not, as faithful stewards, present the case before the church and congregation, and see if a remedy cannot be found. I believe, in very many cases, a remedy could and would be found, if it were really known that the minister of your choice was thus pinched and pressed by claims which are thus inevitable. Few can imagine what many a godly minister has had to endure in this respect rather than complain or talk about money for himself. But when debt and poverty stare him in the face, he is obliged to talk about it, if his deacons and church do not!

Again, then, I say, dear brethren, pardon me for my plain language in this matter. I feel deeply, and therefore express myself strongly. The

existence of the evil is manifest. Vast numbers of our holy, laborious, selfdenying ministers are most inadequately sustained. Hence, they are constantly leaving your small places for others where they can be supported, whilst you and the churches with which you are connected are most

commonly sufferers from the change. Try, then, to enter into your minister's circumstances, and, in very many cases, the remedy may most likely be found.

But now, perhaps, some of you may ask how I mean to explain this seeming paradox and mystery in regard to myself; "for if," say you, "your expenditure has inevitably been such as you have set down, and if your salary has only been £100 per annum, how can you have managed to get on?" Well, I will tell you. When I married, just thirty years ago, the property which my father left me, together with what my wife brought, amounted to £1,000. We both quite agreed in resolving that we would not attempt to "lay up treasures on the earth;" but would spend all the interest of our united properties in ekeing out our support, and then devote any surplus to the cause of God and the poor, hoping we might still retain the principal for our children, if God should give us any. Thus we went on for a few years. But after awhile, we found out what I suppose many before us have found, that an increasing family somewhat seriously increased our expenditure, and we found the interest insufficient to meet our increasing demands; and we were obliged to begin nibbling at the principal, until, at the end of ten years, we found ourselves the happy

parents of seven children. Three of these have been removed to the mansions of the blest, and the other four remain until this day. But what with supporting the seven for some years, and the other four up to manhood, nearly the whole of our £1,000 has gone; and here we are, on the verge of sixty, possessing, through mercy, good health, but with our patrimony gone, after all our economy and hard labour, and without being able to give a fraction to either of our children, to make a start in life. But of this we do not complain. The money was not ours, it was our Master's, and to him we solemnly dedicated it, and he has seen fit to require it in this way. I have had the honour and happiness of labouring in his cause, and enjoyed the unspeakable satisfaction of being rewarded by him, in that he has made me the instrument of winning many souls to himself, and doing good to very many others. The happiness has been mine; be the glory his!

Only this, dear and honoured brethren, I wish you to bear in mind; that very few country ministers have £1,000 to begin life with, or to fall back upon. For the most part, they have nothing but their salary to depend on, and often their necessities are as great and as inevitable as mine have been.

That God, our Divine Master and Saviour, may help you to ponder well this important matter, and dispose you honestly to act out your convictions of duty, is, dear and honoured brethren, the sincere prayer of a now poor, but contented and grateful

past. Literature adorns the massive structure with vines and flowers.

History fills the mind-Literature the heart.

History now conducts us into palaces, castles, and courts, makes us familiar with monarchs, lords, and ladies; then whirls us into the battlefield, and sickens us with the sight of its carnage; now astonishes us with the rise and splendour of a nation, now stuns us with its downfall and ruin.

Literature introduces us to rural scenes, and conducts us through "The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,

The pomp of groves and garniture of fields;"

and refreshes us with

"All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And all that echoes to the song of even; All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,

And all the dread magnificence of heaven."

History records deeds of bloodshed and crime without one pitying sigh, one sympathising tear; relates success without one exulting "huzza." Literature weeps over disasters, sighs over suffering, and rejoices over good fortune.

History tires us with statistical tables of trade and population. Literature breaks up the fountains of the heart and mind, teaches us to sympathize with hearts long since pulseless, and to weep over afflictions long since removed.

From History we learn to admire or dislike nations-from Literature to love or despise individuals.

By the essays, orations, and poems of the past we are brought in direct contact with generations now mingled with the dust, and to realize that they were men and women "of like passions with ourselves;" to recognise them as members of one common family, descendants of the same guilty pair," upon whom were entailed the miseries of the fall.

