of the gifted biographer. We shall be glad if the following extracts-a few among the many similar passages in which the volume abounds-induce any of our readers to procure and peruse the work for themselves.]

I. HER CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, Having stated that her father was Sir John Sinclair of Ulbster, and that her mother died while she was a child, the narrative proceeds :

Along with the memory of her feminine graces and endearing gentleness, Mrs Sinclair left her representatives in two little girls, almost too young to miss her, but still so like her, that, in the daughters, there was a promise that the mother would appear again. Hannah, the oldest, was five years of age, and Janet, of whom we are now to write, was only four. She was born in London on the 17th of April 1781, and during her infancy her parents resided at Westminster and Whitehall.

The first home of these motherless children was their ancestral seat, Thurso Castle. That stormy mansion looked more like a nursery for a lord of the isles, or like, what it was at first, the ocean-nest of the amphibious Caithness earls, than a retreat for tender orphans, cradled beneath a southern sun. But in that grim old castle the Orphans' Guardian had provided for them all but a mother's care. Not only was it the frequent resort of their fond surviving parent, but it was the permanent abode of their paternal grandmother, a Scottish gentlewoman of the olden school, shrewd, energetic, notable, proud of her ancient lineage, and, as became the descendant of that venerable peer who first affixed his tremulous autograph to Scotland's Covenant, a firm adherent to the Presbyterian polity; one who looked well to the ways of her household, and indited hortatory epistles to youthful clergymen; but also one who, amidst all the strictness of a manager, and all the stateliness of a high-born dame, carried about that constitutional kindliness, and those profound affections, which-like a deep well, fenced with rustic masonry-the old mothers of Scotland sometimes hid within a dry or stoic manner. Lady Janet now lived for the daughters of her son, and though perhaps imperfectly acquainted with the distinguishing truths of the gospel, it was her anxiety to bring up her youthful charge religiously. She constantly took them to the parish church, and then examined them on the sermons they had heard, and required them every Sabbath to repeat to her a psalm and the Shorter Catechism. At the castle also resided their father's sister, a kind lady, who, throughout her long life, never ceased to be much loved by her nieces. And there, too, sojourned a judicious and affectionate servant-the English nurse, Morris-to whose warmhearted counsels and simple Bible lessons her youthful charge were at that period more indebted than to any human influence. Herself a guileless and Godfearing Christian, this faithful attendant imbued the minds of her young mistresses with much of her own truthfulness and reverence for sacred things. One Sabbath Miss Jessie came in with a lapful of live shellfish, which she had gathered on the shore at a great distance from the castle. "I think, my dear," said Morris, "you should not have gathered them on the Sabbath-day; you had better put them again where you got them." Miss Jessie disappeared, and was late of returning. She had scrambled back the whole way along that rocky coast, till she came as nearly as she could judge to the spot where she had found the periwinkles, and then put them carefully back again. To her latest day she retained the simplicity and ingenuousness, as well as the respect for

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the Sabbath, which she learned thus early; and to her latest day Nurse Morris experienced the gratitude of the Misses Sinclair, who provided her with an ample annuity, and were careful that in health, us in sickness, she should want no comfort which money could procure.

From Thurso Castle it was a grand sight to view the Pentland Firth in its winter's fury; and the sisters often viewed it. On the short December

days-in Caithness extremely short-they would stand and watch as one long wave after another swung home, and exploded beneath them; till at last some monster billow, with skirmishers streaming before him, rolled up to the charge, and, as he burst on the basement, the windows were washed with brine, and the old tower shook like a lighthouse. To gaze on that stormy ocean, and listen to its noisy anthem, were great lessons; and even in these our days of infant training it might be well if more provision were made for such bookless education, and the young mind were permitted to commune more freely with nature in her wild and gentle moods. The subject of this memoir often reverted to the solemn and awe-struck emotions with which she used to survey the many waves of that mighty sea. Το her it lived. In its gambols it was a familiar and a playfellow; in its turmoil it was a preacher of Jehovah's majesty; and, when formal instructions had nearly faded from remembrance, she was still conscious of lofty thoughts, and grave impressions, de rived from this august but kindly tutor.

