I wish I could tell you more, but I can't speak now.' I said, 'You know who is the Saviour of sinners; do you trust in Him alone?' She replied, with a firm voice, I do.' The excitement was now too much, and she became for a long time hysterical. But how can I express my feelings? I would not have exchanged situations with any being on earth, but the dear little dying creature whose hand I held. The next morning she was suffering greatly; I took her hand and said, A few more struggles, my dear Sarah, and all will be peace.' Yes!' she replied, with a sweetness of expression that I cannot give you an idea of, for her smile was beautiful, and I shall be happy.' As she drew near her end, her sufferings appeared to diminish, and her gratitude for the little relief we were able to administer, increased. When no longer able to speak, and her dear lips were moistened, or the perspiration wiped from her face, the sweetness with

which she looked up, brought tears to our eyes. About an hour before her happy spirit was released, she faintly pressed my hand, and gave me such a look of affectionate sweetness, that I shall never forget it. At the last, neither sigh, struggle, nor groan escaped her, so that we could not tell the precise moment when she ceased to breathe."

She was interred in a quiet, shady spot, in the burial ground at Buitenzorg; and on the Sunday following, the Rev. F. Hanson, the colleague of Mr. Lockwood, improved her death at the Mission Chapel, Batavia, to a full and attentive congregation, from the text, "Death is swallowed up in victory."

"Thou art gone to the grave,

But 'twere wrong to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom,

Thy guardian, thy guide;
He gave thee, and took thee,
And soon will restore thee,
Where death hath no sting,
Since the Saviour hath died."
HEBER

MY DEAR FRIEND,-You doubtless well remember the occurrence, some time since, of our meeting an ardent friend of yours, who rather too confidently, if not rashly, forced the subject of the saints falling from grace, on my attention; and that then, thus attacked, I defended my views of their certain perseverance, by a few scriptures, and drawing my own inferences from them.

But conceiving that you might still be among the doubting, the wavering, or perhaps, among the humbly inquiring class, I will now, for your benefit, and that, possibly, of many others, resume the subject-a subject always superlatively interesting to my own mind.

As you, my dear friend, are musical, and fond of poetry, suppose I start my course of argument by a verse from one of my favourite hymn-writers, suppressing his name, as you may not know it, and if known, you would perhaps take alarm, that worthy name having (in certain quarters) been held up in odium to all humble Christians. He sang thus, and let us sing with him

"This God is the God we adore,

Our faithful, unchangeable Friend;
Whose love is as great as his power,
And neither knows measure nor end."

Having made my quotation, I will tell my good friend my object in so doing, namely, to follow out, by Scripture authority, and fair argument, the thoughts so concisely, but impressively alluded to in it.

We agree, then, my friend, in our adoration of God. His infinite and ineffable perfections; his everlasting purposes; his immutable counsels; his universal dominion; his supreme authority; his omnipotent power; his unutterable love; his unchanging fidelity; each and all demand our profoundest reverence, and our most constant, most devout adoration. What says the beloved poet of our youthful and more mature years on this subject?

"Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sov'reign will." And what says the prophet; in might say, all the prophets? "Hast thou not known, hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? There is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth

strength." The weak and the fainting through fear and unbelief, may yet find, in their adorations of the Divine perfections, much encouragement, both doctrinally and practically, while persevering in the path of duty.

The next topic in this favourite verse is, that God is "our faithful, unchangeable Friend." And permit me to ask my friend, who can demur to this? who can doubt that God is a friend to his people? and if so, not fickle and mutable, but an unchanging, an unchangeable Friend. We admit this in the amenities and friendships of life. On the principle that Solomon lays down, we consider fidelity as the main-spring and test of true friendship. "A friend loveth at all times." And we cheerfully say, "There is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother." What then! shall we extol human friendship as faithful, and certain, and enduring, and yet in the presence of the church, of the angels, and of God himself, doubt the fidelity, the unchangeable nature of his friendship? Come, then, my long wavering, doubting friend, learn to doubt no more on this sublime subject. Consider, also, that the higher the party in whom you confide for friendship, with its innumerable and perpetual advantages, whether your confidence respect his rank, his wealth, his intellectual or moral endowments, the more entire and complete is your satisfaction. If your case be a physical one; if your cause be a legal one; or let your concern be altogether of a worldly character, you feel at ease in having surrendered your case, or cause, or concern (pray forgive the undesigned alliteration here) into his hands, whom you consider as most trustworthy. And are you afraid, absolutely afraid of committing the keeping of your soul in well-doing, as unto a faithful Creator ? The Creator, Preserver, and Saviour of men, is He alone the Being in whom you cannot, dare not confide? What! have certain Pelagian notions, or sectarian associations, really driven you into this melancholy position? Let me beseech you, my friend, not to be thus shorn of your strength; listen rather to the blessed Prophet, who says to you, to myself, to all the people of God, "Trust ye in the Lord for ever; for in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength." When, therefore, you can compete, or can bring any human power or faithfulness to compete with that of the Lord Jehovah, I

