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flock he had promised to feed. He smiled, and treated all her admonitions with indifference, although he often admired the fidelity of her reproofs, and the sincerity of her piety. One Saturday evening, after having been out with the hounds the whole of the day, he returned to his beloved Maria, and observed, "I am so fatigued that it will be impossible for me to prepare two sermons for tomorrow, as you know I usually do; I shall really be much obliged if you will write one for me for the morning, and perhaps I can get one ready in time for the afternoon." "Are you really in earnest ?” "I am indeed." "But you would not preach mine if I were to compose one?" "Indeed I would." "Would you indeed, and upon Yes, upon my honour, Maria." "Would you keep

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your honour?" it a secret?" "Yes, that I will." 66 'Well, I'll try for this once." He retired and returned to the parsonage. After he had left, she thought seriously upon the task she had undertaken, and bent her knees, earnestly intreating direction in the choice of a subject, and that it might be made a blessing to her thoughtless friend, and to the people of his charge; she rose from her devotions, and her mind was impressed with a text on the " Necessity of Regeneration." She felt the difficulty of placing before him a doctrine so entirely opposed to all his habits, and so strange to the congregation; and tried to supply its place with another more likely to secure attention, but she could not, and, after some struggles, she wrote a sermon on the subject; but lest its novelty should induce him to lay it aside, she sent her servant to the parsonage to say, that the sermon should be in the pulpit ready for him at eleven o'clock. After reading the Liturgy he commenced the sermon, but his perplexities were great; it was to him indeed a new doctrine; the people gazed and listened with marked attention and surprise; he had given his word, and felt it his duty to read it through; the afternoon sermon was, as usual, a mere moral essay.

The next morning, an old man called at the parsonage, and begged to see the minister; he was admitted. "Well, John, you are an early visitor this morning." "Yes, Sir, I am, but I am so distressed in my mind. Oh! that blessed sermon of yesterday." "Which was it ?" "The one which described regeneration, and told us how we might become new creatures, and how alone we can be saved." "You need not be distressed, I am sure; you were baptized in your infancy, you have been always very regular at church, and you never did any body any harm." "Ah! but Sir, you told us that the application of water to the body alone would not do, that we must come to the Saviour for pardon, and that we must be renewed by the Holy Spirit." "Oh, John, that was only intended for the reprobate." "But you said, Sir, that we must have a better righteousness than our own, and that by nature we are strangers to; you also insisted on a change of heart, and that without it we could not enter the kingdom of God."

The clergyman's mind was now deeply arrested, and knew not how to get an answer for old John, and in the conflict burst into tears; but, recovering himself, said, "I am now in a hurry; will you call tomorrow? but, in the interim, be not uneasy. You have been a good

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as you have seen to-day. my informant, a bundle, in which were these two letters. One was directed to his mother; the other to me. In mine he detailed, in simple yet affecting language, his sufferings since we parted, the gradual manner in which he had been led captive by intemperance, and the iron grasp with which it had held him. “Oh," added he, "if you have a son, let him beware of the first drop." Let 'touch not, taste not, handle not,' be inscribed upon every thing that intoxicates; and if a motive is ever wanting to enforce his abstinence, remind him of your poor friend, Henry L."

It is unnecessary to add, that the night was to me a sleepless one. Before commencing my journey in the morning, I visited his grave, and engaged my landlord to erect a humble stone upon it, that his friends, in journeying that way, might find where he was laid. I transmitted to his afflicted mother, from the nearest town, the letter he had left for her, together with my own knowledge of his death, and the deep sympathy I felt in her affliction; although at the moment I wrote, I felt how utterly vain and worthless was all human sympathy in such agony of grief as her's must be; how impotent the words of comfort would fall on a mother's ear, mourning over an only son, who had fallen into a drunkard's grave, and must inherit the drunkard's portion. Oh! is there not some young man, entering life with as fair prospects as his, who can take warning from his melancholy end, and be kept in the strait and narrow path of temperance?

N.

THE CLERGYMAN CONVERTED.

[The following narrative has been sent to us from a source which justifies the fullest confidence as to its authenticity. For very obvious reasons all names of persons and places are omitted. We are sure that the result of reading it will be to encourage our readers to make vigorous efforts for the salvation of all with whom they come into contact.-EDITOR.]

