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THE DESIGN OF PREACHING.

As an ordinance of Christ, preaching appears to be graced and blessed in a superior degree. The continuance of his ambassadors is a pledge of peace on the part of the King of kings; a mark of truth challenging universal examination; but more particularly, the means by which it is to spread from man to man.

It may, however, be supposed that, as the Bible now is perfected, it would be better that men should not only read it by themselves, but that they should read

it without the intervention of other men.

"Surely, (it may be argued,) the word of God should by itself come fully on the heart, as the beams of the sun upon the earth; surely, in coming through so faulty a medium as the human mind, Divine truth must be dimmed and distorted." But observe, not only does preaching not

And

preclude reading, but is expressly designed to lead to it. The preacher has just to press the grapes and give the cup into the hearer's hand. He has not to dictate; he has not even primarily to inform: but he has to arouse, to impel, to awaken. The apostles both spoke and wrote; and if you compare one of St. Paul's speeches with one of his epistles, the difference in the style, the connexion in the aim, will be visible at once. thus at present the preacher's address is made, not in the way of giving perfect and infallible instruction; not as a substitute for the gospel; not even as an unerring guide to the gospel: but as a call to reflection upon the gospel. He is, in reference to the gospel, not to think for his hearers, but to excite them to think for themselves; and this, by appealing to their judgments, warming their affections, and principally by touching their consciences. True; the principle of conscience is in every heart: but the pendulum often requires a touch from without to make it do its office. To give this touch requires no inspiration; although, having been given, it does require on the hearer's part, sincere prayer, and careful study of the Scriptures, that the effect may be permanent.—C. I. Yorke.

BLESSEDNESS OF THE JUST.

LET it be remembered that nothing is admitted into heaven which worketh wickedness or maketh a lie; and that, therefore, with every virulence of evil,

detached and dissevered from the mass, there is nought in heaven but the pure, the transparent element of goodness. Think of its unbounded love, its tried and unalterable faithfulness, its confiding sincerity; think of the expressive designation given it in the Bible" The land of uprightness." Above all, think of the revealed and invisible glory of the righteous God, who loveth righteousness, there sitting upon his throne in the midst of a rejoicing family, himself rejoicing over them, because formed in his own likeness; they love what he loves; they rejoice at what he rejoices in. There may be palms of triumph, I do not know; there may be crowns of unfading lustre; there may be pavements of emerald; there may be rivers of pleasure, and groves of surpassing loveliness, and palaces of delight, and high arches in heaven, which ring with sweetest me

lody: but mainly and essentially it is a moral glory which is lighted up there; it is virtue which blooms, and is the myrtle there; it is true goodness by which the spirits of the holy are regaled there; it is thus it forms the beatitude of eternity. The righteous dying now, when they rise again shall be righteous still-have heaven already in their bosoms; and when they enter its portals, they carry the very being and substance of its blessedness along with them-the character which is the whole of heaven's worth-the character which is the very essence of heaven's enjoyments.-Chalmers.

TRIALS OF THE BELIEVER. THE trials of David and Jacob were sharp; but they were short, and they proved to their advantage, put them upon acts of humiliation and prayer, and ended in a double blessing. Nothing can harm us that quickens our earnestness and frequency in applying to a throne of grace: only trust the Lord, and keep close to him, and all that befalls you shall be for good. Temptations end in victory; troubles prove an increase of consolation; yea, our very falls and failings tend to increase our spiritual wisdom, to give us a greater knowledge of Satan's devices, and make us more habitually upon our guard against them. Happy case of the believer in Jesus! when bitten by the fiery serpent he needs not go far for a remedy; he has only to look to a bleeding Saviour, and be healed.-John Newton.

APPEARANCES OF NATURE.

SEPTEMBER.

As September and Autumn advance together, they have many beautiful characteristics deserving attention. That the decline of the year has commenced, the condition of vegetation plainly indicates,

"The fading leaves descend, And mournful breezes whisper through the grove." These are mementoes of our own mortality :

"Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies;
They fall successive, and successive rise:
So generations in their course decay;

So flourish these, when those are pass'd away."

And most impressively is it said by the prophet: "We all do fade as a leaf."