will consent to enlist under the standard of your party, and will cheerfully follow your illustrious example; but assuredly not till that consummation arrives.

This train of reasoning leads me, my friend, to advert to a third line of my

motto

"Whose love is as great as his power." And here I can find no difficulty, no delusion, no danger. For whether we contemplate the greatness of God's love, or the immensity of his power, in all the manifestations of his love, I see nothing to stagger my faith; but every fresh conception, brought to the test of reason and to the light of Scripture, happily tends to its confirmation. Let us reason the point fairly, from the following truths: "God so loved the world, as to give his only-begotten Son," that is, as your prayer-book says, "for us men, and for our salvation." Here then is love, love in the highest degree, eclipsing all human merit, defying all competition, and baffling all power of calculation. And St. Paul assures us, that "God commendeth his love to us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for the ungodly." So also, to prove that he is "rich in mercy," he adds, " for (or in) his great love wherewith he loved us." But on this point you would not for a moment hold an argument; nor, in your ordinary experience, are you accustomed to doubt. Nay, whenever you devoutly think of this immense and wonderful love, you joyfully exclaim, "Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift!"

Still, my dear friend, you demur on the greatness of God's power, in securing the objects of his love; that is, in keeping them from falling, and in the consummation of their faith, namely, the final salvation of their souls. Now, for an argument per se, by itself, and on its own merits. Here we are both filled with rapt astonishment at the greatness of the Father's love, in a gift so unspeakable, to a fallen and guilty world. And because men are fallen and guilty, they will not accept of this gift; they will not go to Christ that they may have life, for they love darkness rather than light. Then we inquire, by what means, and by what agency can man be restored to God, and be made willing to receive this immense gift? And we agree that this means is the Gospel; and we are taught to say with St. Paul, I am not ashamed of the Gospel; for it is the power of God

unto salvation to every one that believeth." We also own that this agency, to make the Gospel known and felt, is that of the Holy Spirit of God. But subsequently to the knowledge of the Gospel, the truth of which you do not doubt, and to the reception of the Spirit, the witness of whose influence you have in your own spirit; yes, my friend, here you stand and doubt, and some of your class argue and arrogate, and even dogmatise, and, alas! become pharisaical on the subject of your own perseverance, and that of others. How must I account for this anomaly in logic, that you cannot argue from the past to the future; and that you doubt or deny the Divine agency in the completion of the work of grace within you? Let me call your sober, unsectarian thoughts to these two passages from our holy oracle, St. Paul," Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you, will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ." Why, my friend, upon your principlesyour fearing and doubting, or denying such a truth-what a bad logician was this apostle; and yet, arguing from the fact of regeneration, he was confident of the progression and completion of the good work in the souls of the Philippians. Looking to the future, this work he knew would be performed, and until the very glorious day of Jesus Christ. Oh! happy apostle, and happy Philippians, in the possession of such a faith, such a confidence as this!

The other scripture, which to my mind is equally strong and conclusive, is that addressed to the Ephesians, and which comes to us in the impressive form of a precept-" Grieve not the Holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto the day of redemption." And in the same epistle, the apostle, alluding to the union of believers with Christ Jesus, says, "in whom, after that ye believed, ye were sealed with that Holy Spirit of promise." You will excuse two witnesses instead of one, for I could adduce many more on this branch of my argument, to which I now return. A good old commentator says, that "the use of a seal is to make impressions in wax, by which covenants are sealed, ratified, and confirmed. By Christ the lost image of God is restored in believers, now inchoatively, and after death consummatively, or with respect to perfection. And by a seal is betokened, that God confirms and preserves believers in

truth and piety, as men would fix their seal to that which they would ratify and confirm." Now the gist, the power, the demonstration of this argument may be thus stated: You are commanded not to grieve the Divine Spirit, for he enlightens, adopts, and sanctifies you; but especially, he seals you, restores to you the lost image of God, and marks and designates you as the property of Christ; and, more than this, he ratifies and confirms you in your heavenly course, until the very period of your actual redemption. My friend, can any thing be more plain, more powerful, more conclusive than this? I leave you, then, in the quiet possession of this argumentum ad hominem-an appeal to yourself, and to your final salvation.

