them without hesitation, as from the hand of God. But, generally speaking, is not our life made up of small occurrences, as our years are of minutes and seconds, and are not they therefore to be ascribed equally to an Almighty disposer? Our temporal and spiritual concerns are so intimately connected, and often depend so much one upon another,—the veriest trifles have sometimes such important results! An acquaintance casually formed, the going into one church in preference to another, the being thrown into the society of certain persons; on things such as these perhaps may hang the future fate of our never-dying souls. The experience of the youngest believer will enable him to bear witness to the truth of this; and no one can pause in his journey to take a retrospective glance; and "remember all the way which the Lord his God led him" without having his faith in the providential guidance of his Creator strengthened.

And is not this faith one of the most delightful fruits of true religion? Setting aside all considerations of a future world, does it not cast a cheering and hopeful glow over this, that nothing else can? There is not in the whole Bible a more soothing, peaceimparting verse than the one which enjoins us to "be careful for nothing, but in every thing by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, to let our requests be made known unto God." Yes, every thing we may lay before our Heavenly friend. To him we may take our wants and our sorrows, and spread them at his footstool, as Hezekiah did the letter of the Assyrian. And with respect to our dear friends, those beloved ones over whom our hearts are yearning with such anxious and trembling affection, what

a consolation to be able to commit them in prayer to the Lord; to plead for their temporal and spiritual welfare before Him who smiled upon the efforts of the anxious friends of the palsy-stricken sufferer. This readiness to sympathize in our feelings is one of the most lovely features in the character of our Redeemer. The desire for sympathy, the 'besoin de s'éepancher' is, I believe, among the strongest of our nature. Every one feels it in a greater or less degree. How sweet, how endearing is the bond that unites those who can enter into each other's sympathies!-imperfect as that communion must be at this side of the grave, how keenly it is enjoyed, how unspeakably attractive it is between man and man! In pouring out our hearts before our Divine friend there exist not the drawbacks that attend the best earthly intercourse. He can never misunderstand us; our secret thoughts, our desires, difficulties, motives, temptations, hopes, fears, struggles, anxieties, all are known to him: and, oh! delightful thought, he is not an high-priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, having been in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.

But to return to Ellen M. It was during her last illness that our friend Mr. who related the foregoing narrative, became first acquainted with her. She had been removed for change of air to a district of the town which he visited three days in the week, in the course of his labours of love. He said that in all his experience he had never met with a more happy believer; and so deeply interesting were his visits, that he often passed two or three hours by the bed-side of the dying girl. Her attach

ment to him was very great: she frequently said that she had now but one wish in the world, which was that he should be with her when she breathed her last. This wish she had made known to her heavenly Father, earnestly intreating to have it fulfilled. One day Mr. left home to attend a religious meeting. When he reached the place where it was to be held, he found that he was a quarter of an hour too early; and having in his pocket a pair of spectacles for an old man who lived in the same street with Ellen, he determined, though it was not his day for visiting that part of the town, to go to him with them, thinking he could be back before the meeting began. Just as he entered the street, he met a woman running towards him.

'Ah, sir,' she exclaimed, you are just in time. I was going for you. Poor Ellen M- is dying.' When Mr. entered the room, an expression of delight brightened the calm features of the expiring Christian- My prayer is answered,' she murmured, extending her hand to him, I wished you to see how happy I am, how good my Saviour is to me.'

Mr. seated himself beside her, and in a few minutes witnessed her triumphant departure for that land where death is swallowed up in victory.

ОСТОВЕК, 1837.

Ꮓ

M. F. D.

THE IRISH BIBLE.

An anecdote related by the Rev. S. Morgan, in a Sermon preached for the benefit of the Irish Society.

THE hour was spent-and calm, and slow,
Now one by one, they rose to go,
Each to his poor and lowly shed,
His cabin home, and humble bed.
Yet did sweet peace their parting cheer,
The word of life they met to hear,
As soft its healing accents fell

In that loved language prized so well,
Their mother tongue! whose life had long
Been nursed in Erin's ancient song,
And treasured in her northern clime,
Until, in Christ's appointed time,
The stranger's heart was moved to pay
The gifts he erst had ta'en away,
And once again was God's own word
In Erin's native language heard.

They parted-but amidst them, there
Was one who had no home to share,
From far, his weary feet had trod,
To hear that night the word of God.
Poor of the earth! no means had they
To bid the tired traveller stay;

They owned no hospitable store,
But bade him seek a friendly door,

Where, by his wants, at length made bold,
He spoke his need-the cause he told;
The latch was raised-the welcome given,
'Thou comest in the name of heaven!
We too would do as thou hast done;
Enter; our hearts, our hopes are one:
Poor and oppressed-through shame and ill
We love our Irish Bible still-

The board for thee we cannot spread,

Daily we live on daily bread,

Nor do these cabin walls enclose,

A bed on which thou canst repose;
We've nought but Christian sympathy-
Through the long night we'll watch with thee,
And read that book, whose sacred strain
We never thought to hear again.'

Then o'er the window, dim and small,
They bade a homely covering fall,
Lest should perchance th' unfriendly eye,
From far that midnight beam descry.
Oh soon may come that joyful day,
When, from Lough Foyle to Bantry bay,
Such lights as these at evening fall,
Shall stream from cottage, bower, and hall !

As the night watches onward roll,
More ardent grew each heaven-taught soul,
Nor hunger, cold, nor sleep were there—
They felt no want-they knew no care.
Their's was that pure, that holy glow;
That sometimes warms the heart below,