Conducted by History, we wander almost listlessly through the "Temple of Time," gaze coldly on its pillars, and press indifferently through a promiscuous crowd. Literature seats us in "the low-roofed cottage standing on the skirts of the wood, beneath the over-shadowing oak, around which the children of many generations have gambolled, while the wreathing smoke

coils up among the dark green foliage, and the grey thatch is contrasted with golden moss and glittering ivy. We stand and gaze, delighted with this picture of rural peace and privileged seclusion. We long to shake off the shackles of artificial society, the wearying cares of life, the imperative control of fashion, or the toil and traffic of the busy world, and to dwell, for the remainder of our days, in a quiet spot like this."

Let us, for a moment, dwell upon one or two examples. The sacred historian gives us an unembellished account of the Babylonish captivity. He sternly says, "So Judah was carried away out of their land." No murmurs are recorded, no tears are noticed. We believe the statement, but we do not realise the forlorn condition of the unfortunate captives. How different is the effect of the language of the sacred poet: 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. there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.' How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"

66

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This language touches the heart and awakens the imagination. We gaze on the disconsolate host, with bowed heads, seated on the banks of a river. We see their neglected harps hanging on the willows, that seem to grieve, "if aught inanimate ever grieves," over Judah's wrongs. We alternately pity the captives and hate the captors, who mock their miseries by requiring them to "sing one of the songs of Zion."

Another example. History records the date of the battle of Waterloo : gives the strength of the French and allied armies, their positions and manoeuvring, dwells upon the bloody conflict, and finally records the victory of one army and the defeat of the other. Such general details reach not the soul. They are too wholesale to stir the feelings. But who can read without a swelling heart the following poetic allusion to the same scenes?— "Ah! then and there were hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

While throng'd the citizens,with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips, The foe! they come! they come !"

In the unvarnished historical account of the scene we lose sight of the "gathering tears," the "tremblings of distress," the "cheeks all pale,' the "sudden partings," the "choking sighs," and the "citizens with terror dumb," which here so fill the mind and heart that we almost forget the smoke of the battle-field, the glory of the victor, and the shame of the vanquished.

Such are History and Literature -twin children of Time. History, the cold, stern brother. Literature, though the gentle, beautiful sister, exhibits "the power of thought-the magic of the mind."

Father Eustace: a Tale of the Jesuits. By Mrs. TROLLOPE. Knight and Son. THIS is the production of a singularly clever, dashing woman. We have, at least, a dozen books on the same subject, but, in some respects, this surpasses them all, while in others, it is painfully inferior. The authoress possesses a very large amount of qualifications necessary for such an undertaking. She has studied general society to excellent purpose, and recorded the results with great force and brilliancy. This is certainly such a sermon as was never before preached by woman; nothing is wanted but the practice of it, in conjunction with evangelical principles, to put a new face on society. With respect to the fabric of the composition, one thing only is lacking to render it a finished performance. The writer appears to have but a very slight sense--if any sense at all-of religion, which, as a vein of gold, ought to have pervaded the entire performance. That is wholly wanting. But notwithstanding this great defect, the book is calculated to be eminently useful.

Memoirs of Rear-Admiral Sir W. Edward Parry, Kt., F.R.S. By his Son, the Rev. EDWARD PARRY, M.A. Third Edition. Longman, Brown and Co.

WE are not a little gratified to find this highly interesting memoir so soon in a third edition. It presents a most impressive picture of the true English sailor, with a cultivated understanding and regulated affections. The peculiar features of the English character nowhere come more fully and impressively out than in the British seaman. The present volume may be pointed to as an illustration. Had the fiery spirit of Nelson been but quenched in the waters of salvation, of which Sir Edward Parry so freely drank, he would have presented one of the most striking specimens of a maritime officer to

THE title of this volume is nonsense, to begin with, and there is nothing afterwards to redeem it. How a man of intelligence and of cultivation, as Mr. James undoubtedly is, can put into sentences such a mass of words without including in them a single substantial idea, is, to us, quite incomprehensible. If he has the slightest regard to the interests of the human race, or to his own character and influence, he will forthwith renounce all regard for Swedenborg, and for every species of bewildering fanaticism, and betake himself to a book with which, at present, he seems wholly unacquainted-the Sacred Scriptures.

