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too a sinner now it is a part of sin's dreadful effect upon the soul, that it makes him who is in sin not to know nor to feel it; it hardens the heart, and blinds the understanding. The Almighty first "convinces a man of sin," shews him his guilt, shews him that he is under the wrath of God for sin, and subject to his fearful justice: that makes a soul tremble. He then shews him how Christ paid for his sins, that to those that truly believe upon him, their sins shall not be laid to their charge, and that they shall know the blessedness of those whose transgression is forgiven. Having thus worked in them conviction of sin, and shewn them the way of pardon, he gives them "godly sorrow" for their sin. He melts their heart with a sense of their ingratitude and guilt, in having so long and so obstinately offended or despised a God of such surpassing power to punish, and yet of such long-suffering compassion to spare. He thus brings true repentance towards God, and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ," in whom the penitent " finds redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins ;" and that faith, by which the sinner is justified and counted righteous the moment he believes, is not an idle grace, but does from that moment begin to work, and purifies the heart-shews a man the spots and blemishes on it-sets him upon cleansing them-teaches him to mortify continually "all his evil and corrupt affections"-teaches him to watch every sin, as it bubbles up to the surface of his heart, and enables him to break and crush it. The same Spirit who thus gave penitence and faith, teaches the believer "what to ask for as he ought," shews him his wants, tells him how to beg for a supply of them-puts the prayer into the lips, which mounts to the throne where the Saviour stands to purify and cleanse it, and then present it to his Father. And thus the Spirit of God carries on his work even to the end; lifting up the believer when he is down-strengthening him when he is weakwarning him when he is becoming carelessteaching him when he knows not how to act; brings him through trials which refine and purify him through conflicts which "prove and humble him"-through temptations which "shew what is in his heart;" carries him through death without fear, and will hereafter present him, through Christ, holy and unblamable before God. Here, then, we have God the Saviour.

Is there not in these words of the text warning and encouragement?

There is warning: if God in his justice spared not his own Son, will he spare an unrepenting sinner? If God would not allow the world to break his holy law, without

punishing the world in Him who was worth a million worlds, will he spare the sinner who still breaks his laws? And if the wrath of God for sin bore down the eternal Son of God to the ground, and forced his heart's blood from him, what will it do to the wretched sinner on whom it falls? It will crush him to destruction. Be wise, then, O ye people, be warned every one of you; if God's justice spared not his own Son, surely he will not spare you, if you hate to be reformed, and cast his words behind you. O do not lie down in your beds to-night, till you have anxiously prayed for pardon for your sin, and begun to flee in earnest from the just wrath of this holy Lord God. He is just to forgive you through Christ, for Christ died. for sinners; but O, he will be just to punish you, if you neglect and refuse so great salvation. Be warned then, sinners, all of you, who have not truly turned to seek pardon for your sin, and seek it now; for God's very justice now binds him to forgive you, if you come to him through Christ.

But there is encouragement in the text, if you have begun to seek him, or if you have found him. He is the Saviour of all them that put their trust in him. God is honoured when you trust his mercy through Christ's merits. When you honour the Son, you honour the Father; and how can you honour the Son more than by trusting him to save your soul and sanctify your heart? "Will He, who spared not his own Son, but gave him up for us all, will he not with him freely give us all things?" Will He, who so loved us, when we were enemies to him by wicked works, when we were without any love to him whatever, will he not welcome us to his best favour when we are desirous of being his friends, and wish to leave off every thing that is displeasing to him? Will he chide and reproach us with our sins past, when we have learnt to mourn for them? or keep us back now we are seeking him, when he sought us while we did not seek but fled from him? Will he begin a work in our hearts to leave it off again? No. Whatever, then, be your state in religion, if you have begun to live to God in truth, look up to him as your Saviour. When you need his help, or want his teaching, or desire his pardon, look up to him through Christ as your friend. Cleave to him-seek him more and more, and you shall find on that day, when the just Judge shall punish the wicked and the unrelenting-when "God shall come with vengeance, even God with a recompense,"you shall find him just through Christ to save you.

