Benignus soon finds, carefully stowed away beyond the reach of damp, a tinderbox with all the necessary furnishing, and a quantity of dry fuel for making a fire. "See," says he joyfully to his companion, "another proof of the benevolent care of the provider of the cavern: here are all the materials for making a quick fire, of which we are so much in need." "How do you know," replies Contumax, "that these things came here in that way? They probably belong to some poor wretch who has been shipwrecked before us, and found a chance to get away again, as I wish from my heart I could do." Benignus thinks that the great care with which they were put away out of the reach of injury is a sufficient indication that they were not left by one joyously hastening away, intent only on his own selfish interest, but must have been deposited there by some benevolent hand, for the express purpose of relieving the suffering; but Contumax cherishes no such romantic ideas.

Benignus, greatly delighted with what he has already discovered, makes further search in the cave, and finds plain and wholesome provisions, such as would not soon be injured, together with medicines and cordials; and also a supply of coarse, but clean and warm clothing, carefully cased up so as to preserve them from all injury of wet or moth. "Now," says Benignus to his companion," you certainly will be convinced that this place was provided by some benevolent hand on purpose for the shipwrecked. Here is evidence which cannot be gainsayed." "We have more reason to apprehend," growls Contumax, "that we have fallen upon the haunts of pirates; who are now absent on their depredations, but will soon return to murder us." Nay," replies Benignus, "these are not the spoils of pirates; here are neither jewels nor silks, here is no gold or silver, here are neither costly viands, nor rich wines, nor intoxicating brandies; and besides, the things are laid away with much more care and scrupulous nicety than suits the wasteful and licentious habits of pirates." "Well, at any rate," replies Contumax, "the donor must be a vulgar, stingy fellow, to put us off with such coarse food and raiment.' "But you do not consider," says Benignus, "that these things

Contumax, however, does not hesitate to warm himself by the fire which Benignus has made of the materials found in the cave; he partakes freely, and with great zest, of the provisions and cordials, simple as they are; gladly lays aside his own wet and torn clothing, for the coarse but comfortable and dry raiment provided for him; and fixing himself in the most easy position he can devise, and as near the various comforts of the grotto as he can get, he is quite ready to enter into an argument to any extent. He is a great reasoner, Contumax is. He can prove most philosophically that Benignus cannot prove that there was any benevolent intention at all in anybody in providing and furnishing that cavern-he can prove to a dead certainty, that, for all which can be proved to the contrary, it might have been a mere accident, a blunder, a selfish enterprise-that nobody knows anything about it; and he can account for it in twenty ways, without the least supposition of wisdom or benevolence, or anything of the kind. The only thing he is certain of is, that he is in a miserable place-he thinks somebody is greatly to blame for putting him thereand is under decided obligation to get him safely away again.

What kind of reasoning can you apply to such a mind? What sort of evidence can such a man perceive or appreciate? What can he see in a pure light while his eyes are suffused with jaundice?

This character represents, and not unfairly, by far the largest class of sceptics which exist in Christian lands.

There is in them all a tinge of disaffection, of misanthropy, or rather, of theomisey-if we may be allowed to coin a word, to express an idea which is often a reality, but which in our proper English tongue as yet has no name. This gives a dark shade to all their views of evidence, and prevents their seeing any decided proof in trains of reasoning, which, in

other states of mind, would have all the force of absolute demonstration.

We will endeavour to show, in a few particulars, the different effects which the same aspects of revelation produce ou the two different classes of mind under consideration.

All reflecting men, when they seriously contemplate their moral condition in this world, feel very much like shipwrecked sailors. In regard to this single point there is very little difference between the believer and the unbelieverbetween Benignus and Contumax. But there is a great difference in their feelings in reference to their condition after it has been surveyed. The believer feels that he yet has much to thank God for; he feels real gratitude that his position is not still worse than it proves to be. The unbeliever, on the other hand, when he knows God, glorifies him not as God, neither is he thankful; and as a necessary consequence, he becomes vain in his imagination, and his foolish heart is darkened. He feels under no particular obligation to God; on the contrary, he rather thinks that God is under decided obligation to him, to treat him very well, and bring him easily and safely through the bad place into which he has thrown

him.