From Thurso Castle Lady Janet brought her granddaughters to Edinburgh. There, for three years, they dwelt in the ancient Canongate, whose quaint houses were still occupied by such of the aristocracy as had not migrated to the New Town; and then, to complete their education, they were sent to the school at Stoke Newington, where their own mother had spent her youthful days. They made signal proficiency; and when, at the respective ages of fifteen and sixteen, they returned to Edinburgh, in person and acquirements advanced beyond their years, they found a ready welcome into that brilliant society to which their birth was a passport, and into which their kind mother-in-law, Lady Sinclair, rejoiced to introduce them.

However, it was the great happiness of the sisters that even then they had no love of fashion, and no turn for gaiety. And it was their other great happiness that they had an ardent love for one another. Hannah was a student. Even during her childish days at Thurso, she had nearly as many friends as there were books in her father's library. She knew the haunt of each, and, climbing on a chair, got hold of her favourite poet or divine, and sat demurely reading, whilst the summer tempted her to play. To her it was the great event, not when the carrier brought a package of new toys, but a parcel of new volumes; and when ministers and learned people visited the castle, she posed them with hard questions. At school the same tendency bewrayed itself. Her turn was still for thought and knowledge. She was fond of languages; she was an adept in grammar, history, geography, arithmetic; she could calculate an eclipse, or analyse "Reid's Inquiry." And, as might be expected, she was sedate and speculative, and often silent. From extreme modesty, reserved, she was still more self-contained, because amongst companions of her own sex she seldom found much sympathy in her intellectual pursuits. But Jessie was more lively. Dutiful and diligent, and considerate of each one's feelings, she was full of merry life and social glee. There was health in her nimble step, and a prepossession in her fair and open features, and a peculiar charm in her

tuneful voice. To her sister's turn for music she added a remarkable command of the pencil; and whilst her sister pored over problems and deep authors, Jessie read for information. Her sister pondered and reasoned, and carried with her a mind full of queries and surmises; but Jessie seemed to have an innate affinity for things "honest, lovely, and of good report," almost akin to Christian faith. At first sight contrasts, their characters were really the complement of one another. Their diversity increased their fondness, and enabled the one to supply what the other lacked. For her erudite and thoughtful sister the younger felt an admiring and up-looking deference; whilst the limpid perceptions and true instincts of that younger mind often proved lights in dark places to the more abstract inquirer.

At that period Dr Walter Buchanan was one of the ministers of Canongate. His warm and affectionate nature had been cast in the mould of the gospel, and as it shone from his happy countenance, and breathed in his gracious words, holiness was very beautiful. The sisters looked at him with reverence. They had been told a great deal about religion, and they thought of it as something strict and precise; but they had never met any thing so fascinating as they saw in their saintly pastor. They were quite arrested. Even amidst gay parties and volatile companions, there followed them many a reminiscence of those fervent intercessions and persuasive counsels to which they had hearkened on the previous Sabbath. At last one day Miss Sinclair said to her sister, "If to obtain eternal life, we have only to practise goodness; if we have only to do what is right in the sight of God and avoid what is evil, I am sure it would be folly not to make the attempt." And the proposal was made to one who had already been pondering the matter in her own mind, and who was beginning to be much impressed with the value of her soul and the uncertainty of life. The two resolved to become religious. They often retired and read the Bible together, and became very exact in devotional exercises. But still they were not satisfied. They saw that their pastor, and Christians like him, "had bread to eat which they knew not of," and they longed for this hidden manna. this time they found on their father's table a theological treatise, newly published, and inscribed, "From the Author." It was "A Practical View of the Religious System of Professed Christians in the Higher and Middle Classes, by William Wilberforce, M.P" It seemed the very book they wanted. They carried it off to their own apartments, and perused it with avidity. They could easily recognise in it the same system of evangelical doctrine which their minister preached, and, as one truth after another unfolded in the bland and eloquent expositions of the gifted author, they were transported with delight. In the precision of a printed book, and in the free, inartificial language of a layman, they understood the gospel. In Christ believed they found their peace with God; in Christ loved they learned a new morality. It was Dr Buchanan's scriptural preaching and elevated walk which first prepossessed them in favour of vital godliness, and which long continued to be the chief means of building them up in faith and holiness; but it was the "Practical View which first corrected their self-righteous errors, and first taught them God's own method-the religion of receiving and relying.

