Those who go from us are a little in advance, but we are sure to follow. If there were any uncertainty on that point, I should, as you say, be broken down by sorrow. If I had not confidence in a future life, I should be most miserable.'

'And how do you obtain this confidence?'

'I will tell you,' said she. I have obtained it by giving myself time for reflection and using it for that purpose. Nobody wants the conviction, that there is a First Cause for every thing. This First Cause must be the Creator and unite in itself all power-the One whom we call God. He made this world with all its wonders, its heights and depths, its outward beauties and hidden treasures. On the same principle we want no arguments, to convince us that he created man. He is then, in the strongest sense of the word, my Father; I am his child; he trains me as such; and for what is he training me but for future purposes? I see nothing here that can answer the question, or reconcile me to losses and privations; but on reflection they all appear consistent with a continuation of life, or a future life, as we usually say. This conviction becomes a never-failing spring of trust and hope, it is the foundation of all consolation. Let us once believe that God loves us with a tenderness and care far beyond any earthly parent-that he can never mistake our best interests, as they may-and we feel safe, for we are sure that it is the vital principle he is watching over. It seems to me that I can deduce all this from what is called internal evidence, from what I feel and experience; but it is difficult for us who are brought up under Christian teaching to say how much we owe to it. When I add to my internal evidence that revelation brought to us by our Lord Jesus Christ and study his character as given by his Apostles, I feel that "he hath risen," and I become cheerfully submissive. I am only showing you the simple process of my mind. The first conviction is trust in God-a perfect reliance on his paternal relation, on his infinite love for our souls. You perceive I am not arguing this subject. If you want arguments on a future life, you will find them in various books.'

'Well, my dear friend, I will allow you have settled this matter with yourself, and are cheerfully resigned. Indeed I begin to see it. There are no traces of deep affliction on your countenance. you would only dress a little more, you would still look quite

If

well. And then nothing conduces so much to health as employ. ment. You must be sadly in want of objects of interest. What do you do in winter?'

'O, a thousand things. It is my time for in-door enjoyment; like the ant, I prepare for summer. I play the farmer and assort my seeds for my garden, for I have a voice and even a hand in it. My house is to be made comfortable, and there is the training of little Mary, and my hens and chickens. Beppo too claims a portion of my time for conversation, and I try to give her the same cheerful convictions that I have. When my lamp is lighted for the evening-which I assure you is the best of its kind, for I value my eyes too much to give them any unnecessary exertion-and my fire burns brightly, it matters not to me whether it storms without, or the stars shine, for I am happy within. And now I will not ask you what I should gain by changing my country residence for a town life, because I remember. We could make calls all the morning, and go to balls and parties in the evening; we could change the fashion of our dress every few days, and if we are not wealthy enough to order every thing brought home ready made, this alone would take a large portion of our time and give but little leisure for reading or reflection. There are some advantages in the city which we cannot have in the country, but none, as I am situated, that outweigh the preponderance in favor of the latter. But we have talked enough on one subject. I want to show you the country around me. I hire a horse and chaise for a third less than you pay in the city. As you like society, we will stop at the door of some of my country neighbors and invite them to pass the evening with us.'

I arrayed myself with some care for the ride, being willing to create a little sensation with my fashionable bonuet and pretty cap, and was ready when the man who owned the equipage put his head into the door and said to my friend, 'Do you want me to drive, ma'm, or is the old lady there going with you?' After all, thought I, the country is detestable, if only for its bad manners. Indeed

I confess I wondered that he could detect age under such a cap and bonnet and with really a youthful figure. But so it is; like the circles under the bark of the tree, every year makes a new line.

Our ride was very pleasant. We had leisure to observe the scenery of the country. On one side rose the little hamlet, on another stood a cottage embowered by trees and vines. Once our horse was permitted to refresh himself by a draught at a limpid spring through which we rode. On our return, at twelve, a school poured forth its group of noisy little children, who saluted us by nods and courtesies. I could not but acknowledge that the sun shone more cheerfully on green grass and white cottages, than on paved streets and brick houses.

The evening proved very animated. Before her guests arrived, my friend prepared her basket of apples, and I heard little Mary's hammer going to complete the entertainment. The children introduced ingenious little plays, in which we all joined. I was very fortunate in guessing their conundrums, and my friend proposed I should play a few tunes on the old piano for their 'magical music.' I don't know how it was, but I have not for years felt so young or had so much real gayety. The children seemed to consider me quite one of themselves.

