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Final Perseverance disproved.

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purpose; they remained unfruitful, and in a manner not to the purpose, we must were obnoxious to the heaviest punish- conclude real Christians are intended in the passages.

ment.

Nor is the manner in which the apostle addresses the Hebrews, in saying, he was persuaded better things of them, and things which accompanied salvation, though he thus spoke, in the least opposed to this view of the passage. He indulged the persuasion that they would not apostatize from the truth, so as to render their salvation impossible; but that, on the other hand, they would be stedfast unto the end in their christian profession; and this he might consistently do, without its being supposed that one truly converted can never afterwards fall away and perish. It was meet in him to think thus concerning them, unless they had given him reason to apprehend otherwise; which they seem not to have done, though their progress in religion had not been the most commendable, Heb. v. 11. And while it was reasonable in the apostle to entertain such an opinion of the Hebrews, there was a propriety in his expressing it; especially after the strong disapprobation he had just before expressed of their conduct, as not having made a greater advancement in the divine life. Any unpleasant feeling which might be on that account excited against him, and any discouragement they might feel, would be likely by that means to be removed, and they stimulated to act in a manner corresponding with the opinion entertained of them.

The view of the passage here contended for, is further strengthened by the consideration that it suits the design of the inspired writer in addressing it to the Hebrews. He is in the context exhorting them to greater diligence and zeal in their Christian course; observing, that while from the time they ought to be teachers, they had need one taught them again the first principles of the oracles of God; and urging them to lay aside the principles of the doctrine of Christ, and to go on to perfection. To enforce a regard to his exhortation, he sets before them the awful consequences of apostacy. But if they were in no danger of this, if this could not possibly befall them; why say any thing to them about it? In that case all was irrelevant. The Hebrews might have replied, What you say is proper in its place, but what is it to us? We have been renewed, and our falling away is out of the question you would have us fear where no fear is.-Unless then we suppose the apostle forgot himself, and wrote

This sense of the words is in exact correspondence with the rest of the epistle, as well as with the scriptures in general. In the second chapter, verse the first, the inspired author observes, "We ought to give the more earnest heed to the things which we have heard, lest at any time we should let them slip." Whom is he addressing? and what does he mean by letting slip? Doubtless he is addressing the Hebrews in general; and by "letting slip," he means, letting go the truth; and letting it go in such a manner as to be lost: for he immediately adds, "How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation!" In the third chapter, verse the twelfth, he exhorts, "Take heed, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief, in departing from the living God." Here all are addressed, and all are addressed as brethren, and cautioned against departing from the living God. Consequently they had acquaintance and interview with the living God, and were in a state of acceptance. They are cautioned against departing from him by an evil heart of unbelief; such a departure, therefore, as must, have exposed them to perdition. But why so, if a believer cannot fall away so as to perish? In chapter the tenth, verse the thirty-eighth, we read, "Now the just shall live by faith; but if he draw back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him." I quote according to the original; the words any man being improperly added in the common version. The translators, like J. J. and many others, were opposed to the sentiment that one converted can be lost; and apparently, lest this text should seem to countenance that idea, they supplied the words in question. But the apostle wrote merely και εαν υποστειληται; if he draw back; the only antecedent from which the nominative can be supplied, being the just man mentioned in the preceding clause: here again, then, the inspired writer supposed a just man might draw back, so as for God to have no pleasure in him. We see then the whole strain of the epistle, from beginning to end, agrees with the idea, that in chap. vi. 4-6. regenerate persons are intended.

What J. J. says on my observations on 1 John ii. 19, amounts merely to this, that he had taken up an opinion concerning it, that had no foundation. I still repeat that this text, if it proves any thing, proves too much to be of any avail to

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Recollections of the Past.

him; it proves not only that a Christian cannot fall away totally, but that he cannot even partially.

I have no wish to prolong the discussion, and do not purpose to take up my pen again respecting it, unless J. J. should advance different arguments from those he has yet adduced; or should wish to go into the controversy at length on the doctrine of perseverance. In that case, with your leave, sir, I shall be willing to exchange a few more papers with him. Praying that each of us may give diligence to make his calling and election sure, I remain yours, respectfully, March 23, 1829.

J. W.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PAST.

"The veriest wretch on earth Doth cherish in some corner of his heart, Some thoughts that make that heart a sanctuary For pilgrim-dreams, in midnight-hour to visit, And weep and worship there." Maturin's Bertram.