At

After this the Canongate Church was dearer than ever. With sacred delight they hailed the return of the Sabbath, and to them the most hallowed spots in the world were the dusky pulpit in which re-appeared that man of God, and their own family pew with its faded lining of green baize.

With its brown light, its heavy pillars, and clumsy sounding-board, and with an audience becoming rapidly more and more plebeian, that sanctuary had charms which more classical structures and more fashionable resorts could never countervail. It was the Bethel where God first met them; and, during each sojourn in Edinburgh, the youngest sister used always to revisit it, till shortly before the time when she arrived at "her Father's house in peace."

Now also was found the benefit of "two walking together." Miss Sinclair's seriousness and reflectiveness at an earlier period had proved of essential service to Miss Janet; and now that service was requitted, for, indulging the metaphysical propensity of her mind, Miss Sinclair was soon involved in perplexity as to the primary truths of revelation. The doctrines of the Trinity, the incarnation, the eternity of future punishment, the Divine sovereignty, all in succession proved stumbling-blocks; and, though much distressed at her own reluctant doubts, she had not within her own resources the means of removing them. In spiritual matters her only confidant was her younger sister; but a mind like hers could not have sought a better counsellor. To Miss Janet the gospel had always been its own witness. She cared not to reason about "fate, free-will, foreknowledge, knowledge absolute;" but she saw the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. To her the religion of the Bible was beautiful. To her, in his revealed character, God was light, and she perceived no darkness at all. To her the Bible was truth, and te gospel was the wisdom of God. And, instead of debating with her sister, she directed her mind to the same objects which had assured herself. That which she had seen of the Word of Life she declared to her disquieted friend; and by dwelling on the fitness of the gospel, and the loveliness of the Saviour's character, and by urging her to pray, she sought to bring that friend to "fellowship with the Father, and with his Son Jesus Christ." And she succeeded. By means of the more prominent and practical truths of Christianity, she conjured away her sister's abstruser doubts and intellectual difficulties, and had the happiness to see that dearest of her kindred a sharer of her own ingenuous and healthful piety. Our language contains few summaries of evangelical Christianity more simple and comprehensive than Hannah Sinclair's "Letter on the Principles of the Christian Faith;" and in reading it we feel our interest deepened by remembering, that this labour of sisterly love is in good measure the result of sisterly prudence and piety; for, under the blessing of God the Spirit, it was her younger sister's meekness of wisdom and simplicity in Christ which mainly contributed to establish Hannah Sinclair in the "Christian Faith."

But an event had now occurred which, whilst it left them attached as ever, interrupted their daily communings. On the 13th of June 1799, and in the nineteenth year of her age, Miss Janet Sinclair was united in marriage to James, eldest son of Sir James Colquhoun of Luss, Baronet.

.....

II. HER MARRIED LIFE.

However, during the first years of her married life, Lady Colquhoun had much reason to lament the want of Christian society. Her spirit craved for it. All her desire was towards the excellent of the earth; and when, with letters of introduction, pious strangers took their place at her table, or turned aside to tarry for a night, she had towards them a venerating feeling, as if they were angels of God. But usually it was in vain that she longed to have spiritual conversation with them. They assumed that she was like most gentlewomen of that day,--more amiable and interesting than many, but as destitute of real