The fourth line of my motto leads me to notice, that the love of God

"Neither knows measure nor end."

It is, in the poet's opinion, beyond the power of man to give the dimensions of immeasurable space; and equally futile to speak of the terminus of endless duration. You may say that this is the poet's figment; it is mere imagination. I answer, no. The immeasurable and everlasting love of God enters into the whole plan, and development, and completion of the believer's salvation. Let us argue the point from a recorded case in John xiii. 1. "When Jesus knew that he should depart out of this world unto the Father," it is added, that "having loved his own which were in the world, he loved them unto the end." I ask, therefore, without fear of your contradiction-for you would not deny matter of fact like this-Was not this a proof of our Lord's unalterable love and fidelity to his first disciples? and is not this a sample of his love to all his disciples, in every age, in every condition? Mr. Jay, in his own happy style, says, "What part of the statement here will not extend beyond his first followers? Whether it is their relation, their condition, the reality of his regard, or the permanency of his af fection, was all this peculiar to them? He is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. He rests in his love. He hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. A true friend loveth at all times; but there are few such friends to be found. Yet he abideth faithful. At my first answer, no one,' says Paul, 'stood by me, but all men forsook me; but he adds, nevertheless, the Lord

stood by me and strengthened me.' So will it be with all those who trust in him. They shall not be ashamed nor confounded, world without end." See Morn. Exer. for Feb. 28.

Believe me, my dear friend, that I could freely multiply arguments and proofs, but I would not tire your patience, and I see that the end of my paper is near at hand. However, as the subject has yet a fund of doctrinal statement, of experimental interest, and of practical tendency, I shall stop for the present, hoping, per favour of the worthy Editor to resume the discussion. In the meanwhile let me urge you, and every reader, to remember the double seal, or inscription, so strongly asserted by Paul

46

to Timothy, and obviously meant to guard the doctrine from all abuse:'Nevertheless"-whatever be our doubts or controversies-"the foundation of God standeth sure, having this seal, the Lord knoweth them that are his. And, let every one that nameth the name of Christ, depart from iniquity." And I am sure you will join me in closing in the language of " our sweet singer in Israel:""Oh, for a persevering power

To keep his just commands;
We would defile our hearts no more,
No more pollute our hands."
Yours,

My dear Friend, most sincerely,

Ir was on one of those occasional fine days that have of late years been so rare in the spring season of England, that I withdrew from the incessant bustle of a great town, to enjoy the quiet rural scenes that particularly mark the northeastern part of Warwickshire. It was a day of unusual beauty and freshness. The sunbeams and zephyrs seemed equally delighted to have escaped from the captivity of a dreary winter, and disported sometimes in alternate rays and streams, as if in chace of each other, and then again careered in joyous union, fanning with their warm delicious breath the early buds. The feathered tribes pealed a note of harmony in honour of the return of their own laughing spring, and commenced in good earnest their merry-makings and love-matches for the new year. After I had luxuriated through the sunshine of the day, as the evening shadows began to steal gently over the face of nature, I turned my steps towards the little village where I had taken up my temporary abode. I wended my way through a narrow winding lane, on purpose to pay a parting visit to the celebrated ash tree, that forms the great natural curiosity of the neighbourhood. Long before I had reached the spot from which it rears itself, I could perceive its

spreading tops, towering in majestic grandeur, and stretching upwards far above its fellows of the neighbouring wood. I descended to the solitary glen, from which it derives its patronymic of the Dumblehole Ash. A more wild and almost savage place can scarcely be imagined. In the centre of this desolate abode stood this wonderful tree, raising its enormous trunk to a height measuring more than a hundred feet from its topmost branch to the ground, and swelling into a circumference exceeding that of its giant compeer of Woburn Abbey, or almost of the patriarch ash of Lochiel's Clan.' Its surpassing beauty and its singularity from all other trees of its kind, is in its symmetrical proportion and perpendicular trunk. It rose from the solitude with apparent haughty disdain of its humble birth, and peered above the surrounding ridges, as if in proud determination to assert its rank among the "patrician trees" of the land. It was the very autocrat of the forest. Unlike the rest of its race, pendant in their servile branches, sweeping the ground-delicate, beautifully delicate,