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the solemn silence of the sunset-hour;and as the music of the rookery, mellowed by distance, floated on the balmy airand the trees threw their lengthened shadow on the green carpet of nature-and the "Joyous canopy of clouds," reposing in the golden west reflected a lovely tint on the sylvan scenery of the Park-my mind caught the inspiration of the hour, and I felt that there are "thoughts that lie too deep for tears,"-feelings which may be realized, but never expressed. But those days are fled,-fled for ever; Spring returns, but the "joy dreams of romantic childhood" will never return. I may visit those scenes again,--but in the pleasures I once enjoyed, I may never more participate; the faces which were wont to smile a welcome on me, would be missing, and I should only have returned to weep over withered pleasures and hopes, like flowers blighted in their bloom. Again,' and again, has death visited our family ;-my father is laid in his long home in Yorkshire; and the Cambrian grass waves over the grave of my mother.

How often does memory turn to the past, -and, as she summons "the thousand dramas of our days gone by," and rescues "A change came o'er the spirit of my from oblivion many 66 green spots in me- dream,"-I was again at Oxford; the city mory's waste;" we can live over again in of palaces rose on the orb of my mind. recollection the happiest days of our lives, Invested as it is with the charm of sacredand again converse and associate withness, which learning, religion, and anti"the loved, the lost, the distant, and the dead." Indulging in this mood one evening, a few of the past scenes of my chequered life rose in review before me.

I was again a child,-breathing the salubrious and bracing air of Hampshire. I reverted to the time, when, in the still twilight of a summer's evening, I was kneeling at the feet of my mother, she who first taught my infant lips to lisp a prayer to the Almighty. Oh what a lovely occupation is that!

"Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot." But far more exceedingly delightful to direct the aspirations of childhood to the throne of mercy,-to teach the young idea to direct its thoughts and affections to that Benefactor who crowns our lives with loving-kindness and tender-mercies, to teach it to bow the knee morning and evening, at the footstool of Him, who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me," and to teach it to join the family circle, in offering up a choral hymn, the sacrifice of prayer and praise; nor would that sacrifice be less acceptable, as offered to the Most High by children.

I now imagine myself gamboling in all the gaiety of childhood, beneath the majestic elms of Hackwood Park, during

quity conspire to give it,-I contemplated that splendid city with mingled emotions of veneration and delight. The dome of the cathedral rises from the midst of that magnificent panorama, with a dignity superior to the adjoining buildings, which seem vying with each other in altitude and beauty. The prince and the father of English rivers, the Thames, nearly encircles the city, and appears to flow with an additional gravity, when he reaches this classic neighbourhood, as, in respect to the University he reflects on his bosom. But if the tout-ensemble is charming, a nearer and closer inspection of this farfamed city is equally so. As I proceeded along the High-street, (which is said to be "one of the handsomest in Great Britain,") college after college, each appearing more venerable than the former, passed by me in proud array, as though conscious of the interest they excite in the mind of a stranger; and, as professors and students bustled by in their gowns and caps, the recollection was forced upon me, that I was in the first University in the world; and my mind paid involuntary homage to a place so renowned for learning, and venerable for antiquity.

But the many-towered city faded from my mind's eye, and I was again a visitor

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The Lord loveth a cheerful Giver.

at the "time-honoured" ruins of Fountain's Abbey. I had been viewing buildings glorious and magnificent, in their preservation from the devastations of time, now I was gazing on ruins. I wandered down its grass-grown aisles,-I trod with solemn step, the sacred sanctuary of the dead, and I felt an awe pervading my feelings, while the thought came across my mind,-If the Abbey is thus grand in ruins, what was it in its primeval splendour? My imagination was busy, the building no longer shewed any "rents of ruin," the ivy disappeared from the walls, the fretted roof again darkened the tesselated floor, from which the grass was removed, the altar shone resplendent with the blaze of tapers, monks, habited in the costume of the Benedictine order, peopled the splendid chapel, the imposing service of the Romish church commenced, and anthem after anthem died through the magnificent pile, with all the effect that the rich harmony of sacred music could give it. But "all that's bright must fade;" so faded my daydream; my imagination no longer lorded it over my senses, and the Abbey again appeared in its true character.

A ruined abbey presents to the eye of the mere poet or moralist, an interesting appearance; the poet may sing its praise in "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," and to the moralist it may read a striking lesson of the instability of worldly enjoyments and pursuits; but to the Christian it speaks in a more exalted and dignified strain, inasmuch as it is a heavenly lesson to him; and as he sees the fleeting and transitory nature of all created good, the voice of revelation warns him to "set his affections on things above," and sounds in his ear, "Prepare to meet thy God."