religion as the rest. And then, when they had passed on their way, and when it would have been equally just to have charged the lost opportunity to their excessive prudence or erroneous politeness, her sensitive spirit took home all the blame, and she upbraided herself for her sinful timidity. On the other hand, in the visiting circle of her own neighbourhood there were at that time few, at least few known to her, in whose intercourse she could find spiritual invigoration or intellectual enjoyment. Amongst the landed aristocracy of Scotland there were then less mental expansion and less religious enlightenment than in the middling class of towns-people, and much less than amongst their own modern representatives. Political rancour was extremely virulent. The prejudice against evangelical Christianity was nearly universal. And if the gentlemen did not drink so freely, nor swear so coarsely as a bygone generation, they did not read their Bibles more, nor keep the Sabbath better. Card parties, elaborate carriage airings, and the news of the neighbourhood, were the recreations of their wives and daughters; but few took pains to cultivate their minds, and still fewer were engaged in works of usefulness; so that, in the general absence of literary tastes and refined enjoyments, the houses of our Scotch grandees repeated with awful uniformity the same scenes of pompous inanity and stolid merry-making. And although there were exceptions, all the more prized for their rarity, it was rather by an effort of benevolence, than in obedience to her natural inclinations, that the young lady of the manor paid visits which added nothing to her mental resources, and often left repentant misgivings in her devout and conscientious mind.

This comparative isolation was not without its benefits. It gave a more personal character to her piety. Instead of deriving all her impressions and impulses from ardent or endearing friends, her religion increasingly became communion with the Saviour. And it left her more leisure for that employment into which she had thrown all her soul-the instruction and training of her children. And, whilst it prepared her for hailing with peculiar delight the congenial intercourse at length so abundantly vouchsafed to her, it drew her in the meanwhile with especial tenderness towards such humble disciples as the parish then contained- those "poor" whom the Lord had promised that she should "have always."

III. THE DEATH OF HER SISTER.

Hitherto the summers of Rossdhu had been often cheered by long visits from a beloved sister; but the last of these had now been paid, and, in the spring of 1818, that sister lay a dying invalid at Ham Common, in Surrey. There, besides the affectionate assiduities of her own family, she was favoured with occasional visits from a faithful minister of Christ, and the frequent society of an attached Christian friend. Lady Colquhoun could not come to her, but, on this very account, her supplications were the more ceaseless, and her solicitude relieved itself in letters, which, for their sisterly tenderness and faithfulness, proved the chief cordial of the weary sufferer. In penning them the fond writer sought help from a Wonderful Counsellor, and, as they were full of His wisdom, as well as her own warm-heartedness, they always arrived like "words in season." Miss Sinclair kept them under her pillow, and used to have them often read over to her.

The following extracts from her Journal show how the mind of Lady Colquhoun was exercised during this anxious spring:

"Rossdhu, March 8, 1818.-After church, was quite overcome by receiving two or three lines from

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my dearest Hannah, written with great difficulty and in much weakness, but expressive of the composure of her mind and resignation to every issue. O my God! I will praise thee! Yes, I will praise thee even in the fire of affliction, when thus tempered with mercy.

April 12.-It has pleased the Lord to lay his afflicting hand upon me; but it has also pleased him in great mercy to support me. I heard yesterday that my dearest sister is no better, and getting still weaker. I have been agitated, but quite resigned; and I see so much, so very much mercy in every part of the dispensation, that I dare do nothing but lie quietly in the hand of God. After some thought, I wrote her a letter telling her of her danger. O how was I puzzled how to frame it! but I trust my pen was guided by an invisible hand. O Lord, accompany this bit of paper; be with her when she opens it; support her spirits; give her triumph in the thought of death! I trusted to the direction; may it answer the end for which I wrote it! Employed much as usual to-day; but in the evening felt nervous and unwell. Still I have the greatest possible confidence in the safety of the dear saint. I cannot mourn as those who have no hope, and I could not have believed that I should be so tranquil.