In this state of mind he looks upon the Divine arrangements actually made for his spiritual good, and almost as a matter of course, he is dissatisfied. Such being the different state of mind of the two classes of persons, the facts of the Christian revelation, although substantially the same as they present themselves to both, yet produce very diverse and even opposite effects; to the believer establishing his faith, to the unbeliever confirming his scepticism; to the one a savour of life unto life, to the other a savour of death unto death.

Meanwhile, the most scornful unbeliever quietly avails himself of all the incidental advantages which the Christian system brings, makes himself very comfortable with all the social improvements which it originates, and employs the mental culture which he himself owes to it, in strenuous exertions to disprove its intelligent and benevolent origin.

To both, revelation presents itself as, in the main, very plain and homely in its garb. To the unbeliever, this is offensive, unworthy of God. He would have some

bitious style of the little greatness of this world, for he has never learned that the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men. The believer understands that the greater part of God's children, for whom revelation is designed, are plain and homely people, that their souls are as precious as the souls of the proud and mighty, and in eternity may be altogether more elevated; and he knows, if one cannot perceive the real dignity and refinement of Scripture, it must be because his ideas of dignity and refinement are factitious, and not natural.

Both the believer and the unbeliever see things in the Bible that are apparently severe and rough. The destruction of Sodom, the stoning of the sabbath-breaker, the extirpation of the Canaanites, are matters of fact in the eyes of both. But in this atmosphere, the philosophic infidel feels as uncomfortably as Contumax in the cave. The believer, however, reflects that since God does not choose to purify men by physical omnipotence, but by moral means and influences only, he must of course address each age by means adapted to the condition of each, and rough generations must be met with severe measures; just as Benignus sees that a cavern with loop-holes and guard-walls, instead of a house with doors and windows, is admirably fitted to a desolate and stormy coast.

Both understand that the vicious, the indolent, and the careless cannot attain to correct views of revealed truth; for the truth is so revealed, that labour, effort, care, and even energetic strugglings are essential to the acquisition of religious knowledge in its purity. To the unbeliever, this is all distasteful. He feels as if God were under obligations to make the way of salvation such that men would walk in it as a matter of course, without either effort or thought of their own; that all the means of salvation should not only be such that they can be used, but such that they cannot be abused; that men should not only be able to find that

way of life, but absolutely unable to lose it. The believer perceives at once the total unreasonableness of these demands, and their entire inconsistency with all the arrangements of nature. It would be as easy for God to cover the earth with railroads as with mountains, with canals as with rivers-to cause houses, all finished and furnished, to spring out of the ground as well as trees, and make the wheat-stalk bear a well-baked loaf of bread just as easily as the grain of wheat -and thus save men all the hard labour of toilsome travelling, of digging and building, of ploughing and planting, of harvesting, and grinding, and baking. But has God done this? And what would man be good for if he had? So in religion, what would a free agent be who had nothing to do? In all nature, that which can be used, is susceptible also of abuse; that which can do good can be perverted also to evil. Why does not the infidel require, as proof of the wisdom and goodness of the God of nature, a kind of water that can quench his thirst and clean his skin and float his ships, but which will never on any occasion drown anybody or make an inundation; a kind of rain that will refresh his grass, but never wet his hay; a kind of axe, that will cut wood, but never penetrate the flesh of the wood-cutter; a kind of fire that will cook his food and warm him when he is cold, but can never burn him, or reduce his dwelling to ashes? These demands are all quite as reasonable as those which the infidel makes as conditions of his ideal revelation; and the objections which are urged with so much confidence against the Bible, and gain so easy a reception among men, proceed on a principle which would be scouted and scorned by all the world as unspeakably ridiculous if applied to nature. The believer recognises the God of the Bible - and the God of nature as the same; and when he sees the same kind of analogies running through both, it confirms his faith, instead of shaking it.—C. E. Stowe.

ALAN QUINTIN'S INQUIRIES.
No. VII.

WHAT HINDERS YOU?

THIS is a world of good and evil. Are you trying to avoid the one, and striving to secure the other? If you are, it is

well; but if you are not, what hinders you?

