Some pass through life as if asleep, making no exertion to reach heaven; but satisfied with, as they think, doing no harm, they never trouble themselves about the future, thinking God is too good to punish them, although they have never made a single effort to please him.

Others, engrossed by cares of business, by a seeking after pleasure or honor, take no thought for the morrow; and having, perhaps, much goods laid up for many years, take their ease, and when the train stops to put them out, they are surprised to find themselves so soon at the end of their journey, having made no preparation for the vast future before them.

Others again, pass through the world calmly and happily, pursuing a daily round of Christian duty, having the fear of God before their eyes, and with abundant faith in a crucified Redeemer; they know that when the train shall stop, an entrance shall be ministered unto them abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of their Lord and Saviour. Expectant friends shall welcome them, and bear them to their eternal abode of happiness and peace.

But, oh! to leave the train in the darkness of the night in a strange place, with no kind friends to bid one welcome, and with no guide to conduct to a place of safety! how sad must be the condition of such!

As we journey slowly along we can appreciate the landscape, but as the speed increases the features of the scene flit by so rapidly as to leave no impression upon the mind; the modest beauty of the prairie flower is unperceived, the grand sublimity of mountain and forest scenery is scarcely heeded. So in life, the locomotive Time urges us onward; the more slowly we move the more enjoyment can we derive from the contemplation of the beauties God has so profusely showered around us.

But there are others who are appropriately denominated "fast," who do everything in a hurry, who live fast, eat fast, spend money fast; their only concern being how to get through the day; who have no higher object than the gratification of self, saying, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die."

They feed the body and starve the soul; they clothe and decorate the carcass, whilst the immortal spark that enlivens it and gives it being, is neglected and goes out; and passing rapidly down the descending grade of life, they are finally switched off into eternity unprepared.

But there is another view of this trip, from the cradle to the grave; and then I shall cease these desultory "Reflections."

All mankind are involuntary passengers; as soon as they are born they begin to move forward towards the grave; each moment is a station, and the train scarcely stops as some passengers get out and others take their places.

Some little ones, who die in early springtime, travel but a short distance before they reach their destination, and are removed to a happier clime and immortal youth; others live to see many pass in and out, and yet they linger, but at last their turn comes too, and they have gone.

At every station there is a platform at each side of the track, and passengers get in and out both on the right and left. This is in accordance with God's plan of separating the evil and the good; as he shall say finally to those on the right hand, "Come; inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." And to those on the left, "Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire."

Some who enter from the left side, the children of ungodly parents, get out again on the right, and are saved eternally; whilst others, from the right side, trained up by pious parents, but neglecting their counsels and spurning their reproofs, pass over to the left, and are lost.

But, at length, the end of the world has come; the train stops; the engine Time is at the end of its trip; the fuel all consumed.

A gradual separation of the passengers has been taking place, so that by the time they arrive at the end of the world, the righteous are gathered into the front cars, and being disconnected from the rest of the train, are passed rapidly by a bridge over a dark river, foaming and roaring far below. This is the river of Death; the bridge, the Saviour; he bears them safely over the dark

abyss; and they are landed upon the fertile fields and flowering plains of that better country after which they had been striving. The rest, who have lived without hope and without God in the world, who have no title (ticket) to heaven but the spurious one of their own righteousness, having been collected together in the hind cars, the switch is turned by an unseen hand, the bridge is removed, and the balance of the train, with its living freight, go down, down, to inevitable despair, into that lake of fire whence the smoke of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever.

Oh sinner! delay not to seek an interest in that Redeemer who alone can bridge the river of Death. Go to him at once, wrestle and pray and seek until you find him precious to your soul; then shall your name be registered on the way bill, a genuine ticket be given you, that shall admit you into the company of those shining ones who surround the throne of the Highest, and ascribe praise and honor to the Lamb forever and

| becomes a habit, so that to do as agreed" is an exception to a general rule. A merchant buys a bill of goods, and promises to pay at a specified time. He don't keep his promise, because he can do better (?) with his money, or he is unwilling to make a sacrifice, or it is not quite convenient. Poor fellow! he has lost his character, injured his credit, and enrolled his name among the ranks of No. 2 merchants. He has lost, therefore, more than he has gained. He comes to New York and says, "It is true I allowed my note to be protested, but❞—nonsense. He puts on airs, stops at a firstclass hotel, and tries to make a sensation, but it is a failure. His reception is less cordial, he pays more for credit than before, and after making a few more such experiments, is announced as "suspended." Having time now for reflection, he wonders at God's providence, thinks it hard thus to suffer, and perhaps finally sets himself down for life a ruined man. Whoever thought of tracing their downfall to such a course?