The ruins of an abbey have an additional claim to our respect, when we take into consideration, that the building was once the honoured ark in which was preserved the sacred Scriptures; and though the jewel may now be gone, the casket, which for so long a time preserved that jewel, should be ever dear to our hearts, as having been of such incalculable service to our country. And "here learning, such as it was, had her first and only asylum; here only, silent art was cultivated, in illuminating missals, and other books belonging to the church service; here only, history composed her chronicles and rude memorials."

Rev. W. L. Bowles's History of Brenhill.

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But the lonely solitude of the ruined abbey faded, and I fancied myself once more standing on the pier at Liverpool,the second port in the world. The docks, crowded with vessels which bear the productions of England to the uttermost parts of the habitable world, presented to my astonished eye an immense and crowded forest of masts. The Mersey rolled at my feet, on which was reflected, as in a mirror, the opposite coast of Cheshire. Craft of all sizes, from the stately threedecker to the diminutive ferry-boat, continually passing and repassing, gave the scene an appearance at once lively and amusing. A cloudless sky, and the calm serenity of the weather, added to the effect of the scenery, "It was one fine picture of nature's painting."

See that ship sailing down the river, bound to the far-distant shores of America, —what a complicated piece of machinery she appears to the uninitiated landsman! What an assemblage of ropes, apparently more numerous than necessary! But no, not a rope but what is absolutely useful,— not a sail more than is required. What a beautiful object she is, "walking the waters" in her pride; and her sails, like clouds, floating on the azure vault of heaven! Who may tell what storms await that ship, and how many dangers she may have to encounter, ere she reach her desired haven? "How many sighs will be wafted after her, how many prayers offered up for her safety," and how many sleepless nights will be passed by the friends of her passengers, when they hear the storm and the wind howling in discord. S. J.

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IN looking over the reports of many religious and benevolent Institutions, of unquestionable utility, I have read with pain and sorrow such items as follow,- Her Grace the Duchess of A....., £1. 1. 0.

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-The Right Honourable the Countess of B....., £0. 10. 6.—and the Honourable Mrs. C....., (don.) £0. 5. 0." Alas! that such illustrious names should be allied to such plebeian sums. If such be the standard of benevolence ;-from the poor mechanic and the needy peasant, what can be expected?-If £20,000 per annum yield 10s. 6d.; from £25 or £30 per annum what is the claim of Benevolence?

But this is not the Chistian's method of

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Living Faith.-Visit to Mount Sinai.

computing her demands: the believing tradesman exclaims, "Of all that He shall give me, I will surely give the tenth unto | Thee." The pious labourer will share his last loaf with her; and the friendless | widow will throw into her treasury "all that she hath!". Oh, think of these, ye who, though placed by a bountiful Providence beyond the reach of want, grudge to ignorant and suffering humanity the thousandth part of your superfluous

mammon.

May I ask in what bank is lodged your favourite and growing hoard?-Do you want a better security, or a higher rate of interest?-Has it escaped your recollection that there is a bank in Heaven ready to receive your deposits, and a recording angel waiting there to note down the sums?-In that bank only can you say your money is safe, and there only can you depend upon its being forthcoming with rich interest, when all other banks have stopped payment, and all other securities are void and annihilated. But remember, life is the only time to lay up treasuses in that truly saving bank;–I much doubt whether sums left by will are placed to the credit of the testator there. In the case of an old and well-known depositor, it may possibly do; but to open a new account by such a method is little better than attempting to cross the Pacific in a stolen canoe.

TRAVELLER.

LIVING FAITH.

I HAD an intimate friend who had a

longing desire, and talents that justified his desire, to enter the ministry; but his parents not being in affluent circumstances, the expenses of a necessary education to qualify him for the office, seemed to present an insurmountable bar to the attainment of his wishes. When he was upon the point of abandoning the idea as hopeless, he received a note from a person with whom he had no acquaintance, requesting an interview with him. This individual was a respectable schoolmaster of the town; a man of harsh and unpleasing exterior, and cold and repulsive in his manners: what such a man could want with my friend, he was totally at a loss to conjecture. He called, however, and was surprised to find the gentleman, not only acquainted with his wishes respecting the ministry, but who told him, that having inquired into his character, being pleased with it, and having the nomination of a student to * * * * College, he wished to give

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him the preference. My friend mentioned the inability of his parents, from their large family, to support him in necessaries for so long a term. The gentleman replied, “I am aware of that, but Providence has blessed me in my profession with success, and I make it a point to appropriate the sum I do not require, towards the cause of religion; and the way I think most beneficial is, in enabling a pious young man to become one of its devoted ministers. If, therefore, you think proper to go, I will undertake to supply all your wants during your probation.'