SOME years since a clergyman, whose gaieties and attachments to the pleasures of the chase rendered him altogether unfit for the sacred duties of the clerical office, paid his addresses to an amiable and interesting lady of highly respectable connexions, but who, like himself, was deeply in love with the pursuits of the fashionable world; their attachment was mutual and strong; it however pleased Him, who has the hearts of all in his hands, to lead her to one of his sanctuaries, where one of his faithful servants sought with earnestness the salvation of the flock committed to his care; the truths she heard arrested her attention, and a conviction of their importance, and the necessity of a personal interest in them remained, and left her not, till she became a humble suppliant for mercy, and till she found rest and peace at the footstool of the cross. With a mind thus awakened, she trembled at the consequences which might result from the union that was so near at hand, and she urged on the object of her affections the duty of seeking the same Saviour, the dangerous tendency of all his pursuits, the responsibilities of the office he had undertaken, and the consequences of infidelity to the

flock he had promised to feed. He smiled, and treated all her admonitions with indifference, although he often admired the fidelity of her reproofs, and the sincerity of her piety. One Saturday evening, after having been out with the hounds the whole of the day, he returned to his beloved Maria, and observed, "I am so fatigued that it will be impossible for me to prepare two sermons for tomorrow, as you know I usually do; I shall really be much obliged if you will write one for me for the morning, and perhaps I can get one ready in time for the afternoon." "Are you really in earnest?" "I am indeed." "But you would not preach mine if I were to compose one?" "Indeed I would." "Would you indeed, and upon your honour?" "Yes, upon my honour, Maria." "Would you keep it a secret?" "Yes, that I will." "Well, I'll try for this once." He retired and returned to the parsonage. After he had left, she thought seriously upon the task she had undertaken, and bent her knees, earnestly intreating direction in the choice of a subject, and that it might be made a blessing to her thoughtless friend, and to the people of his charge; she rose from her devotions, and her mind was impressed with a text on the "Necessity of Regeneration." She felt the difficulty of placing before him a doctrine so entirely opposed to all his habits, and so strange to the congregation; and tried to supply its place with another more likely to secure attention, but she could not, and, after some struggles, she wrote a sermon on the subject; but lest its novelty should induce him to lay it aside, she sent her servant to the parsonage to say, that the sermon should be in the pulpit ready for him at eleven o'clock. After reading the Liturgy he commenced the sermon, but his perplexities were great; it was to him indeed a new doctrine; the people gazed and listened with marked attention and surprise; he had given his word, and felt it his duty to read it through; the afternoon sermon was, as usual, a mere moral essay.

The next morning, an old man called at the parsonage, and begged to see the minister; he was admitted. "Well, John, you are an early visitor this morning." 'Yes, Sir, I am, but I am so distressed in my mind. Oh! that blessed sermon of yesterday." "Which was

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it ?" "The one which described regeneration, and told us how we might become new creatures, and how alone we can be saved." "You need not be distressed, I am sure; you were baptized in your infancy, you have been always very regular at church, and you never did any body any harm." "Ah! but Sir, you told us that the application of water to the body alone would not do, that we must come to the Saviour for pardon, and that we must be renewed by the Holy Spirit." "Oh, John, that was only intended for the reprobate." "But you said, Sir, that we must have a better righteousness than our own, and that by nature we are strangers to; you also insisted on a change of heart, and that without it we could not enter the kingdom of God."

The clergyman's mind was now deeply arrested, and knew not how to get an answer for old John, and in the conflict burst into tears; but, recovering himself, said, "I am now in a hurry; will you call tomorrow? but, in the interim, be not uneasy. You have been a good

liver, not a sinner like others; you have always attended at the sacrament, but we will converse together more to-morrow."

The clergyman now sat down, and thought that there must be a reality in religion, to which till then he had been a stranger. Distressed he waited on Maria, and told her all his feelings, and the converse he had just had with John, observing, "that if he were sincere, there was more in religion than he yet knew." Yes, I have often told you so, and, that to be a blessing to others, you must yourself be a new creature in Christ Jesus."

