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it is the dowry of a mother's prayers! It is all that can enrich your families and descendants after you; make your sons as plants grown up in their youth, and your daughters as corner-stones polished in the temple. And when earthly scenes, to you, shall have vanished like the pageantry of a vision, it will be the joy of your children to linger amid the places consecrated by piety, and to dwell upon those prayers and counsels which you loved to bestow upon them while living. It is then, yes, it is then, parents, that these holy recollections will powerfully tend to purify and quell their rebellious tempers and appetites, when all other motives shall have addressed their hearts in vain. Even from the grave, the parent's example will be exhaled by the fond child, and will often descend in rich blessings upon his head. And can you calmly hesitate to breathe around you now the influence of this piety, and raise your sinking households to the heaven for which you are destined? Could you only realize your naked spirits, freed from the prison of the body, looking back in anguish upon the social heritage they had neglected,—could you only wake up to the awful effects of a careless education, and irreligious example, and a lifeless profession of piety, and feel, in all its power, that the very souls to whom you had given birth, ascribed their corruption and ruin to yourselves, would it not be more than enough to rouse up your slumbering spirits to the duties you have neglected, and to provide for the eternal happiness and welfare of your children? Surely

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"Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in the temple of my God, and he shall go no more out; and I will write upon him the name of my God, and the name of the city of my God, which is New Jerusalem, which cometh down out of heaven from my God. And I will write upon him my new name."-Rev. iii. 12..

aware that

WHILE we rejoice in the belief, that great will be the reward, both in a present and future life, of those that overcome the world, their own evil hearts, and the adversary of souls; and are the church of Christ is frequently in Scripture compared to a temple, and that saints, victorious in the spiritual conflict, are by the great Captain honoured and distinguished as pillars in that temple; we nevertheless conceive that the passage before us, teaches a very different, and not less glorious truth, and beg leave to present our views in a few words, with fervent prayer, and in hope that the power

ful motives urged by the Saviour, may excite, among churches and individual Christians, a holy ambition to excel.

The phrase, "him that overcometh," does not refer to one victory of the Christian, or even to a continued series of victories, but is expressive of superiority over others. The passage declares the reward that awaits the believer, who is distinguished for his attainments, and who, compared with others, excelleth. It is not addressed to the believer who rests in security because he possesses that faith, which, agreeably to the divine promise, overcometh the world; but it is the language of the Captain of salvation to all the troops in his host, saying, Him that excelleth I will honour. No doubt every soldier in the victorious army shall receive glorious evidence of the approbation of the Commander, but some will "he make pillars in the temple of his God."

Our Saviour speaks more favourably of the church at Philadelphia, than of either of the others, to which he sent his messages. In the 11th verse he distinctly recognises their superiority over others, speaking of it as their crown. He urges them to maintain their high standing among the churches, and to let no other take their crown. And immediately he proposes to them as a church, and to every individual believer in that church, the reward we are now to consider, and which is probably the greatest proposed in any part of the inspired volume.

Pillars were often erected by the ancients, in commemoration of great events, and in honour of distinguished individuals, and were then furnished with appropriate inscriptions. They also were the most costly and the most ornamental parts of public buildings, and frequently were of the most stupendous size. In fact, we have little remaining of time long past, save their massive sculptured columns.

In Revelations, chapter xxi., we have a most magnificent description of the New Jerusalem, which is spoken of in the passage before us, as coming down out of heaven. To be one of the precious stones in the wall of this city, or a pearl of one of the gates, would indeed be great honour; but to be a pillar erected by the great Architect of the universe, as an ornament to that city, and inscribed with the name of Jehovah, and the name of the glorious city, and especially with that new name, Jehovah Jesus, Saviour, by which God has been pleased to reveal himself, who can conceive of greater glory? But the passage we are considering speaks of something greater. In that city, there is no temple, save God and the Lamb. And in that temple distinguished believers shall be, and ever remain, pillars. If the city be such as described, what must be the temple? What must be the pillars? Well may it be said, "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him." 1 Cor. ii. 9. Lord, give me more faith, that I may look and live above, and may overcome the world. Give me more knowledge, more untiring zeal, and greater strength for duties, even if it expose me to a martyr's death. For I would dwell in the New Jerusalem, and would remain in the temple of my God, as immoveable as a pillar, and as much to the glory of thy grace.

IT HAPPENED.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WESTERN HUNTER AND AN ATHEIST. [The following very curious paper we copy from an American periodical, in which it is described as a fair specimen of the conversation of the people in the western portion of the United States. Our readers will value it for the simple but

sound argument it contains.-EDITOR.]

Hunter. I say, stranger, what's that 'ere thing you've got in your hand, that looks so speckled like?

Reasoner. This? It's the Free Inquirer.

Hunter. The what? I tell you what, mister, you need'nt think to throw your flings out that way at a fellow. I asked you a civil question, and you need'nt to name a body the free inquirer for it. We are used to making free in our country.

Reasoner. You are mistaken in my meaning. It was this paper I called the Free Inquirer, not you.

Hunter. Hey! that thing? What d'ye call it? a paper and free inquirer, too! Now, if that ain't funny, I don't know.

Reasoner. I see you do not understand me, and I must explain. This thin white sheet is called paper—feel it. These black marks are letters printed on it, and we read the words that they make, when they are put together.

Hunter. Read! O I mind now; mammy used to tell us, that in the settlements, people went to school and learnt to read; and she said how daddy and her could'nt read; that was the reason they did'nt take any books with 'em when they moved out on to the range. I never heard about newspapers, and free inquirers.

But

Reasoner. This is a book, (showing one.) See, it is made of paper like this; and then it is folded up and bound between pasteboards, and covered with leather, so as to keep it safe.