Life and Journals of the Rev. Daniel West. By the Rev. THOMAS WEST. Hamilton, Adams and Co.

Or all biography, the most interesting and attractive is that of Missionaries to the heathen. The volume before us is a worthy addition to the class to which it belongs. Apart from its religious excellence, it is valuable for the light it throws upon Africa; a field in which Methodism is earning for itself a good degree. About half the volume is consecrated to that benighted continent, with its much-wronged children; and its perusal cannot fail to deepen the interest which the English churches are taking in their welfare.

The Atonement. Religious Tract Society. MULTITUDES will unfeignedly rejoice in the publication of this volume, so seasonable to the times which are passing over us. It comprises four sermons on the atonement by

the Bishop of Gloucester, Dr. Chalmers, W. A. Butler, and Robert Hall. Among the countless performances of the Society, entitling it to the thanks of the Christian world, there are few possessing a higher claim than the present small volume, which deserves a place in every house in Britain.

Expository Outlines: Sketches and Skeletons of Sermons upon the most important Paragraphs of the New Testament. Hamilton and Co.

WE hail the appearance of the present volume

with great cordiality. Everything which calls attention to the importance of Scripture exposition is so much clear gain to the cause of religious truth. Mere topical preaching, harangue, or discussion on a word, or a phrase, however much they may amuse, and interest, or even instruct and impress, can never prove extensively useful in leading people to peruse and study the word of God. The present volume is an excellent beginning, and we do trust it may tend to promote the great object of which it is so respectable a specimen.

My loved, my chosen, and my lost

My partner in the strife,

Thy weary feet have soonest cross'd
The pearly gate of Life;

We toil'd together, hand in hand,
On Syria's distant shore,

But thou hast reach'd the blessed land
Where toil is known no more.

What though thy native country gave
No tomb beneath her skies;
It matters not-for Syria's grave
As near to glory lies.

And it is well to take thy rest

Where thou didst sow and reap;

The country which thy toil has bless'd
Should hold thee in thy sleep.

Long did we wander side by side;
But when thy race was o'er,
And thou dids't wait by Jordan's tide,
I stood by thee no more!
For I had left thee far behind,

To cross the ocean wave;
Nor thought, on my return, to find
A chasm and a grave!

I left thee! and no angel guest-
No seer-no vision-told
How soon thy wearied feet would rest
Within the Shepherd's fold.
And so, my love, I stood not by

When heaven's bright chariot came, And bore thee to the realms on high With wheels and steeds of flame.

'Tis well with thee! thy death is gainBut he who stays behind,

And thy dear flock, on Asia's plain,
A loss-a ruin find!

No more o'er Syria's waking land
Thy hand the light will pour;
And thou wilt lead thy loving band
By living streams no more.

Alas, my love! there falls with thee
The pillar of my heart!

A column fairer far to me
Than those of Grecian art.

Ah! how the living temple shakes

When this forsakes its trust;

When from its hold the column breaks,

And totters to the dust!

But yet the loss is mine in part—
I do not grieve alone,

A larger temple than my heart
A greater loss has known;
The temple of the Church sustains
With me the fearful shock;
Yet still the Corner-stone remains-
The Everlasting Rock!

And though the broken pillar stands
No more on Syria's shore,

The temple in serener lands
Has gain'd one pillar more.
Then let me, love, rejoice for thee,
And meekly bear my loss;
And since this prop is torn from me,
Cling closer to the Cross.

Oh, blessed Cross! on this I lean
When sorrow bows me down;
Its glory gilds with light serene

My path, where shadows frown;
It sweetly shines across the wave
Where my beloved trod;
And fills the pathway from the grave
Up to the throne of God.

'Tis well with thee! 'tis well with me!
My night has many a ray,
And soon will every shadow flee
Before the perfect day;

For when my sonl, released from strife,
At heaven's bright threshold waits,
The hand which holds the " keys of life"
Will open wide the gates.

And if, my love, to us is given

The brightness of the skies;

If, like the glorious stars of heaven,
We shine among the wise;

No pride shall dim our crowns of light,
No merit will we own,

The Lamb who wash'd our garments white
Shall gain the praise alone.