'Well, my friend,' said I, after the company had gone, 'I will say no more about the city. I will even confess that you seem to have all the means of enjoyment about you.'

The next morning I took the cars and was whirled back to my genteel boarding-house, where I have an upper chamber and a right in the drawing-room, for only nine dollars a week-I finding my fire, lights, washing, errand-boy, and other et-ceteras.

H. F. L.

THE SINFULNESS OF SIN.

A SERMON, BY REV. DAVID DAMON.

ROMANS Vii. 13.

*** But sin, that it might appear sin, working death in me by that which is good; that sin by the commandment might become exceeding sinful.

As I have chosen this passage of Scripture merely as a motto or introduction to a discourse upon the heinousness, or exceeding sin. fulness of sin, I need not enter into a particular exposition of the

text or context. As I wish to be solemnly impressed myself with a sense of the folly, danger, and exceeding sinfulness of sin, you will not doubt that I sincerely desire to impart this impression to you. We have been charged, as a denomination, by other Christians, with holding sin to be a light and venial evil; and this, it has been said, is one of the reasons why deep convictions, sincere repentance, and thorough reforms have not been common among us. I am not satisfied of the truth of this allegation in either of its parts; but I am satisfied that, in all denominations of Christiansours and all others-there are many individuals, who have not the correct understanding and the deep feeling of the sinfulness of sin, nor the just views of themselves as sinners, which God's eternal, immutable truth demands.

All know and acknowledge, that men are sinners, and that punishment, or misery, is the consequence of sin. None dispute this. But what is sin? The Scriptures have defined it :-" sin is the transgression of the law." The transgression of what law? Not merely of the just laws of civil government, nor merely of the letter of the Ten Commandments, nor of the express moral precepts of Moses and the Prophets, Christ and the Apostles; but in addition to these, of the law of God written in the heart, which conscience continually makes us read. This last embraces the whole. Those first named are transcripts, examples, divinely selected instances, to aid the understanding and conscience in reading and comprehending the whole, in its length and breadth, its depth and height. The man, who by omission or commission, thought or act, word or silence, transgresses the holy law of God engraven in the human heart one iota,-who wrongs his conscience, the divine monitor within him, in the least degree,-does thereby constitute himself a sinner-enters upon the career, which leads to degradation, misery, moral ruin, and spiritual death. The alternative is then,-to pause, consider and retreat, or to rush on and die. Such are the general nature and tendency of moral evil, or sin; and I will wrong no man's understanding so much as to suppose he does not know this, that is, has not some apprehension of the general fact or truth stated. But it is quite a different thing to see clearly and to feel deeply, in the inmost depths of the soul, the whole import and bearing of this great truth.

I will endeavor to illustrate so much of it as I may, on one brief occasion, by adverting to the selfishness of sin,-its ingratitude to God, the injury it does to others, the injury it does to one's self, -and the stress which the Scriptures lay upon immediate repent

ance.

1. One circumstance pertaining to the very essence of sin, which in some measure shows its heinousness, or exceeding sinfulness, is its selfishness. When a good act is done, others besides the doer usually share in the benefits-the happy results. It is intended by the doer that it shall be so, and the fact that it happens so as he intended enhances his own share in the mutual benefit and happiness. Now sin, in its very nature, is the reverse of this, is opposite to all real benevolence, and is supremely selfish in its aim. A man does good-pursues and accomplishes the right, the benevolent, the true, to gratify others and himself likewise. But when he sins, it is to gratify himself; or baser still, to gratify himself, and at the same time and by the same act to inflict pain, or mortification, or some injury upon others. It is to gratify causeless or too long continued anger, or sordid avarice, some depraved desire, some selfish feeling,—that a man sins. He intends that the gratification derived from the sinful act shall be all his own, and that others shall not share in it. The sinfulness of sin is therefore in some measure manifest from its baseness; for whatever is exclusively selfish has always and justly been considered base and contemptible.

Possibly it may be objected to this view of sin, that certain classes of sinners join hand in hand, band together, pursue their objects in company, and appear to have much joyous fellowship among themselves, as in the instances of thieves, robbers and pirates. I will not deny that the social principle (perverted and depraved however) has something to do with forming and continuing such connexions; but still the objection is seeming, not real. Every member of such bands is seeking his individual gratification, and cares very little for the fate or fortunes of his comrades. The great principle of all such associations is their necessity in order to the successful pursuit of the objects which each one has in view individually. If there is any thing better than this in any breast among them, it only shows that their depravity is so far short of