A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTRY CURATE.*

I HAD been burying a corpse in a neighbouring village (at that time in commendam under my cure), and had subsequently made one or two visits upon such poor persons- the subjects of sickness or old age- -as my predecessor had officially transferred to me, when I entered the poor-house, more commonly called "the parish workhouse." We seem to have an innate acquaintance with the details of such intérieurs; and a few very aged men sitting by the fire with their hats on, and sticks in hand-though they perhaps never go out of doors;-the moping idiot, or the half-witted victim of an affliction more terrible;-some two or three women helpless, but still engaged in household occupations:-these, with the addition of an occasional fracture of a limb to some poor wayfaring man or labourer from another parish, and casualties of a similar stamp, seem naturally to compose the inmates of this asylum when the scene of it is in a village or small town. The picture suits our own poor-house. But this description will not meet the present occasion, and therefore my reader will allow me to detail another picture of the same sort of subjects.

Upon entering the outer door, I found myself in a large irregular kind of passage, which, having the door at the opposite side of the house shut, would have been dark but for the light which my entrance was the means of throwing into it. Approaching another door, I was met by the very dubious appearance of a woman, past the noon of life, with (what is called in the science of schoolboy pugilism) "a pair of black eyes," and a patch of even deeper dye, in size equal and similar to a halfcrown, upon one of her temples, and presenting altogether fair grounds for the imputation of disorderly doings. Another figure, that of a pale, thin, tall, care-worn woman, in "the evil days" of old age, was, by the time I had made these conclusions, added; and, as my first words were spoken, two or three other faces, peeping round a screen, completed the group.

"Pray, which is the mistress of the house?"

Confusion of face, and a rapid interchange of looks one at another among them, was the only answer to this inquiry. Advancing further, I discovered a man in the act of rising from his seat in "a cobbler's stall;" and when his countenance was added to the others', all of whom were women, the expression of misgiving was universal; and I was in danger of being taken for some winged minister of the law (as I conjectured) when I asked again, "Are you the master of the house?" "Yes," was the reply; "and what did you please." This untoward query I cut short, by observing blandly, and with a smile, "I am sorry to perceive that I am not known to you" (for I had been doing the public duties of the parish for some weeks, and had before frequently officiated at the church). This remark brought about either an intuitive apprehension, or a recollection of the person before them, and my name was diffidently whispered by one, and then taken up generally by the rest.

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Having inquired after the health of all within the house, I was informed that a young woman was above stairs and a-bed, who was a very poor creature." After obtaining permission to see her, I went up, accompanied by the pale old woman (her mother) and the mistress. But I must delay the account of the scene which succeeded, until the reader be made acquainted that this last-mentioned authority was the woman with the black eyes, and that from those indications of temperament which were discoverable in hers, as well as in the physiognomy of her husband, I derived sufficient, in addition to the evidence already afforded, to

• From a Country Curate's Autobiography. Smith, Elder, and Co.

London,

enable me to make my own conclusions as to the cause of all I have noticed; and probably, not many hours before my visit, this house had been the scene of that domestic turmoil which, more than any thing, shocks the general sense. With this, however, I felt that I had nothing to do; or, rather, that I should not be justified in making any remark; and therefore let us approach the bed-side of frail, perishing mortality.

The house was, generally, close and dirty; and there was in the upper part a very offensive proof of neglect and bad management, in the pent-up and pestilential atmosphere of the apartment. Every piece of furniture, of which there was a great abundance crowded together, was covered with a settled and rooted dust; the light, which might have come through the window, was obstructed by bundles, rags, and rubbish, accumulated in the little square recess which was intended to admit it; the bed, and every part of it, was filthy in appearance, and scarcely according to those rules of arrangement which every one knows. Well, upon this bed, such as it was, lay a wild-looking young woman. Grief and melancholy madness seemed contending for the dominion of her countenance-her eyes were upturned and fixed-her dark hair, not merely dishevelled, but in a state of the wildest disorder-and, lying upon her back, her naked arms were placed under her head. She had lost nearly all the use of her lower extremities, I was told, and was given up, as in a state of hopeless affliction, by the medical attendant. age I should have supposed to be nineteen.

Her

For some moments I beheld this wretched creature in a silent agony of doubt; and, when she seemed sensible (which was not at first the case) of the presence of a stranger, I endeavoured-it was a hard task-to convey, in a few words, the necessity of resignation. Desiring her to follow me, I read in the Psalms such verses as were thought most appropriate; and the sixth was entirely applicable. The poor woman appeared to follow me with her lips, but the voice I heard was more like the muttered ravings of a mind distracted by the conflicting energies of remorse and madness. O, what I felt! how my heart sank when the frightful disparity in the varied lot of this life bade me ask, "Am I less unworthy?"