Reader, whoever you are, regard your every promise as sacred as life itself. Do anything and everything that an honest man may do, rather than forfeit your word. -The Independent.

OPINION is the main thing which does good or harm in the world. It is our false opinions of things which ruin us. Nature has been extremely fruitful of wonders in the kingdoms that compose the British monarchy; and it is a ridiculous custom, that gentlemen of fortune should be carried away with a desire of seeing the curiosities of other countries, before they have any tolerable insight into their own. Travelling sometimes makes a wise man better, but always a fool

worse.

EXAMPLES do not authorize a fault. Vice must never plead prescription.

KNOWLEDGE is the treasure, but judgment the treasurer of a wise man.

MANY bad things are done only for custom, which will make a good practice as easy

to us as an ill one.

IT

T was one day in the early spring of the year that Gerard Steimer called his three sons, Adolphus, Henry, and the little Ber nard, to his side. In his hand he held an open letter. The tears shone in his eyes, and his voice was very sad, as he addressed them:

"You have often heard me speak, my children, of my brother Bernard, who left home many years ago to go into business in a distant country."

"Yes," they replied, and they gazed wonderingly at their parent.

"Well, my sons," he continued, " your uncle Bernard, having at last amassed a considerable fortune, had determined to return to his native village, and take up his abode with me; for we are the only two that remain of a happy family of seven brothers and five sisters," he added, as he drew his hand hastily across his eyes.

"And is uncle coming soon?" inquired Henry in an animated tone.

"He should have been here by this time, my son," replied his father, "but an all-wise Providence has ordered it otherwise; and now," he added, "I fear that you will never see him, for this letter informs me that he is lying very ill in a distant city, and he desires

me to come to him, that he may see me once more, and that I may assist him in arranging his affairs."

"And will you anxiously.

go,

father?" said Bernard

"Certainly, my child. And during my absence cousin Jacob Reimmer and his wife will come and take care of the house, for I shall probably not return until the fall, as I shall have to travel some distance; and in case of your uncle's death, there may be a great deal for me to attend to."

"Perhaps he will get well, and then you will bring him home with you."

"I fear, Bernard, that that may not be, for he writes me word that the doctors say his case is hopeless. Listen now attentively, my children, to what I am going to tell you, for it is a message to each of you from your dying uncle. He says, 'Give a handful of grain to each of your three children when you leave them to come to me, and tell them to do with it what they think best during your absence, and when you return you will decide who has made the best use of it, and will reward that one according as I shall tell you.'"

*

It is autumn. The little Bernard stood watching at the open window, when a carriage drove hastily up to the door, and the aged Gerard stepped from it, holding in his hand a small tin box.

"Oh, there is papa! there is papa!" he exclaimed.

Then the three children rushed from the

room and threw their arms around him, say. ing,

"Oh, we are so glad to see you, papa, you have been so long away."

"And I am glad to see you, too, my children, and all looking so well," replied the aged man, as he bent forward and gave them

each a kiss.

Cousin Jacob Reimmer and his wife now approached to welcome him, and he inquired of each of them how the children had behaved during his absence.

"What use has my little Bernard made of the handful of grain that I gave him?"

The child smiled, and clasping his father's hand between his own, said,

"Come with me, papa, and I will show you."

They all followed the boy as he led the way toward a field that belonged to his father, but which was situated at some distance from the house.

They all now entered the house. Gerard Steimer then placed the tin box that he held in his hand upon the table, and taking a small key from his pocket, opened it, and drew from thence the last will and testament of his brother Bernard Steimer.

All gazed sadly upon the old man, as with trembling hands he unrolled it, and said,

"I had the sad pleasure, my children, of closing my brother's eyes in peace, and of laying his remains in their last resting-place. In this will he bequeaths the whole of his property to the one that I shall decide has made the best use of the handful of grain that I gave each of you before I left home. Let me now hear, my children," he added, 66 what you have done with it."

"I," said Adolphus, "have saved mine. I put it in a small wooden box, in a dry place, and it is just as fresh as the day that you gave it to me."

"My son," said his father, in a stern voice, "you have laid by the grain, and what hath it profited thee? Nothing! So is it with wealth. Hoard it, and it yieldeth neither profit nor comfort. And you, Henry," he continued, "what have you done with your handful ?"