"26.-Oh! I am cold and dead at present. I am indeed worthless-my services worthless, my heart worthless. I feel some pleasure in writing these lines, and making this acknowledgment. In glory, and there alone, shall I love and serve my God. And heaven is mine-freely and without money, mine. Had not Christ died, my portion were hell. Had the happiness yesterday to hear that dear Hannah is no worse, and that Mr Gandy and Miss Massie were to see her. How kindly is God dealing with her; and thus he deals with all who are his!

"May 10.-Prayed with sincerity in the morning, and laid all my burdens on my covenant God; for burdens I have, and one very heavy to be borne. All hope is over. Dear, dear Hannah is much worse, and I look for her death every day. Still, Lord! thou art faithful, thou art kind. Did not I pray for evidence as to her eternal state? and is not my prayer fully answered? Is she not every thing I could wish? -a pattern of meekness, patience, long-suffering, faith? What would I have more? Must she be detained from glory because I cannot part with her? No, Lord! I would only still further implore that thy everlasting arms may enfold her now and for evermore; that her passage through the dark valley, which is but a 'shadow, may be easy, and that thou wouldst be graciously pleased to support me, thy poor afflicted servant, and sanctify it to me.

"17.-Received a very gratifying letter from my sister Catherine; not that my Hannah is getting better: my dear saint must go to her blissful home; but I was gratified with the affection expressed for her and me, and above all, with the piety which appeared in it. There is the fruit of my Hannah's labours.

"24.-My beloved sister still lives; at least I have not heard of her death. O how hard it is to give up one so truly dear! yet I feel resigned. My heart is sometimes rent, especially when I hear any thing of her affection for me; but, in general, I am calm to a miracle. God has done it. In this trying dispensation, how kind has he been to me, warning me for eleven years of its approach, and at last taking her in the gentlest manner. I trust, too, it has already been sanctified! My heart has been raised to Jesus. and I have been enabled, in a faltering manner, to lean on the Beloved. Could I but know this dear Lord, I should trust him.

"Tuesday, 26.-Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest! I have just heard that my beloved Hannah is in glory! What cause for praise! Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God, and his Father, to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.' Sweetest saint, thou art now far removed from me; but far also from sin and sorrow, and enjoying the presence and the smiles of Jesus. O that my end may be peaceful like thine! Not a fear disturbed thy serene composure, and thou slippedst gently away, as if afraid of disturbing others. O my Hannah hardly shall I find thy equal to me! yet could raising a finger bring thee back, I would not be so cruel. Though I must sojourn here a longer or shorter time without my darling sister, have we not an eternity to spend together? Let me rejoice in the thought. O'that I could raise this dead heart above the world! My God! sanctify this event to me, and accept my praise for thy great kindness to the dear departed, and for so wonderfully supporting me.

"31.-Beloved Hannah ! I would once more write a little to thy beloved memory. What a heart was thine!-filled with the desire of doing the will of God, and of conferring good on all around thee. Yet, hadst thou died some years ago, I should not have been so confident of the safety of thy state. God heard my prayers, and completely established thee in the faith, and now I have nothing to say but Alleluia: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honour to him; for the marriage of the Lamb is come, and his wife hath made herself ready. And to her was granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen: for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints." Read to myself and Sir James. Read to my children with much enlargement. At night prayed with tears. Even my prayers distress me, for I used always to pray for my dear departed Hannah. I cannot omit her name, so I turn it into thanksgivings for God's goodness to her." Miss Sinclair died on the 22d of May, and soon after her death a little volume was published, containing her own beautiful "Letter on the Principles of the Christian Faith," and a brief memoir from Legh Richmond's happy and descriptive pen. In its accessible pages the reader may learn more fully how worthy was Hannah Sinclair of her sister's devoted love, and how full of immortality was the hope which sparkled amidst that sister's tears; and it is only for us to add, how fraught with peaceful fruits to the survivor was this long and deeply-felt affliction. These chapters may be read by some who have sustained recent bereavements; if so, may their sorrow in like manner be sanctified!