I had read a short portion of the simplest Scripture I could find, and offered from the very core of my soul an extemporaneous prayer, accompanied in both by the same incoherent mutterings on the part of the poor creature. I was giving a few impressive exhortations, preparatory to leaving, when I saw move the head and outstretched arm of an infant by her side. "Is that her child?" said I to the elder mother. She sighed an affirmative-a tear sprang in the eye of the maniac-I knew the rest. Sin! sin! sin! what a load of woc came with thee to this world! She had ever been of weak intellect; and now the poor shattered vessel, weakened by nature, sin, cruelty, and crime, seemed ready to burst with a silent and mysterious grief.

We now returned to the lower apartment, where composure had been greatly restored; and the scene was augmented by the addition of two or three great boys, who sat upon a bench near the cobbler, giving directions about the nails to be put in their shoes. They stared at me with that empty but earnest gaze which bespeaks man in a state unencumbered with any notions higher than animal civilisation, kept their hats or caps on, and appeared perfectly insensible of any sort of suffering, or of any business which I could possibly have in such an abode. The remaining members of the family were two young women-one disabled from service by an affliction which rendered her what is called an object, her face being covered with the scales or incrustations of elephantiasis-the other having suffered in infancy from a disease which had left her arms and hands incapable of growth or usefulness; and these two, also, were weak in intellect.

There was something singularly affecting in the childlike simplicity with which they got up, when introduced to me by the mistress, to make an exhibition of their bodily afflictions; and, after a few cursory remarks in unison with the feelings I had brought with me down stairs, I left the house, in which dwelt more of human misery than I had hitherto been able to conceive-not without an open and apparently honest request, on the part of the master, that I would repeat my visit as soon and as often as convenient.

Not more than two or three days afterwards, the knell of death announced the release, from the gripe of earthly wretchedness, of the poor creature indeed. I never saw her again. Her end, as I was informed, was like the last few weeks of her life-without meaning, without sense, without emotion, without pain. Her mind had been a "waste howling wilderness," in which misfortune had striven in vain to cultivate the poisonous growth of sorrow and despair; her soul, therefore, passed the barrier of eternity untouched by hope, unscathed by pain, unruffled by a pang.

The day of interment had been rendered more interesting to the inhabitants of the village by the coincidence of an accident which caused another funeral to be appointed for the same time-a child, four years old, had fallen into a well and been drowned. But there were additional circumstances, which to me have rendered this day one never to be forgotten. The child of the deceased mother was brought, before the funeral, to be baptised; the mother of the ill-fated child came, after the funeral, to be churched; and, as these ceremonies contrasted affectingly with each other, so was the intermediate burial of the two corpses a season of touching reflection.

Public baptism is, under all circumstances, a ceremony peculiarly affecting; but, in this instance, the offering to God of a babe rendered fatherless by the sad consequences of lust, motherless by the stroke of death, and yet so utterly unconscious of its lot, was moving in the last degree. How strikingly, but only literally, was fulfilled the declaration of St. James, "When lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." The departed mother's brother was a sponsor; and, as I marked in his wild gaze the lineaments of his poor sister's countenance, there now and then stole down his cheek, puckered with a struggling emotion, a tear, which entered the very recesses of my heart.

Then came the burial. Some time intervened, and I went to the graves. Rain had fallen in abundance, and the snow upon the ground had also given its aid to the effect-half a foot of water was in each. "And this," thought I, "is the receptacle of these muchcherished bodies-here, in this cheerless mansion, ' each in his narrow cell for ever laid,' are to be deposited the bodies of the dead." The service came; "the lamentations of a sinner" had been sung, according to the wishes of the poor woman's survivors and the deep-rooted superstition of the parish; and each sad group stood beside a grave. Here, six young women in white bespoke the innocence of one victim; there, the humble pomp and circumstance of a pauper's grave told the past misery of the other. In the former, there were the loud sobs of maternal grief; in the latter, the blanched countenance of humble sorrow shewed how poverty and wretchedness can reconcile the mind even to the gloom of death.

Lastly-the drooping mother, having just consigned to corruption an earlier pledge, approached the altar to thank her God that, even in the midst of a mother's grief, he vouchsafed to give an earnest of the love with which he chides. She was attended by her husband and two women; and, while the tears ran down our cheeks, we all joined in a service of praise and thanksgiving, which, if service ever did, came from every heart so much more profitable is the house of mourning than the house of joy.

LITURGICAL HINTS.-No. XXXI. "Understandest thou what thou readest?"-Acts, viii. 30.

