Motive, condition, means, appliances, Out full to light and knowledge. I should fear "Yes, it is very beautiful and true, Ella dear. I allow there are many things which must be thought over alone with God and our own soul; thoughts which we dare whisper only in His ear,the all-merciful, tenderly compassionate, and long-suffering. Yet, dear, I think our principle should be to act in broad pure daylight, having no cause to blush; and ever to be open and confiding with our friends, for what else, but to sympathise in our heart's joy, sorrow and perplexity, has God given them to us?" 66 But don't you yet think I was justified in acting alone, and being secret, this time. Can't you forgive me, Mary? at 'I can't blame you, my friend, though I may feel a little jealous your want of confidence; I forgive you heartily. Do strive, dear Ella, to overcome your reserve: open your heart's door a little wider. Let me peep farther in, and dive down, and rejoice myself with the wealth, warmth, and good stored therein. It is selfish to keep so much to yourself, that which your Heavenly Father gave you." "You deserve all, and more than I can give, my dear friend." HOPE ANSTED. Since the stars of Heaven do differ in glory; since it hath pleased the Almighty hand to honour the north-pole with lights above the south; since there are some stars so bright that they can hardly be looked upon; some so dim that they can scarce be seen, and vast numbers not to be seen at all, even with artificial eyes: read thou the earth in Heaven, and things below from above. Look contentedly upon the scattered difference of things, and expect not equality in lustre, dignity or perfection, in regions or persons below; where numerous numbers must be content to stand, like lacteous or nebulous stars, little taken notice of, or dim in their generations. All which may be contentedly allowable in the affairs and ends of this world, and in suspension unto what will be in the order of things hereafter, and the new system of mankind which will be in the world to come: when the last may be the first; and the first, last: when Lazarus may sit above Cæsar; and the just, obscure on earth, shall shine like the sun in Heaven; when reality shall rule, and all shall be as they shall be for ever.-Sir Thomas Browne. RELIGION. Religion is true happiness; It can make our burdens less Come life, come death, come joy, come sorrow, Religion is not gloom or sadness, It is the very truest gladness; It is strength, for it can make us Calm around the dying bed. Its holy light can teach the sage On one like him the Saviour smiled. The true Christian is in a very happy condition; for no man will envy him, and he can envy nobody. None will envy him, for the world cannot know how happy he is--how happy in the favour of God, how happy in the enjoying of that favour. Those secret delights that he finds in the presence of God-those comfortable pledges of love and mutual interchanges of blessed interest which pass between them-are not for worldly hearts to conceive; and no man will envy an unknown happiness. On the other side, he cannot envy the world's greatest favourite under Heaven; for he well knows how fickle and uncertain that man's felicity is. He sees him walking upon ice, and perceives every foot of his sliding, and threatening a fall, and hears that brittle pavement at every step crackling under him, and ready to give way to his swallowing up; and, withal, finds, that if those pleasures of his could be constant and permanent, how poor and unsatisfactory they are, and how utterly unable to yield true contentment to the soul.-Bishop Hall. Sorrow and death are mercies, even to the sinner; for sorrow is sent to recal him to his duties, and death frees the penitent from a state of being which he has abused. Now that God has revealed through Christ a fuller knowledge of his paternal benevolence, he has provided for our continued reverence, by permitting science to reveal also his almighty power and goodness. If we provide for the next stage of our life, by reflecting on its peculiar duties, as well as perform carefully those of the present, death will not surprise us unprepared. THE SCHOOL GIRLS. "Speak gently! 'tis a little thing ABOUT four o'clock one Sunday afternoon, some children, on leaving school, bent their steps towards a field near the town, which was a favourite place of resort with most of the little people in the neighbourhood. A few sycamore trees grow on one side of the field, and beneath their deep shade are two wooden benches placed for the accommodation of those who may like to rest there, and enjoy the prospect of hill and plain which stretches so beautifully into the far blue distance. Old and young, both enjoy this spot; and it is seldom, on a fine summer's afternoon, that the benches are to be found unoccupied. The children, therefore, thought themselves very fortunate, when they arrived, to find them both empty. The little party were scarcely seated, when a proposal was made by one of them that they should all sing the new hymn they were learning in school, one which they had begun to learn the previous week, and which was intended to be sung at a Sunday-school festival, to which all were looking forward with no little pleasure. It was a grateful hymn of praise, a joyful song, thanking Him who is the author of this. beauteous creation, for "the pleasant meetings," "the kindly greetings," and all the happiness God so bountifully showers upon His children. 