You may be better off than your neighbours, but it is possible that you may be worse. Let us suppose your case to be bad, nay, very bad. "While there is life there is hope," says the old adage, and so there is hope for me, hope for you, and hope for every one! High hopes, wellgrounded hopes, hopes of happiness, of peace, of salvation, and of glory in the Redeemer.

The highest object on earth is a bright prospect of heaven, and the greatest good on earth is to obtain it. Do you believe this? Are you certain of this? Are you acting on this truth? Are you seeking heaven above all things? If so, I again say, It is well; but if not, what hinders you?

Do vain hopes hinder you? false hopes, forlorn hopes, blighted hopes, flattering hopes? Away with them, then! follow them no longer.

No deadlier ills on earth are given,

Than hopes that lure the heart from heaven. These deceitful hopes must be watched against, wept against, prayed against, kept off, and denied inroad and entrance into the soul. A "sure and certain hope" will destroy them all. Follow after it, then, firmly, swiftly, resolutely, and perseveringly. Look upward! move ward! and you may yet attain it. What should hinder you?

on

Are you slothful in seeking after heaven? Is there "a lion in the way?" Will you let indolence rob you of your right of road, after you have been invited, warned, exhorted, and commanded to "strive to enter in at the strait gate?" Awake, sleeper, and call upon your God! Shake off your slumber, for it is time to bestir yourself! Clap the hands that have been too long folded, and open the eyes that have been too long closed against your danger! Start up, stand on your feet, hasten to "redeem the time," and conquer the sin that besets you! are active and vigilant, and eager after things that hurt, and hinder us, surely we may be active and vigilant and eager after what is good for our souls!

If we

who gave gold for dross, pearls for peb-| bles, health for disease, and hope for despair. Yet why should you start, when you yourself are making a worse bargain?

Is the world in your way? Do things temporal, uncertain, changeable, and vanishing absorb your soul? Oh, think more lightly of the world! Leave its husks that you are growing lean upon! Forsake its follies, and that quickly. Renounce its lying vanities. "For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

Who leans upon the world, indeed,
Shall feel its sharpened point, and bleed.

Do sin, Satan, and your own heart conspire against you? Such a conspiracy as this has deceived many a wise man, frightened many a bold man, and hindered many a swift-footed man in his course. To stand against it single-handed is altogether out of the question, there fore attempt it not. If you want help, the Lord "is a very present help in trouble," Psa. xlvi. 1. If you require strength, the Holy One imparteth "strength and power unto his people," Psa. lxviii. 35. If you stand in need of wisdom, "Ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given," James. i. 5. Meet this conspiracy, attack it, break it in pieces, and destroy it, for greater is He who is with you, than those who are against you.

Away with all hindrances. Push the stumbling-blocks out of your way, wrestle hard with every opposition. Gaze not on the sparkling fieworks of earthly pleasure that end in darkness. Flee favourite faults, lest they drive hope from your heart; and loiter not, and wander not in by-path meadows, lest Despair put you in his dungeons. Is the heavenly road hard to find? Read the finger-post of God's holy word. What hinders you? Is the road steep and strait? Remember that it leads to heaven! Have you a river to cross? "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee," Isa. xliii. 2. Have you a mountain to climb ?

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

If heaven be worth having at all risks, why not risk everything to attain it? If

The

heaven be worth gaining at any price, why not give everything to possess it? House, lands, money, health, liberty, and life are not worth naming in exchange for heaven. Up! on! forward! prize is before you. Sleep not, linger not, pause not, till you are a runner in the heavenward race. Strive, and you shall overcome; run, and you shall overtake; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. You may do all things through Him that strengtheneth you. What shall hinder you?

Whatever may be your troubles and trials; your doubts and fears; your lets and hindrances, go unto Him who is eyes to the blind, feet to the lame, and rest to the weary and heavy laden. Go unto Him who lived, died, and rose again for the lowliest and the meanest sinner that ever sought him as a Saviour. Do you ask what he will do for you? He will

clothe

you in goodly raiment; feed you with food convenient for you; clear away the brier from your path; lighten your load; shed a sunbeam on your head; make your feet like hind's feet; strengthen your hands; give courage to your heart; put a new song into your mouth; guide you with his counsel, and receive you to glory.