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

THE COLLECT is found in Gregory's Sacramentary, and is one of that class which were retained from ancient liturgies at the Reformation. The original Latin form stands thus: "Grant us, we beseech thee, O Lord, that both the course of the world may be peaceably directed by thy ordering, and that thy Church may rejoice in tranquil devotion. Through our Lord."

This collect is a prayer for the peace of the Church: "Grant, O Lord, we beseech thee, that the course of this world may be so peaceably ordered by thy governance, that thy Church may joyfully serve thee in all godly quietness." The peace and tranquillity of the Church ought ever to be near to the heart of the Christian; and, if it be so, he will entreat for it at the throne of grace, remembering the injunction, "Pray for the peace of Jerusalem; they shall prosper that love thee: peace be within thy walls, and prosperity within thy palaces" (Ps. cxxii. 6,7). Although the Church is distinct from the world, and God has promised to keep it evermore with jealous care, as the "apple of his eye," yet its outward comfort and repose must be in no small degree dependent upon the state of the world in the midst of which it dwells. It is, therefore, an event affecting the welfare of the Church, when God "maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; when he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder, and burneth the chariot in the fire" (Ps. xlvi. 9). And the Church is encouraged to carry her anticipations onward to a period when, "God judging among the nations, and rebuking many people, they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more" (Is. ii. 4). In the midst, therefore, of the trials to which the Church of God is called, and shall be evermore called, until "her warfare is accomplished;" in the midst of her heaviness through manifold temptations and afflictions, she derives the most solid consolation and support from knowing that "he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep" (Ps. cxxi. 4) ; that he "stilleth the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumult of the people" (Ps. lxv. 7); and that, however for a time the mixture of the evil with the good in the visible Church may dispirit the true servants of God, yet a period is coming when the "righteous shall" uninterruptedly "flourish" (Ps. lxxii. 7), and when "the people of God shall dwell in a peaceable habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting-places" (Is. xxxii. 17, 18).

The EPISTLE is 1 Pet. iii. 8-15. "As peace and love are necessary to domestic comfort, so are they to the prosperity of the Church. Christians should therefore study and pray to be all of one mind, to have compassion one of another, to love as brethren, to be compassionate and courteous;' and instead of rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing,' they should 'bless their enemies,' after his example who has called them from their state of enmity to ‘inherit a blessing.' But how astonishing and lamentable is it, that when the way to happiness is so plainly delineated, so few should find it! What man is there who does not desire life, and to live many days that he may see good? Yet how few tongues are kept from evil! how few lips from speaking guile! how few decline from evil and do good! how few seek peace and pursue it! On the contrary, how much low cunning and artifice, and what discords and contentions, reign amongst mankind; and how detestable and miserable do these perverse and ungovernable passions render us! But happy are the remnant of the righteous! The eyes of the Lord watch over them, his ears are open and attentive to their prayers, and he delights in doing them good, while he sets his face against the workers of iniquity.' Who,

then, can harm those that are followers of God as dear children, and walk in his most holy ways? Their sufferings for righteousness' sake' will prove an addition to their felicity; so that, fearing God, making him their sanctuary, and abiding safe and comfortable under his protection, they need not fear the terror of the wicked, nor be troubled' by reason of their rage and malice."*

The GOSPEL (Luke, v. 1-11) is the account of the miraculous draught of fishes. "The people in Galilee with great eagerness pressed after him to hear his instructions, not merely in the synagogues, but wherever he went. On one occasion, therefore, we perceive him delivering his doctrines by the sea-shore, and out of Peter's vessel. When this was done, that he might encourage Peter and his three companions the more cheerfully to follow him, by affording them a sort of typical representation of the wonderful effects which should be produced by their ministry, he desired them to launch into the deep, and let down their nets. Peter replied, that they had laboured all night in vain, but that, animated by his direction, they would make another attempt. He that gave the word commanded success, and proved that he was Lord of the whole creation; through his influence an immense multitude of fishes were brought to the net and taken up, so as to fill them all with amazement. The presence of the God of nature was acknowledged; and Peter in particular, overwhelmed with confusion and terror, under a sense of his unworthiness and unfitness to stand before such an exalted personage, cried out, Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord.' The Saviour, however, instantly dispersed his fears, and then explained the miracle, as exhibiting an event of far greater consequence, the success of his preaching, since from that time he should catch men.' Now they would not hesitate to devote themselves to Jesus; for what had they to dread? With readiness, therefore, they forsook their worldly occupations and connexions, no longer anxious about their nets, their ships, or their friends; and, at his invitation, became his constant followers. Nor did their Lord disappoint the hopes which he gave them. When three thousand souls were converted by their ministry on the day of Pentecost, they appeared indeed to catch men,' and a far more stupendous miracle was wrought than this draught of fishes."+

EARTHQUAKE AT CORFU.‡

Ir was a bright starlight night of uncommon brilliancy: the air calm, the atmosphere clear, the sky serene; every thing harmonised with the festivity we had just left; our minds were in unison with the feeling; the very heavens seemed to smile on our gaiety; and we laughed, as we had often done in the course of the evening, at the thoughts of an earthquake.