"I ground it to flour, papa, and had a nice sweet cake made of it, which I have eaten."

"Foolish boy!" he replied, "and it is gone, having given thee but a moment's comfort and support. So is it with money. Spend it upon thy pleasures, they also are but for a moment." The aged Gerard now turned toward his youngest son, and drawing him toward him, said:

corner of the field where grew the tall slen. der corn, which, laden with its golden ears, waved and rustled beneath the gentle breezes.

The aged Gerard smiled, and resting his hand upon Bernard's head, said, "You have done well, my son. You sowed the grain in the earth, and it has brought thee forth a bountiful harvest; to you must I award my brother's fortune. Use it as wisely as you have the handful of grain. Neither hoard it up nor spend it merely upon thine own pleasures, but bestow it upon the poor, upon the fatherless and widow, upon the little ones of Christ, and He shall remember it with a plenteous reward.

THE APPEARANCE OF EVIL.

[OT long since, a little daughter of Christian parents was spending some time with a friend, who was also a professor of religion. The community in which the lady resided was not remarkable for the strictness of its morals-drinking and card-playing were frequent attendants of any social gathering; the Sabbath was little regarded, and the sanctuary mostly unattended.

Not only young men, but mothers of young families, were drawn aside from rectitude and usefulness by the fascinations of the gaming-table. So hardened were some to the shame of a dissipated life, that when once a pastor called upon a member of his church and offered to pray with her family, the reply to her invitation to her nearest neighbor to be present was, "Tell him we are playing cards and cannot come."

The few who loved a better life, and

sought from the teachings of God's word a holier happiness, were grieved and pained; and often with tears inquired, What can we do to remedy this fearful evil? And as often the conviction came back that no remonstrance would be so effectual as the silent rebuke of consistent Christian example.

It was one day, after much thinking of these things, and particularly of the importance of avoiding the very appearance of evil, that a mother, whose precious hours were often worse than wasted in the fatal game, came to spend an hour in the professor's house. By some sort of chance the little girl spoke of playing cards. "Do you know how to play ?" inquired the visitor.

"I do," was the artless reply; "my brother has a pack."

The woman looked up with surprise and an expressive thoughtfulness; and, as if to assure herself of the truth, asked what games the child knew. "Do you know how to play cards?" was the next inquiry, turning to the professor with a meaning in the glance beyond her words. Happily her answer could, in truth, be no; but how did her heart sink within her when she thought of those who had been looked up to for an example of piety, as forfeiting the integrity of the Christian name.

Who taught those children the use of such dangerous companions of idle hours? Could the parent whose aim has professedly been to give a strictly Christian education to his family have added also to his teachings this fearful art? Could he plead its innocence in times of too much weariness for work or book or thought, and not remember the danger that its fascinations may lure the soul from better things at other times? Does every one who has formed a taste for any sort of game spend only the weary moments in its practice? Does it not rather steal many an hour that might be employed in gaining useful knowledge or doing useful service? And is it not cultivating a taste for games of chance and skill, and for the excitement of emulation and conquest? And then, too, is it avoiding the appearance of evil to give the little ones of a Christian home the opportunity to silence the lips of a professed disciple of Christ in the presence of those

whose boast is in their shame, because her own associates indulge the same disposition to such unhallowed recreation? How is Christ pained when His own people thus give the enemies of His cross such occasion to say, "What do ye more than others ?"

The circumstance of the child card-player will not soon be forgotten; but the incident will be often related, and many a scornful word will be uttered of the Christian's pretensions, and many a reproach fall upon the cause of the Christian's Master.

I

A TRUE PREACHER.

VENERATE the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,

Coincident, exhibit lucid proof

That he is honest in the sacred cause

To such I render more than mere respect,
Whose actions say, that they respect themselves.
Would I describe a preacher-such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own-
I would express him simple, grave, sincere;
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain,
And plain in manner, decent, solemn, chaste
And natural in gesture; much impressed
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds
May feel it too; affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty men.
I seek divine simplicity in him

Who handles things divine; and all besides,
Though learned with labor, and though much admired
By curious eyes and judgment ill-informed,
To me is odious.

He that negotiates between God and man,
As God's ambassador, the grand concerns
Of judgment and of mercy, should beware
Of lightness in his speech. "Tis pitiful
To court a grin, when you should woo a soul;
To break a jest, when pity should inspire
Pathetic exhortation; and to address
The skittish fancy with facetious tales,
When sent with God's commission to the heart.
Cowper.