And, perhaps, the most natural effect of this trial on a mind like hers, was the effect which Calvin's death produced on Beza: "Now is heaven more dear, and death less dreadful." She had learned how lightsome the Saviour can make the dark valley, and she almost wished that she had traversed it when he "door of hope "opened so wide, and let so much of glory shine athwart it. And she could think of the better country more vividly, because one so amiliar was there. To quote some of the simple rhymes into which about this period her contempla

tions often ran :—

"In sweet surprise that anthem swelling
With notes of joy and love;
What seraph's form is this that treads
Jerusalem's courts above?

"That form. methinks, I yet should know; That heart, it once was mine;

And still, my Hannah, does my soul
Unite in love to thine.

"Together, from our earliest years,

In every thought united,-
Each in the other's grief downcast,
In th' other's joy delighted.
"O may we still such union prove,
And one in Christ be found;
And through one glad eternity

The Saviour's praise resound!" Arrayed in the deep mourning, which was little needed to remind her of her loss, many were the solitary walks she now took in the garden, and in the sequestered bypaths of the "Policy;" and there, or seated on the margin of the silvery lake, she loved to meditate on the multitude before the throne: and just as in that multitude she recognised one dear as her own soul, for that dear one's sake "the Lamb in the midst of the throne" became yet dearer. Nor was it long till the sisterly thoughts, which used to travel to England, as naturally ascended to heaven.

But along with this result came another, as important. For many years she had ceased to live unto herself; but up to this period her solicitude and self-denial had been mainly for her husband, her children, and her immediate family circle. This providence, however, broke open a door of exit, and bade her seek a wider sphere. She received it as a personal message, and, admonished that "the time is short," she looked eagerly around for opportunities of larger usefulness.

(To be continued.)

CONSCIENCE-A PREACHER.

1. HE has been regularly inducted into office. He was called to the work by the highest authority; and the validity of his ordination has never been disputed. Much as some of his sermons have been disliked, I believe all the denominations claim him as belonging to them, and it is well to see a point in which they are all agreed.

2. He is certainly an old preacher. The first parents had a specimen of his preaching before they left Eden, and he has not failed of preaching somewhere a day, if he has an hour, since. Some people think a minister should stop preaching after a certain age, and I think some would be glad if this old preacher would stop. And some have taken a good deal of pains to stop him. But I never heard of their success. Indeed, I have known cases when the more they opposed him and tried to put him down, the louder he preached, and they had to give it up. Notwithstanding his age, he has lost nothing of the power and vigour of his voice. From what I know of him, I should not think that age, however great, will ever stop him, or any other agency, but the authority which first set him to work.

3. He is a very discriminating preacher. He is an archer that seldom loses an arrow. He comes dito do there. The hearer has no difficulty in ascerrectly home to men's bosoms, as if he had something taining what he is about. "What would he be at ?"

is often asked under sermons, but not when Conscience is in the pulpit.

4. He is a bold preacher. Scowls, frowns, and threats are all lost upon him. What he has to say, he says right on, no matter who is in the audience. He does not wait for people to come to specified places to hear him he fearlessly goes after them

into the parlour or the palace, lifts his voice to the king on the throne, utters his rebukes in the hall of revelry or the den of robbers. There is no timidity or cowardice about him. He tells the truth out and out, without any kind of compromise, or any sort of reference to the feelings of his auditors. It may raise a dreadful storm in the bosom, and hate they may the preacher most cordially; but he lays on the match without shrinking, and it matters not who stands in the way of the shot.

5. He is certainly a very awakening preacher. People who are good at the business of sleeping under other preachers, never get asleep under this one. The moment he begins, all previous drowsiness departs. Most people had rather be asleep when he preaches. And hard many of them try to reach such a state of unconsciousness. But he knows what chord to strike to keep them awake, and awake they will be while he is in the pulpit, take what pains they may to be slumberers. One of his gentlest whispers will make sleep an exile; and when he speaks in the fulness of his power, it is as if every bone was breaking, and every nerve was snapping. The crash of all nature about his ears would not more effectually keep the hearer awake.