When the servant led me to my room, he left a large brass lamp lighted, on a ponderous carved table, on the opposite side to that on which I slept. My bed, as is usual in this island, was without a canopy, and open above. As soon as I got into it, I lay for some time gazing on the ceiling, with many pleasing ideas of persons and things floating on my mind; even the grotesque figures above were a source of amusement to me; and I remember falling into a delightful sleep while I was yet making out fancied resemblances to many persons I was acquainted with. The next sensation I recollect was one indescribably tremendous.

Rev. T. Scott's Commentary.

+ Rev. T. Robinson's Scripture Characters.

From a Residence at Constantinople, during a period including the commencement, progress, and termination of the Greek and Turkish Revolutions. By the Rev. R. Walsh, LL.D., author of "A Journey from Constantinople," "Notices of Brazil," &c. &c.

An

The lamp was still burning, but the whole room was in motion. The figures on the ceiling seemed to be animated, and were changing places; presently they were detached from above, and, with large fragments of the cornice, fell upon me and about the room. indefinable, melancholy, humming sound seemed to issue from the earth, and run along the outside of the house, with a sense of vibration that communicated an intolerable nervous feeling; and I experienced a fluctuating motion, which threw me from side to side, as if I were still on board the frigate, and overtaken by a storm. The house now seemed rent asunder

with a violent crash. A large portion of the wall fell in, split into splinters the oak table, extinguished the lamp, and left me in total darkness; while, at the same instant, the thick walls opened about me, and the blue sky, with a bright star, became for a moment visible through one of the chasms. I now threw off the bed-clothes, and attempted to escape from the tottering house; but the ruins of the wall and ceiling had so choked up the passage, that I could not open the door; and I again ran back to my bed,, and instinctively pulled over my face the thick coverlid, to protect it from the falling fragments.

Up to this period I had not the most distant conception of the cause of this commotion. The whole had passed in a few seconds; yet such was the effect of each circumstance, that they left on my mind as distinct an impression as if the succession of my ideas had been slow and regular. Still, I could assign no reason for it, but that the house was going to fall; till an incident occurred which caused the truth at once to flash on my mind. There stood in the square opposite the palazzo a tall, slender steeple of a Greek church, containing a ring of bells, which I had remarked in the day; these now began to jangle with a wild unearthly sound, as if some powerful hand had seized the edifice below, and was ringing the bells by shaking the steeple. Then it was that I had the first distinct conception of my situation. I found that the earthquake we had talked so lightly of was actually come; I felt that I was in the midst of one of those awful visitations which destroy thousands in a

moment.....

*

The elements of the earthquake seemed to have mingled themselves with the heavens. The very face of nature was changed from its mild and calm aspect to that of a perfect storm; and it was in vain we attempted to hold communication with the frigate, which we ardently wished to get on board of. Nothing could be more comfortless than our situation; the inclemency of the weather would not suffer us to remain abroad, and the tottering state of the houses did not invite us in, particularly as every hour some slight shock informed us that the convulsion was not over, and was likely to prostrate what remained of the shaken city. There was now formed a solemn procession to St. Dionysius, which I joined with the governor and some of his officers, as is usual in the Ionian Islands on the festivals of the natives. But dinary and as awful as that of the night before. Just we were interrupted by a phenomenon more extraoras we set out, the sky became as dark as pitch, the storm increased to a hurricane, and we perceived the sea close to the shore boiling as if in a cauldron. Suddenly a shower of ice burst on us from the skies, and fell with such violence as to prostrate several persons whom it struck! The fall of these congealed masses was generally broken by the roofs of houses, whence they rebounded, shattering the tiles, and rolling along the streets like cannon-balls! The procession crowded into the church as a protection against these terrific "stones," which were certainly similar to the awful hail of the Scriptures. While engaged in solemn prayer, another violent shock of an earthWe cannot help expressing our grief at such superstition receiving Protestant countenance.-ED.