6.6 Scarcely had the voices ceased, when Mary Ford, one of the elder girls in the school, joined the party. Oh, I'm almost out of breath," she exclaimed, at the same time displacing one of the younger children, and monopolising her place. "I wanted to join you all, but I could not help staying behind, just to teaze Jane Bowen a bit : did you ever see such a cross-grained temper as that girl has? I've had such fun, and sent her home in a rare passion.' "Now Mary, I do think you are too bad," said one or two girls; "you make her worse than she would be, can't you leave her alone?" "I could, but I don't choose," said Mary, laughing, "it's such fun to see how she'll fly off in a passion, and all for nothing." Then, I think," said Dora Field, another of the elder girls, "if such a very little thing makes Jane angry, you ought to be very careful what you say.' "Not I," said Mary, in her careless off-hand way-a manner which I am sorry to say some of her companions much admired; "I like to pull down her pride-did you see how proud she was of her own singing, and how crest-fallen she looked when our teacher told her she was getting all wrong?" 66 Oh, it made me laugh," said one. "And me too," Mary went on to say, "and the best of it was, Jane saw us laugh-and then, great baby as she is, began to cry about it, and she nearly fourteen years old." Several of the girls laughed; and Mary, who always enjoyed raising a laugh amongst her schoolfellows, regardless of what she said for that purpose, began making remarks on Jane's old frock and dingy ribbon, and "supposed Jane would come out in something mighty fine on the festival day, for that was just the Bowen's way. Maybe we shall see pink and yellow-tom-fool's colours.-But do look at Dora Field," exclaimed Mary, suddenly stopping short"do look at Dora! she's about to lecture us all round, I'll be bound." "No, I'm not," said Dora slightly colouring.-She hesitated a moment, and added, "but I really do think-that is, I do wishWell, what is it you do wish! Why don't you speak out, 66 girl?" "Well then, Mary, I was going to say, that I do wish you would not say the things you do about Jane, and I wish you would leave off teazing her so, and I really do think that just after learning that new hymn, we might call to mind that verse about kind words, and not say ill-natured things of a schoolfellow." "Well done!" exclaimed Mary, "I said that Dora was going to give it us all round, but I did not expect text and all. Now girls, listen-Dora Field is about to hold forth; she's ready with her text. Silence, I say." There was a general laugh. Even those of her companions who did not approve Mary's conduct, yet laughed with her. Dora looked very uncomfortable, and for a moment she looked angry, but she paused ere she made any reply, and then said calmly, "You may laugh as much as you please, Mary, but a laugh cannot turn what is wrong into what is right; and I do think it is very wrong to speak scornfully and unkindly of a schoolfellow, and to teaze Jane in the way I saw you teaze her; even before we left this afternoon, you made her feel very angry and very unhappy. And it was not only you, Mary; several of you laughed though you saw how much she was teazed by it." "And we will not do it again,' said little Ellen Sinclair, "We will not laugh at poor Jane any more. Dora thinks we ought not," said she, casting an appealing look at Mary and the rest. "And what, I should like to know, does it matter what Dora thinks," said Mary, haughtily. "We're not going be be ruled by her, I suppose. Pretty dull work it would be if we were never to laugh or be merry, without being called to account by Dora this or Dora that. I tell you some people think they are a great deal better than other people, and they try to look as good as they fancy themselves. Now just look at me," said Mary, suddenly contracting her mouth from a broad grin to a conceited prim expression, and again she raised a general laugh, and encouraged by this she resumed her own manner, and giving an expressive glance at Dora Field, exclaimed, "I hate kill-joys!" 66 'No, no, no!" said little Ellen coming forward, and seizing hold of Dora's hand, "Dora is no kill-joy, she is a dear, kind Dora. She is always kind to every one of us.' “Oh, oh! little one; so you want to curry favour, do you?" said Mary. "But I would just advise such little ones as you are, to hold your tongue, and let your elders speak." Ellen was about to utter a hasty reply, when Dora put her hand gently before her mouth, "Do not be angry, dear Ellen.” "But you're not a kill-joy," persisted the child. "I hope not, dear Ellen," and now speaking firmly and without any hesitation, she went on to say "that she was quite sure they would none of them be less joyful or happy, because they did what was right." "Ah! we are growing mighty grand, are we not?" returned Mary. "You had really better go to our teacher, Dora, and tell her how well you can preach out of school; and what bad girls we all are." That's not just-you're too bad, Mary-Dora never tells tales, we all know that." These were the answers that came from one and another of the girls to Mary's last speech. Dora was indeed deservedly a general favourite, for her companions ever found a kind word and ready help when they applied to her in any of their little troubles; and they saw, that provoked as she had been, by Mary's taunts that afternoon, yet she had not lost her temper. Mary found that she had gone too far. She knew well enough that she had been unjust, but too proud to own herself in the wrong, she turned it all off with a laugh, and began talking of something else, until it was time for them all to think of returning to their several homes. After what had passed it was with some little surprise that Mary saw Dora Field approach as if with the intention of walking homeward with her. It is true their homes lay in the same direction, but Mary's conscience told her she had no right to expect any friendliness from one of whom she had said such provoking things. Something like this she said, adding, "You certainly have an uncommonly good temper of your own, that I will say.' |