6. He always has something to say when he preaches. Some preachers get along somehow without this. They can have utterance by the hour, and say but little-some of them nothing. But all who have heard this preacher affirm that there ever was sound and solid matter in his discourse. He has no rhetorical flourishes-no tricks and subtleties of speech-no sound in the place of sense-no thunder without lightning. He has a message where he goes —an earnest and important errand, whomsoever he addresses. He crowds a good deal into a small space, and makes the hearer feel there is abundance of matter in a few words.

7. He is a very effective preacher. Some preachers seem to have no more effect upon their hearers than a child's breath in stopping a hurricane. But hard hearts have melted, iron wills have bowed, deeply-loved objects have been forsaken, inveterate sinful habits have been abandoned, the very deepest depths of the human soul have been stirred: all these things have been done by this preacher. Effective! Look at David wetting with his tears the parchment on which he wrote the fifty-first Psalm! Look at the king of Babylon as his eye fell on the hand-writing on the wall! Look at Judas as he dashed on the pavement of the temple the price of the betrayal of his Lord! And then at Peter weeping bitterly over his denial of him. Here was preaching to some purpose-and conscience did it. And there never was a human being deeply and powerfully moved by the grand and momentous interests of religion, but this preacher had been uttering his terrible voice in the depths of the guilty soul. Verily the history of human hearts testifies he is an effective preacher.

8. He preaches every where. Preaching is usually done at stated times and places. But here is a preacher who has no confinement of this sort, and he can skilfully adapt his discourse to any capacity. There goes a pouting stubborn child; this preacher

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is there. There is a reckless and ungodly young man, and the preacher is there. He is preaching in that parlour, where domestic peace is broken by a profligate husband or an ill-tempered wife. He is down in that forecastle, making that wicked sailor tremble. He is shaking a thousand people with fear in that great congregation, and at the same time he has gone out on that pleasure excursion, and is making the ears of those Sabbath-breakers tingle. He makes the open villains of yonder penitentiary hear him, and so he does the but a little smaller villains who are yonder, at midnight, counting the day's hard bargains. While he thunders in the ears of that impious blasphemer, he sharply admonishes that professed disciple's omission of prayer. He is the greatest busybody about preaching ever known. In season and out of season, night and day-at home, abroad-on the land, on the sea-in cell, or attic, or parlour, he drives a great business. He is never tired, never frightened, never sick, never discouraged, never dies. As one generation of his hearers passes away he makes the next his auditors-always, therefore, has plenty to hear him, and hear him they must, though the majority hate most intensely the preacher and his subject.

9. He will never stop preaching. He not only preaches this side the grave, but beyond it. All who have heard him here will also hear him there. He will preach in heaven. All the audience then will love to hear him. When they were in the world for a while, they disliked the preacher as much as any others. But after the working of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Ghost, they came to take great pleasure in this preacher before they died. And now in glory they like him better than ever. It is one of the highest pleasures of that world to hear him. He has not a word to say that does not fall on their ears like the sound of the most delightful music.

And

But he will preach elsewhere than in heaven. No preaching in this world was so loud as his to prevent people going to the world of woe. But they would not hear him. They tried to fill their ears with every other sound rather than with his voice. they did get rid of him for long periods together, and hoped they should never hear him again. But they will. He will preach the louder for all the illtreatment given him in this world. He will preach some old sermons which it will be any thing but a comfort to hear. And he will have a great many texts furnished by the hearers themselves. And he will preach long. They had short sermons from him once, and those were too long for them, and thankful were they when he was done. But he will keep on preaching, though his hearers may "say in the morning, Would God it were evening! and in the evening, Would God it were morning! should inquire when he will stop, there will be but one answer-Their worm dieth not! Who will be the happy and who the sad hearers of this Great PREACHER?-N. Y. Observer.

WHERE IS IT?

And to any who

"IT was here-I had it; but while I was thinking what I would do with it, it fled, and now I cannot