This remarkable tree formerly stood in the church-yard of Kilmalie, in Lochaber, and was held in great veneration by all the clan. It was on that account destroyed by the brutal soldiery in the revolution of 1745.

in the tracery of their interweaving forms, but disdaining thus to intermingle, and toy with the "plebeian underwood" of the glen, it sends forth its projecting branches only when it reaches the upper story, and seems to concentrate its strength in its own tall gigantic stem, girt with a bright, firm, serrated bark, that as well becomes it as the scaly armour of an ancient warrior. I gazed upon it with astonishment and delight; and as I followed the circuitous path that led me from the glen, I turned full oft to catch a glimpse of its waving crest, till the misty twilight obscured it entirely from my view.

I love a dog," says the good-natured Dr. Goldsmith, and wherefore should I not also say that I love a tree? It is true, the power of locomotion and expression are in favour of the doctor's quadruped, yet stability, constancy, and beauty, are the attributes of my favourite tree. I know where to find it at all times, and at all times it contributes to my gratification, while your quadrupeds are scampering here, there, and everywhere, only making use of their locomotive powers to run off when I most desire them, or to involve me in continual vexations by their mischievous pranks. I am not one of those philosophers who pretend to fix the precise bounds of the various forms of physiological life, and to say, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." No, no; while I know that the leaves of some trees, like the marshmallow, follow the sun in his course, to hold communion with his beams, and that the tender rootlets of all will creep silently, though surely, through the dark carth to the secret under-ground stream, to drink of its living waters; that the bright green tints of the many-shaded leaves are only like blushes raised by the constant dalliance which they hold with warm sunbeams and sweet air, and that when the sable goddess forbids them any more wantoning and ruffling with their playmates, they fold themselves up, and go to sleep very much like Christians,I will stoutly maintain the claims of my arboriferous favourites to my regard, and that they form a part of that indivisible chain which links the highest with the lowest order of beings; besides, I can carry along with me the soothing idea, that when I have ceased to feel those fluctuating emotions which their opening buds and decaying leaves always inspire, when spring-time or autumn have lost

their power either to elevate or depress, some bending tree may stand like a mourning faithful friend, and, as the noble bard sings, may

"Shed its weeping leaves o'er me."

In this mood, in which my fancy with no small satisfaction revelled, I reached the village-inn, and while mine hostess of the Griffin was preparing my favourite dish of howqua, I strolled into the churchyard that was hard by. The hazy veil that seems to mingle all visible forms in soft but general confusion, during that short interval which succeeds the departure of day's luminary, had passed away, and the mild light of the moon, as she walks forth in the heavens,

"Like a maiden of romance,"

began to shed her pale beam on all around. After I had passed the boundary which encloses the spot where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet slept," I set myself, as is my wont on such occasions, to trace the "holy texts," and simple, and sometimes whimsical, inscriptions, which mark their several resting places. I had nearly made the circuit of the grave-yard, when I came to three monumental stones, that, ranged in a row of nearly equal height, seeming to indicate that they belonged to the separate members of one family. I was not mistaken. They recorded the names of grandsire, mother, and daughter. On the most recent, which seemed not very long since to have been added to the rest, and which bore upon it the age of a maiden who had only just blushed into conscious maturity, I read the wellknown and affecting lines of a hymn with which my mind had long been very familiar

"She sleeps in Jesus, and is blest,
How soft her slumbers are;
From sorrows and from sins releas'd,
And freed from every care."

I unconsciously pronounced the words, "She sleeps in Jesus," with the emphasis which marked how much the contrast of condition had affected me.

My voice broke on my ear from amongst the tombs, in the stillness and silence of the evening, and awakened a train of vivid and powerful associations, such as I have scarcely before expcrienced. My mind ran down the long story of my own life. I connected that blessed name with the earliest recollections of parental instruction. I lingered over the scenes as they passed in panoramic