The woods have now many beauties, and pleasant is it to wander beneath the shelter of the broad branches above, and to seek the hidden recesses of the dense underwood, Here will be seen many interesting plants, seldom found elsewhere; the soft green moss beneath the feet will not fail to attract attention; nor the remains of the nests of various animals, asking admiration from the simple beauty of their structure, and the instinct evinced in the choice of their situation. The tempered gloom of the woods, "their silence," Howitt says, "the wild cries that flit ever and anon through them, the leaves that already

rustle to the tread-all is full of pleasant thoughtfulness. And then those breaks, those openings, those sudden emergings from shadow and silence to light and liberty; those unexpected comings out to the skirt of the forest, or to some wild and heathy track in the very depth of the woodlands!-how pleasant is the thought of it! I feel the fresh-blowing breeze of autumn, I scent the fresh odour of the turf which never was cultivated, I feel its elasticity beneath my tread, I rejoice as I behold on its lonely bosom a few loiterers which remain of all summer's flowery tribes; a solitary honeysuckle on some young birch; a few harebells, bright and blue as summer's skies." But still the tendrils of the briony festoon with brilliant berries the slender sprigs of the hazel; and the agaric, with its elegant forms and varied hues, expands its cone, sprinkled with the dewy freshness of the morn.

You may look now at each of the trees, for they now have beauties they possess at no other period of the year. There is the deep luxuriance of the oak, and the elm; and the not less pleasing but lighter Observe the popfoliage of other trees. lar, as it

"Trembles o'er the silver flood;"

and as the wind breathes softly the white poplar will be seen,

"Whose foliage hoar,

Scatters forth gleams like moonlight;"

and the black poplar, attaining perhaps a height of eighty feet, displaying the vivid hue of its large and flowering catkins, while the leaves

"In wanton play,

Dance for joy at break of day."

Listen! and the rustling of the aspen poplar will be heard, for the least breeze that whispers through the grove will cause its silver pyramid of leaves to quiver in the sun's bright rays. Approach a sheltered portion of the wood, and there in the glen will be seen the ash, whose utility has obtained for it the title of "the husbandman's tree." Observe the drooping banches, and the slender and pendulous twigs and leaves of

"The cold-place loving birch,"

which Coleridge has called "the lady of the woods;" and to which Wilson alludes when he says,

"On the green slope

Of a romantic glade we sate us down,
Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom;
While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'd
Its branches, arching like a fountain shower."

On the side of the wood by which the water runs will be seen the willow's pendent branches as

"With passing breeze Their leaflets trembling touch the water's brink."

But many more deserve attention: there is the alder, whose pleasant shade is often sought; the large leaves and twisted branches of the maple; the beautiful and rapidly-growing lime; the falling leaves of the chestnut; and the handsome walnut, each possessing some delightful characteristics which only autumn imparts.

Probably the observer will see the squirrel, as, full of life and timidity, it gambols round the root of an ancient beech, the base of which is overgrown with the dewberry; and he will hear the scream of the jay as it tells of danger to its young; the loud laugh of the woodpecker; and the hammering of the nuthatch as it cleaves its prize in the chink of some dry bough. The thrush, the blackbird, and other birds, who have been silent for many weeks, re-commence their songs, bidding good-bye to the summer in the same subdued tone in which they hailed its approach; and wood-owls hoot louder than is their wont.

It is at this period that the woodman and the charcoal-burner are at work,

Then the

and as the rambler passes he observe may them as they are hewing, stroke after stroke, into the heart of the tree, and then down comes the huge mass, with its lashing and crushing boughs resounding through the glen. At other times the saw is employed, worked by four men, three pulling at one end and one drawing it back again, so as to cut down huge fir-trees in a few minutes. branches are lopped, the small wood is bound in fagots, while the thicker boughs are reserved for more important purposes. However and whenever the process may be viewed, the scene is picturesque; and if the labourers be conversed with, they will inform an inquirer of adventures which have occurred of circumstances connected with their work full of interest, and of the habits of the The animals with which they meet. giant tree, when felled, has perhaps the bark stripped off; the woodmen then drive down short stakes, of the figure of a Y, at some distance, and laying a pole over them, the bark is rested against them till it is dry, and the rumbling of the tanners' wagons is heard as it is removed to their yards.

