the Lord should be in their hearts, but they were to teach them diligently to their children. When sitting in the house with their family gathered around them, they were to talk of the commandments of the Lord, or when walking by the way, retiring to rest at night, or rising in the morning, the theme was to be renewed: still were they to talk of the words which God had commanded them to remember and observe. (Deut. vi. 6, 7.) And ought not the lessons of Divine truth to be daily taught to our children, on whom the ends of the world are come? The great magazine from which these lessons are to be taken is the Bible, the book of God. "All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness." Shall we neglect it, shall we lightly esteem it? The word of the Lord is precious: the testimonies of the Lord are right and sure. There are secret things which belong only to the Lord: but those things which are revealed belong to us and to our children for ever. (Deut. xxix. 29.) The entire revelation is ours,-ours, to enlighten, sanctify, comfort, and guide us in the way to heaven. But it is the heritage of our children as well, it is theirs for ever; so that in making them acquainted with the gracious discoveries of Scripture, we only introduce them to a knowledge of their glorious inheritance of Divine truth and wisdom. That children are capable, at a very early age, of apprehending the great facts and doctrines of the Bible, and that these heavenly things, in which they are so deeply interested, should not be withheld from them, will surely require no proof from us. For

"'Twere logic misapplied To prove a consequence by none denied, That we are bound to cast the minds of youth Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth, That, taught of God, they may indeed be wise, Nor, ignorantly wandering, miss the skies."

the Scriptures, to admire their style, and love their contents. To effect this, they must be informed of its amazing facts, striking incidents, touching narratives, holy doctrines, and pure precepts. These, explained and understood, will tend greatly to expand the mind, enlighten and direct the judgment, and purify the heart. The influence of the Bible is altogether salutary: it produces in youth a love of what is true, and preserves them from that morbid appetite for fiction which so extensively prevails. We are convinced that, to the neglect of Bible training, romance, with its feverish passions and sickly morality, owes its influence. Fiction never can become the daily food of minds whose youthful appetite has been well regaled with the solid and satisfying realities of Divine truth. In the Bible all is reality; in romance all is fancy, except its pernicious effect upon the deluded reader; and that, alas! is a sad reality. Sin, which the Divine book represents in all its aspects and associations, as the great evil which we are to dread, because fraught with misery and death, is, by the novelist, often made to appear an amiable weakness, or presented in combination with certain excellencies, to redeem it from its sinfulness. Pride, ambition, passion, and lust are portrayed as if the reader would have nothing to fear from them if he yielded to their power. Nay, they are often invested with a charm. Not so the Bible. Its exhibitions of sin make us dread and turn away from it, even when it appears in its most charming and seductive forms, with loathing and disgust. Its very touch pollutes, its breath is contagious. It is a spiritual plague; it is a malignant foe; death and destruction are in its ways. Its pleasures, whether of sense, ambition, gain, or passion, we see to be opposed alike to our interests and happiness. The Bible, above all other books, teaches youth, as well as age, that it is an evil and a bitter thing to sin against God. It tells them that if they will drink of sin's cup, however sweet it may appear, it will leave the taste of the wormwood and the gall. It presents vice in its true shape and character;-a hideous monster, a malignant demon. Parents, these are the views of sin with which your offspring should be made familiar from their childhood, and so guarded against the foul destroyer.

And in the Bible, too, you have lovely pictures of piety; lovely in purity, humility, and obedience; yielding present satisfaction, and opening the door of hope into immortal blessedness and glory. The word of God reveals the way. And shall not parents put into their children's hands this heavenly lamp, to shine upon their path, and guide