On mentioning this conversation to me, I felt equally astonished with my friend, at this providential assistance, coming as it did from a quarter whence apparently so little was to be expected; and I could not but question the propriety of such benevolence, in a man who had a family of children depending upon him for sup port. The offer was however accepted, and my friend repaired to college, and during the four years he remained there, his benefactor, to his immortal honour, not only supplied, but anticipated all his

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VISIT TO MOUNT SINAI.

A FEW hours more, and we got sight of Their apthe mountains round Sinai. pearance was magnificent; when we drew nearer, and emerged out of a deep pass, the scenery was infinitely striking, and on the right extended a vast range of mountains, as far as the eye could reach, from the vicinity of Sinai down to Tor. They were perfectly bare, but of [grand and singular form.

We had hoped to reach the convent hy day-light, but the moon had risen some

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time, when we entered the mouth of a narrow pass, where our conductors advised us to dismount. A gentle, yet perpetual ascent led on, mile after mile, up this mournful valley, whose aspect was terrific, yet ever varying. It was not above two hundred yards in width, and the mountains rose to an immense height on each side. The road wound at their feet along the edge of a precipice, and amidst masses of rock that had fallen from above. It was a toilsome path, generally over stones, placed like steps, probably by the Arabs: and the moonlight was of little service to us in this deep valley, as it only rested on the frowning summits above. Where is Mount Sinai? was the inquiry of every one. The Arabs pointed before to Gabel Mousa, the Mount of Moses, as it is called; but we could not distinguish it. Again and again, point after point was turned, and we saw only the same stern scenery. But what had the softness and beauty of nature to do here? Mount Sinai required an approach like this, where all seemed to proclaim the land of miracles, and to have been visited by the terrors of the Lord. The scenes, as you gazed around, had an unearthly character, suited to the sound of the fearful trumpet that was once heard there. We entered at last on the more open valley, about half a mile wide, and drew near this famous mountain. Sinai is not so lofty as some of the mountains around it, and in its form there is nothing graceful or peculiar to distinguish it from others.

Near midnight we reached the convent of St. Catherine at the foot of the mountain, and surrounded by a high wall, to guard it against the Arabs. On the third morning we set out early from the convent for the summit of Mount Sinai, with two Arab guides. The ascent was, for some time, over long and broken flights of stone steps, placed there by the Greeks. The path was often narrow and steep, and wound through lofty masses of rock on each side. In about half an hour we came to a well of excellent water; a short distance above which, is a small ruined chapel. About half-way up was a verdant and pleasant spot, in the midst of which stood a high and solitary palm, and the rocks rose in a small and wild amphitheatre around. We were not very long now in reaching the summit, which is of limited extent, having two small buildings on it, used formerly by the Greek pilgrims, probably for worship. But Sinai has four summits; and that of Moses stands almost in the middle of the others,

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and is not visible from below, so that the spot where he received the law must have been hid from the view of the multitudes around; and the smoke and flame, which, Scripture says, enveloped the entire Mount of Sinai, must have had the more awful appearance, by reason of its many summits and great extent; and the account delivered gives us reason to imagine that the summit or scene, where God appeared, was shrouded from the hosts around; as the seventy elders only were permitted to behold "the body of heaven in its clearness, the feet of sapphire," &c.—But what occasions no small surprise at first is, the scarcity of plains, valleys, or open places where the children of Israel could have stood conveniently to behold the glory on the Mount. From the summit of Sinai you see only innumerable ranges of rocky mountains. One generally places, in imagination, around Sinai, extensive plains, or sandy deserts, where the camp of the hosts was placed, where the families of Israel stood at the doors of their tents, and the line was drawn round the mountain, which no one might break through on pain of death. But it is not thus: save the valley by which we approached Sinai, about half a mile wide, and a few miles in length, and a small plain we afterwards passed through, with a rocky hill in the middle, there appear to be few open places around the Mount. We did not, however, examine it on all sides. On putting the question to the superior of the convent, where he imagined the Israelites stood: every where, he replied, waving his hands about, in the ravines, the valleys, as well as the plains.

Having spent an hour here, we descended to the place of verdure, and, after resting awhile, took our road, with one of the guides, towards the mountain of St. Catherine, supposed by some to be Mount Horeb, which is the highest mountain in all the region around; but from its summit, as far as the eye could reach, nothing was to be seen on every side but ranges of naked mountains succeeding each other like waves of the sea. Between these rocky chains there are, in general, only ravines or narrow valleys.

We now descended to the desolate monastery in the glen, and, taking each an Arab pipe, solaced ourselves in the abodes of the fathers, till the sultry heat was passed, and then proceeded for about two hours till we came to the celebrated rock of Meribah. It still bears striking evidence of the miracle about it, and is quite isolated in the midst of annarrow

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