church of God. He cannot follow the flights of the epic poet, or rival the exquisite skill of the practised musician; but he is familiar with the sublime songs of Zion, and has learned, in a good degree, to tune and harmonize his dispositions, tempers, and passions, to accord with the Divine will. The pompous learning of the schools is worthless lumber, compared to the heavenly wisdom which at once enlightens and purifies the soul: nor is the precious boon placed beyond the reach of the humblest, who sincerely desire it. "If thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; if thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasure; then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the knowledge of God. For the Lord giveth wisdom; out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding." Our rustic ploughman is likewise rich in peace and contentment.

He re

ceives his simple and wholesome food with a relish, and his sleep is short and sweet. He knows not the satiety which luxury causes, nor the distressing languor which grows out of sloth, nor the disappointment and vexation which fierce rivalry produces. With the affectionate companion of his life, he enjoys the bounties of a kind Providence, and talks of the wonders of Redeeming love, till their hearts burn within them. It is true, he has to work for his livelihood, but as a good writer observes, "The primeval punishment, the sentence of labour, like the other inflictions of Him who in wrath remembers mercy, is transformed into a blessing. And if we closely consider the manual industry of the poor, we shall find that diligent

occupation, if it be not criminally perverted from its end, is at once the instrument of virtue, and the secret of happiness. Man cannot be safely trusted with a life of leisure." The pious ploughinan has learned in the school of Christ, what can be acquired in no other, the valuable lesson of contentment. He is satisfied with his lot, enjoys spiritual peace, and a good hope through grace, and daily sends up to heaven the grateful tribute of praise and thanksgiving. How many, who soar in pride and roll in the excesses of luxury, according to the decision of impartial reason, are far, very far below this poor rich man, William Watson.

THE MODERN MARTYR.

No. 5.

The departure from Teignmouth-Treachery of man-The tendency of works of fiction-The inefficacy of public amusements to restore tranquillity to an agitated mind-Cowper-Madam Guion-Religion. 66 Benignant time's insensible erasure

May mitigate the heart-felt pangs of sorrow"-Barton.

THE next post brought Miss Hutchinson another anonymous letter, written in the same hand as the former, of which the following is a copy.

"Madam,-I gave you, some time since, a sketch of the character and of the circumstances of Mr. Murry, and informed you of the design of his visit to Teignmouth; not to injure him, but to save amiable friend from ruin. That letter by

your

being anonymous, was probably disregarded; but as recent circumstances have confirmed the correctness of its statements, I think it right, as a man of honour, and the father of a family, again to address you. Mr. Murry was arrested yesterday, and taken away by a sheriff's officer; not having sufficient money to discharge the arrears that were due at his lodgings. As this fact is now the topic of general conversation, you will most likely hear of it, when you see some of your friends; though it is possible, that you may have heard of it before this reaches you. Yours, respectfully,

"AMICUS."

Miss Lester was too deeply affected by the abrupt departure of Mr. Murry, to admit of any fresh communication which reflected disgrace on his reputation, and therefore Miss Hutchinson very prudently suppressed this letter, and forbore making any allusions to him. She hoped that her friend, who assumed an air of pleasantry, and chatted with her usual hilarity of spirits, would soon conquer the passion by which she had been enslaved; and when convinced of the baseness of the man who had deceived her, spurn him from her affections, with indignant contempt. To prevent her from musing on this mysterious affair, and having her imagination tinged by the melancholy shades of sorrow, she exerted all the energy and vivacity of her mind, and endeavoured, by recalling the more pleasing incidents of their visit, to obliterate those impressions which she feared would become permanent unless speedily effaced. She knew that her friend, from the cast of reading, to which she had devoted her attention, had caught the spirit of romance; and presumed, that

while under its dominion, she might feel more disposed to cherish the fond illusions of her fancy, than listen to the sober dictates of reason; and hence judged it proper to hasten her departure.

It was a fine, pleasant evening. The sky was serene; the air soft, and salubrious; and the numerous parties were abroad, some in groups and some in pairs, inhaling the pure breath of heaven, and amusing themselves, some in one way, and

some in another.

"Let us join them," said Miss Hutchinson, to her friend, who was watching their sportive ma

nœuvres.

"The place has lost all its charms."

"Not all. There is the same hill and dale; the same bleating sheep, and the shepherd's dog; the same declining sun; and the same rippling waves that have so often charmed your romantic

"Very true, my dear, but their animating spirit is gone. Yes, I feel it. They now present no more beauty to my eye, than a sterile desert. Nature is a cheerless blank. Don't you think Mr. Murry will return?"

"I think he will not; and I have a reason for thinking so."

"Do you still suspect his honour ?"

"More than ever."

"What is the reason to which your refer ?" "I dread to disclose it."

"Disclose it, my dear Maria, though it be the most frightful object that ever disturbed my brain." "Will you forgive me ?"

"Not if you hold me in suspense. I can bear up under a visible calamity, though dark and por

tentous; but if my imagination is left to create its own miseries, they become insupportable."

"I do it with reluctance, because I fear that it will wound the wounded breast, but as you urge it, I comply."

She then gave her the letter, which she read, and remained silent for some minutes. Her countenance betrayed the conflict of her passions.

"I will not believe it—it is a plot got up by some evil spirit, who, wishing to destroy his reputation, has grounded the charge of arrest on the fact of his sudden departure with his friend."

"But, my dear Charlotte, do not previous circumstances corroborate the correctness of this communication? Think of his borrowing money of you at Sidmouth-his not returning it, according to his promise, and his note of apology for not paying you when he left."

"These circumstances are strong corroborations to a person who is disposed to believe the statement; but as it is no unusual thing for men of property, when from home, to be disappointed of their remittances, I see no force in them.”

"But would he have brought his friend with him, when he came to take such an abrupt leave, if he could have come alone? does not this, my dear Charlotte, look suspicious?"

"That is a point I feel. It does look suspicious, I grant; but still there may have been other reasons besides that of necessity, why he brought that stranger. That stranger may be some rich relation, from whom he has large expectations; and wishing to conciliate his good opinion, from motives of policy he might have introduced him."

"If so, why did he not behave to him in his usual courteous manner? Did you not mark the