She urged him to seek the wisdom which cometh from above, and it pleased God to make him a humble faithful minister of the New Testament, and he became a burning and shining light in his parish. His poor parishioners soon observed the change in his preaching; his former moral essays were delivered without feeling, his new sermons they said came all from his heart; and although he takes his book with him into the pulpit, he does not care for it, and they come to our hearts now.

He next established prayer meetings in the cottages; he has a flourishing Sunday-school; his church is crowded to excess, and a congregation of 1,500 now regularly attend his ministrations; a great number of whom, it is believed, will be his crown of rejoicing in the great day.

A PRAYING CHILD AND HER FATHER.

A LITTLE girl belonging to the Sabbath-school in B. became hopefully pious, when she was about nine years old. During the next winter she attended the district school. When the school was dismissed at night, she was in the habit of lingering behind, till all the scholars had left; and then returning to the school-house, and spending a little time in prayer. The father was an irreligious man, and infidel in sentiment; but he was very kind and affectionate to his little daughter. One day, when the weather was extremely severe, and the wind high and piercing, the father was afraid she would perish with the cold. So he set off to meet her, as she returned at night. He met the scholars, on their way home, but the dear object of his search was not among them. With all the earnestness of an anxious parent, he hastened to the school-house. When he arrived, all was gone and all was silent, except the piercing gusts of wind, which whistled around the school-house. He cautiously opened the door and entered. At that moment a voice, indicating the greatest earnestness, fell upon his ear. He stopped and listened. It was his beloved child pleading with God to have mercy upon her dear papa.

The father's emotions were too strong to be suppressed; his soul was filled with agony and bitterness. He drew near and embraced his child, and then accompanied her home, deeply convinced that he was a sinner. In a few weeks he accepted Christ as his all-sufficient Saviour, and his only hope of eternal life. He is now a devoted, active Christian.

What an encouragement does an incident like this afford to the faithful Sabbath-school teacher. If instrumental in the conversion of

a child, you may also, through that child's instrumentality, convey the blessings of salvation and eternal life to a parent ripening for despair. Dear youthful readers, have you a father or a mother who fears not God, nor obeys his commands? You can here learn what you can do to save them. If you have learned to pray with the sincerity and earnestness with which this little girl prayed, you can retire alone and pour out your anxious desires for them into the ear of God, who will delight to hear you cry. If you have never learned to pray with right feelings, will you not, as you read this affecting story, be persuaded now to begin? Oh, you must learn to pray, if you would be blessings to your parents or blessed yourselves.

THE DECISION.

(From the American Mother's Magazine, for June.)

B.

MY DEAR LOUISA,-Were I for a moment disposed to shrink from the task you have assigned me, the memory of your beloved mother, the duty I owe you as her child, the lively interest I have ever felt in your welfare and happiness, and the danger to which I now see you exposed, would combine to overcome every feeling of reluctance to advise in a case so important—so momentous, when one step may involve you in misery for life!

My maxim has ever been, "never, under any circumstances, encourage the addresses of one whose purity of principle admits of a doubt;" and observation for years has fully satisfied me that there is no safety in any other course.

Independent of the loss of that high tone of moral feeling-of all that is excellent, refined, and noble, which must result from habitual profligacy, motives of merely a prudential nature, should leave not a moment's hesitation what course to pursue; for, however kind and affectionate a husband may be, the bare suspicion of infidelity to his plighted faith, would at once destroy that confidence and respect, that charm which binds in virtue's bonds congenial minds; harrowing suspicion and corroding jealousy must wither the heart, when it enters; but let suspicion become certainty, and the creations of jealousy, realities, and what must be the condition! I cannot possibly conceive, in this life, a state more wretched! and that condition must be endured without the possibility of relief, or the privilege of complaint: and besides, what security have you in the affections, when once that holy principle, which was implanted in the heart for the wisest purpose, is destroyed; is such a heart capable of love? I, for one, do not believe it; for what is love, but a most exalted esteem and regard, founded on virtue, ardent, pure, passionless; an affection of the heart, which ennobles the mind, elevates the soul, and leads it nearer to heaven?

You ask, "Is there any hope of a reform ?" I answer unhesitatingly, none, save in the grace of God. I look upon a youth who is prone to dissipation, who has probably been drawn into the vortex by improper associates, with painful regret and commiseration, mingled with a feeling of horror at his strange infatuation-at his impending ruin.

And

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