SEASON FOR THE LAKES.

As most travellers are either stinted, or stint themselves, for time, the space between the middle or last week in May, and the middle or last week of June, may be pointed out as affording the best combination of long days, fine weather, and variety of impressions. Few of the native trees are then in full leaf; but, for whatever may be wanting in depth of shade, more than an equivalent will be found in the diversity of foliage, in the blossoms of the fruit and berry-bearing trees which abound in the woods, and in the golden flowers of the broom and other shrubs, with which many of the copses are intervened. In those woods, also, and on these mountain sides which have a northern aspect, and in the deep dells, many of the spring flowers still linger; while the open and sunny places are stocked with the flowers of approaching summer. And besides, is not an exquisite pleasure still untasted by him who has not heard the choir of linnets and thrushes chanting their love-songs in the

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copses, woods, and hedge-rows of a mountainous country; safe from the birds of prey, which build in the inaccessible crags, and are at all hours seen or heard wheeling about in the air? The number of these formidable creatures is probably the cause why, in the narrow valleys, there are no skylarks; as the destroyer would be enabled to dart upon them from the near and surrounding crags, before they could descend to their groundnests for protection. It is not often that the nightingale resorts to these vales; but almost all the other tribes of our English warblers are numerous; and their notes, when listened to by the side of broad still waters, or when heard in unison with the murmuring of mountain-brooks, have the compass of their power enlarged accordingly. There is also an imaginative influence in the voice of the cuckoo, when that voice has taken possession of a deep mountain-valley, very different from anything which can be excited by the same sound in a flat country. Nor must a circumstance be omitted, which here renders the close of spring especially interesting-I mean the practice of bringing down the ewes from the mountains to yearn in the valleys and enclosed grounds. The herbage being thus cropped as it springs, the first tender emerald green of the season, which would otherwise have lasted little more than a fortnight, is prolonged in the pastures and meadows for many weeks; while they are farther enlivened by the multitude of lambs bleating and skipping about. These sportive creatures, as they gather strength, are turned out upon the open mountains; and with their slender limbs, their snowwhite colour, and their wild and light motions, beautifully accord or contrast with the rocks and lawns, upon which they must now begin to seek their food. And last, but not least, at this time the traveller will be sure of room and comfortable accommodation, even in the smaller inns.-Wordsworth.

ONE SIN.

warm with projects, hopes, and anticipations, are prematurely numbered with the dead. Their race is run; their "warfare is accomplished." Reviewing their brief and hasty sojourn, he feels the insecurity of his own tenure of life: he wonders that, amid so many affecting examples of mortality, he still lives; and he can scarcely fail to be impressed with the monitory truth, that, ere long, he too must make his bed in dust, closing his eyes on the vanities which float and dissolve around him-sad emblems of the frail and fleeting being which he now enjoys!

Yet, to the Christian, such a retrospect yields encouragement and comfort. Recalling the memory of many patterns of scriptural piety, endeared to his best affections by a personal knowledge of their rise, progress, and consummation, and by the grateful recollections of free and familiar intercourse, it supplies him with the most animating motives to diligence, faith, and perseverance. Shall he forsake the path which his departed friends have trod? Shall he dread the dark vale of suffering and death, which they found so marvellously filled with celestial light? Shall he despise that peaceful home in which they safely repose, far beyond the reach of sin, temptation, and care? Voices from the tomb, voices from heaven, sound in his ear, and incite him, by every argument of truth, of mercy, and of hope, to prosecute his journey to the skies, until, like his companions and predecessors in the toilsome but happy pilgrimage, he too shall "come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon his head."-Hannah.

THE CHRISTIAN'S RETROSPECT.

To a person whose age extends beyond the period of youth, a retrospect of his early connexions and friendships cannot but suggest melancholy and mournful reflections. Many who commenced their earthly career nearly at the same time with himself, and who were equally

ONE SIN.

MANY afflictions will not cloud and obstruct peace of mind so much as one sin: therefore, if ye would walk cheerfully, be most careful to walk holily. All the winds about the earth make not an earthquake, but only that within.-Archbishop Leighton.