The lads in the country go forth nutting at this season, and many a merry portion of a day will thus be spent. Having duly prepared for an encounter with briars and brambles, and carrying the long nutting-crook and ample wallet, they explore the intricate by-paths and sheltered portion of the woods. Miss Twamley says:

"Even now, methinks, I see the bushy dell,
The tangled brake, green lane, or sunny glade,
Where on a 'sunshine holiday' I stray'd,
Plucking the ripening nuts with eager glee,
Which from the hazel boughs hung temptingly."

The excitement attending these excursions, the search from place to place, before a favourable spot is discovered, the cool shade of the trees varied by the bright gleams of sunshine that occasionally penetrate the foliage; while perhaps the meal enjoyed beneath some aged oak, where moss and harebells form the carpeting on which they rest-contribute to fill the young hearts of the party with unalloyed pleasure.

The fruit-bearing buds showed themselves about the latter end of February; and when they burst, and disclosed the bright crimson of their shafts, they looked beautiful. Their

very

"Hazel-buds with crimson gems, Green and glossy sallows,"

indicated the approach of the summer; but now the fruit has reached perfection, and is coveted by the searching eyes that penetrate the foliage of the wood. Acorns and beech-nuts fall from the trees, and in the woods and forests the swine will soon be feeding on them. They are all called mast.

Partridge-shooting becomes lawful as the month commences, and the noise of guns is heard in every direction. Thom

son says:

"Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey,
As in the sun the circling covey bask
Their varied plumes, and watchful every way,
Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye.
Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat
Their idle wings, entangled more and more:
Nor on the surges of the boundless air,
Though borne triumphant are they safe;
Glanced just and sudden from the fowler's eye,
the gun

O'ertakes their sounding pinions; and again,
Immediate, brings them from the towering wing,
Dead to the ground, or drives them wide, dis-
persed,
Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind."

The partridge multiplies with such rapidity, as almost to defy extermination; nor will persecution drive it from its haunts. The covey will rise, wheel about, and alight, again and again; but though they may be diminished by the gun, the remainder will often continue in the same turnip-field, or on the same clover-stubble, as pertinaciously as a mountain tribe of human beings have clung to their fastnesses in a war of extirpation.

Of the cunning of the partridge the sports of man will supply numerous instances. White, in his "History of Selborne," relates that he saw a hen-bird come out of a ditch, and run along shivering with her wings, and crying out, as if wounded and unable to escape. While the mother thus endeavoured to draw attention to herself, the brood, which was small and unable to fly, was observed to run for shelter into an old fox-earth under the bank. Nor is it uncommon to see an old partridge feign itself wounded, and run along on the ground, fluttering and crying before a dog or man, to draw them away from its helpless, unfledged young ones. "I have seen it often,' says Markwick, "and once in particular I witnessed a remarkable instance of the old bird's solicitude to save its brood. As I was hunting with a young pointer, the dog ran on a brood of very small partridges; the old bird cried, fluttered, and ran trembling along, just before the dog's nose, till she had drawn him to a

considerable distance, when she took wing and flew still farther off, but not out of the field. On this the dog returned to his master, near the place where the young ones lay concealed in the grass-which the old bird no sooner perceived, than she flew back again; and, by rolling and tumbling about, drew off his attention from her young, so as to preserve her brood a second time."

The objects of the immigration of many tribes of birds into this country having been now accomplished, they prepare for their departure. It has

been well ascertained that, in many instances, they leave the country for a more temperate and uniform climate, but it is not certain that this is the case with all. The cuckoo visits us in April, when the weather is often cold and unequal, and she leaves during the first week in July; so that this rule cannot be regarded as at least universally applicable.

A principal object effected by these visits of birds to this country appears in the destruction of innumerable insects, which, but for the check given to their multiplication, would increase to so prodigious an extent as to threaten the earth with famine and desolation. The hand of God may thus be recognised; though we often forget to appreciate an arrangement which, though comparatively trivial, is of great importance. We need not wonder that the little swallow or the house-martin returns to our land with such faithfulness, and even seeks the same house and window by which, in previous years, it raised its youthful progeny; for their Creator and Preserver directs all their movements.