Hunter. Well now, stranger, since I find you did'nt mean to make fun of a body, I hope you won't take any pride in what I said; and I'd like to know more about that paper, as you call it. What is it for?

Reasoner. It's a newspaper, published in New York, to expose the superstitious notions about religion.

Hunter. How does it do that?

Reasoner. Why it comes right out, and says, that all religions are nonsense, and religious people are all fools or hypocrites.

Hunter. I don't understand that somehow. There was John Davis, that used to be a roarer to fight, and get drunk, and swear, and play cards; and he went away off to camp-meeting, and got religion; and ever since then he's the civilest, best behaved, soberest, honestest fellow all about; I reckon, if you were to hear him talk, you'd think so. Reasoner. Pshaw! it's all delusion-all a pack of nonsense, I tell

you.

Hunter. Well, now, I'd like you to tell me what made him leave off his old capers all of a sudden.

Reasoner. The fellow got frightened by their screaming and shouting.

Hunter. I don't think so. He's not so easy frightened, though he

won't fight now; but I seed him one day in a fix, that I reckon you would'nt like to be in. Every body else seemed scared but him, and he was'nt more afraid than you are now.

Reasoner. Ah yes; I know they have courage enough about common things; but they are afraid of the devil, and hell, and all that.

Hunter. Why, stranger! see here now, ain't you afraid of the devil?

Reasoner. I! nonsense, there is no devil.

Hunter. Hey? No devil! How do you know?
Reasoner. Know? Did you ever see the devil?
Hunter. No. But I never seed every thing.

Reasoner. Did you ever see any body that had seen him?
Hunter. No. But John Davis says there is a devil.

Reasoner.

lies.

John Davis is a fool; and all this nonsense is a pack of

Hunter. Halloo, stranger, you'd better not call John Davis a fool; I tell you he ain't no fool, and he'd lick you in a minute—that is, if he'd fight. But he's a clever fellow, any how, and I won't hear him abused behind his back.

Reasoner. I did'nt mean to abuse him; you must not mind such expressions; I only want to convince you of the folly of religion. Hunter. Well, then, you may go on. I begin to feel curious to know how you found out it was all a pack o' lies.

Reasoner. If you read the Free Inquirer, you'd see.

Hunter. Does that say so? How does that know?

Reasoner. Why, Mr. Owen, and Miss Wright, and Mr. Jennings, carry on the paper, and they go on to prove that there is no God; and so religion can't be true, because it pretends to be minding the word of God.

Hunter. No God! no hell! no devil! Hurra! May be if I won't have a frolic. Why, then, a body can get drunk, swear, and fight, and if he should kill a fellow, it would be no great matter. How do they know ? I don't like to be cheated.

But stop.

Reasoner. Why, they say it's just a superstitious notion the people have. Nobody ever saw God; and people can't be expected to believe contrary to the evidence of their senses.

Hunter. No, to be sure. But then John Davis says, how that God made the world. If there ain't no God, who did make the world?

Reasoner. Make the world indeed, how do you suppose he'd go about to make the world?

Hunter. I don't know nothing about it. I asked you to tell me how the world come, if God did'nt make it.

Reasoner. Come! It did'nt come-it always was.

Hunter. How do you know that?

Reasoner. Why, Reason teaches us so.

If there war'nt something

always, how could any thing ever happen to be?

Hunter. That's what I don't know. And I'll tell you another thing I don't know. If this world always was, without any maker, did it make itself?

Reasoner. Make itself! Ha, ha, that's a good one! Why don't you know that the earth is dead matter? It could'nt make itself, nor any thing else.

Hunter. Well, so I should judge; and if it could'nt make any thing, because it ain't alive, I wonder how it could change so much. The water runs, trees grow, leaves fall and put out again, fire burns up a heap of truck; creatures, and birds, and fishes, and mankind too, live and die, and nobody makes 'em. I can't understand that. They did'nt always be, I know.

Reasoner. That's only the fortuitous concurrence of circumstances. Hunter. The what?

Reasoner. Why, it's-it's-it just happens so.

Hunter. It's a queer sort of fixen, any how. I wonder if such things as this here rifle ever just happen so, without being made. Where did you say that 'ere free inquirer came from?

Reasoner. From New York.

Hunter. Who did you say made it?

Reasoner. Mr. Owen, Miss Wright, and Mr. Jennings, write the pieces in it, and then get the printers to print them.

Hunter. What is printing? How is it done?

Reasoner. They have the letters cut on little pieces of lead, (made hard somehow,) these they call types; and they pick them up, letter by letter, and put them in order so as to make words, and so on till they get all these letters set up to make one side; then they put them on a flat stone in the printing press, and black the types, and lay the paper on, and press them, and it looks like this side. Then they put

up the same types in a different order to make different words, and print the other side.

Hunter. What do you call a letter? Let me see.

Reasoner. These are large letters at the top. Those small things are all letters.

Hunter. And do they pick 'em up one by one, and fix 'em so as to make the whole paper?

Reasoner. Yes.

Hunter. Now, mister, I want to ask you a few questions. Did you ever see New York?

Reasoner. No; I am a western man.

Hunter. Did you ever see that woman and them men, you talk about?

No.

Reasoner. Who? Miss Wright, and Mr. Owen, and Mr. Jennings?

Hunter. Do you see the folks make that paper and print it?
Reasoner. No, I tell you.

Hunter. How do you know they did it then?

Reasoner. Can't I read? it says so.

Hunter. May be it lies. How do you know it don't lie?

Reasoner. How do I know it don't lie? I know it don't. Do you

think I am a fool?

Hunter. If you ain't, you can tell what I ask you. It is a plain question. How do you know there is such a place as New York? Reasoner. Why, the fellow's crazy. How do I know there are

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