Let the reader linger in the fields on an autumn's eve, and as the sun approaches the horizon, an universal tranquillity is spread around, which almost insensibly steals into the breast of man, disposing him to solitude and meditation. He may now listen in vain for the varied sounds which might have been heard during the day; and the silence prevailing is only broken by the flitting of the bat's almost noiseless wings, the gentle flap of the owl's feathery pinions, the murmuring of the rivulet as it dashes against the pebbles that would oppose its course, the occasional bleating of sheep, and the lowing of the cattle in the distant valleys. Twilight, however, is but short, and we have hardly had time to observe the splendid and varied tints the retiring sun has left on the sky,

before the beauteous moon, which we have seen lighting the harvesters in their labours, appears above the horizon. The noise of the footfall now rouses the dove in the tree overhead; but instead of the heavy flapping of her wings, and the rushing of the foliage which would have been heard a few hours earlier, she remains but the more closely concealed. The hare perhaps crosses the path, the rabbits are nibbling the herbage near the hedge-bank, and the polecat and the weazel are moving about in pursuit of prey. Perhaps a badger lives in the wood; and if so, it is now astir, yet the dense underwood would hardly disclose him: but look, there is the fox returning from an attack on the roosts at the farmhouse or the barn.

But perhaps the reader has been detained too long-the dew with which the grass is laden may occasion inconvenience, and the air is cool; for

"Chill is thy breath, pale autumn." The thoughtful Christian will not fail to draw a just comparison between "the evening of the year" and the eve of his own life. As he anticipates the storms of a coming winter, and the bleak and piercing winds of December, he thinks of the dissolution which must sooner or later await him. He will have to pass down to the river of death; but trusting wholly and confidently on the merits of his once crucified, but now exalted Redeemer, he will feel his heart beat with delight in the contemplation of the period when, leaving the sordid and vain enjoyments of time, his soul shall be severed from the earthly tenement in which it has tabernacled, and shall expand its energies under the meridian sun of God's protection and love! F.S. W.

MAN, THE CHILD OF SORROW.

THERE is no need of illustrating the fact, that man, too, is the child of sorrow. A rational being must have consolation in trials. All the world over, the refuge of men in seasons of affliction is their religion; they may have other refuges, but their religion is their last resort. Many have been the professors of wisdom, and many the wise men that have lived where the Bible is not known, but there were no comforters. Philosophy tells us, when sickness invades our pillow, when pain agonizes, when

friends die, when property is gone, and when, instead of influence and honour, we suffer only dishonour and contempt, that there is no help for it, that these are evils all men must bear, and that it becomes us to bear them like men! False religions, almost without exception, endeavour to alleviate one trial only by adding another; and for the obvious reason, that they have no consolation to give ; they are not the religion man needs.

The Bible does not indeed profess to reveal a religion that exempts from adversity; it rather lays its account with afflictions: it tells men that they must expect to suffer. Nor is there anything, in any of its truths, that is designed to blunt the acuteness of natural feeling. Yet has it consolations for the hour of trial, and such as bear the test of the hottest furnace. Of the Author of our trials, it declares, that he "doth not willingly afflict, nor grieve the children of men;" that" as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." It tells of a "Great High Priest, who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities;" who "knoweth our frame," and "remembereth that we are dust;" and who "stayeth his rough wind in the day of his east wind." It teaches the children of sorrow to say, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble;" while their own response to its teachings is, "Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the God of all comfort, who comforteth us in all our tribulation!" And while it teaches men these things, it tells them too, that however severe and heavy their trials may be, they are "but for a season, for " a little moment," and shall work for them "a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." It tells them of the "trial of faith," that is "much more precious than that of gold tried in the fire;" that it redounds to "praise, honour, and glory;" so that, in the retrospect of their severest trials, they can say, "Happy is the man whom God correcteth!" As with the serenity of an angel's countenance, it tells them, that although they have fiery trials to pass through, yet have they "an inheritance, incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away.' That terrible state of mind,

suspense under apprehended and foreboding evils, finds its antidote only in the Bible. Where, in all the records of earth, is there a sentence like this,— "Casting all your care upon the Lord,