rest, occasionally, to the employers neglected work, and warns them of his displeasure.

"What a narrow-minded, fanatical fellow is this!" says one in reply. "What harm can there be in a little innocent enjoyment ?"

"None at all," answers another. "Our employer is a benevolent man. His object is our happiness, and he wishes us to use the opportunities for enjoyment which he puts into our hands. He cannot wish to interrupt our pleasures."

So saying they turn away from their faithful companion, and give themselves up again to their pleasures. Other laborers see the example of idleness and unfaithfulness which they set, and follow it; and they all quiet apprehension as to the future, by persuading themselves that their employer is too merciful a man even to dismiss them from his service, and thus bring them and their innocent families to want and suffering.

'Tis just so with men. God stations them in this world to accomplish certain purposes which he plainly marks out. We are commanded to devote our time and all our powers to the work of promoting holiness and happiness all around us, and of preparing ourselves and others for our final home. One man, neglecting these objects altogether, devotes himself entirely to the work of acquiring property, simply for the pleasure of feeling and saying that he possesses it. In this work he is entirely absorbed. He rises early and lies down late; he is industrious, and frugal, and watchful; but the object of all is simply the increasing of his stores. He spends his life in this work, never thinking of what God has given him to do in this world, or if he thinks of it, he has no intention of doing it. The unhappy man must find at last, that though there may be, in itself, no sin in acquiring property, there is great sin in spending a whole life in the entire neglect of the real business which God had assigned him.

If then, you think you desire to become a Christian, consider whether you are willing to do, in this world, the work which God has assigned to you, or whether you prefer employing yourself about some other. It is in vain to say that other employment is innocent, in itself. You cannot be God's ser- . vant without being willing to do his work. And what is that work? Why, that you should first study to improve your own character in holiness, and that you should endeavor to acquire and to preserve property and influence as a means of doing good to others,-of promoting the prosperity, and happiness, and welfare of your neighbors, and the community in which you dwell, relieving the sick and the suffering, and ad

vancing the cause of universal knowledge, piety and happiness. Are you willing to engage in this work? If not, do not vainly imagine you wish to be a Christian.

3. One thing more is necessary. I have said you must be willing to abandon all sinful practices, and to engage at once in God's work. You must also be willing that your adherence to the cause of God and religion should be openly known. Many persons wish to come and make secret peace with God, because pride remonstrates against an open admission of his claims. But this will not do. You cannot in this way render your maker that efficient service which his cause requires; and besides, since you have been openly in the wrong, it is right for him to insist upon your openly admitting it, and making your repentance as public as your sin.

Now these three things are most manifestly implied in entering God's service. To pretend to choose his service without being willing to do these things, is plainly absurd. Any one then can easily tell whether he does or does not wish to enter this service. Are you ready to abandon at once all known sin, and to engage in the work of cooperating with God, and to do it openly, so that your return to duty may be known. If you are willing, the return is easy. The great atonement for all your past sins has been made, and the way is entirely open for your coming at once to God and surrendering soul and body, time, talents, influence and property to his work. He will assuredly accept the surrender, and it is one which it is easy to make.

It must be made deliberately and solemnly. All its validity depends upon its being sincere and honest; but the more formal it is in manner, the better. The first great covenant which God made with the Hebrews was executed in writing, and deposited with solemn ceremony in a gilded box, which was carried with them in their wanderings for many years. So let the Christian now make his covenant with God. Let it be a deliberate and formal and solemn act. If he utters aloud in his hour of solitude, the words of consecration, the work will be more effectually done than if he breathes them in silence, and to reduce them to writing and sign them with his name, and then read them solemnly before God, will be better still. It should be done deliberately, as a most solemn and binding act. God will be a witness, and if you are sincere, he will be bound by it himself as your perpetual protector and friend. Such a covenant might be as follows.

'Oh my Maker, I will henceforth have thee for my master, and I will be VOL. I. 4

thy servant. I stop here, in my neglect of thy commands. I stop here in my life of irreligion and selfish pursuit of worldly good. I will now begin to serve thee. This body is thine; thou hast created it and preserved it, and hast given to it all its powers. I have used it thus far for my own purposes, but henceforth I will use it for thine. This intellect I surrender to thee. I have employed its powers in devising and executing my own selfish plans, but from this time it is sacred to the service of God. This wealth and this influence which thou hast given me, shall henceforth be devoted to the purposes for which they were bestowed. I will give myself to the work of doing good. I will seek my employment and my happiness in cooperating with thee in carrying forward thy plans, for removing suffering, and drawing men away from sin. Lord receive me as a servant and follower. Make me wholly thine own. Help me to begin immediately my new work, and to persevere in it to the end. Encourage and strengthen me. When difficulties and trials press about me, wilt thou sympathize with me and come to my help. When I shall stray again from duty, and forget this my solemn covenant with thee, restore my backsliding feet, and grant me forgiveness and peace. Watch over me to the end, and thus prepare me for a more faithful and a happier service in another world.

"In thus coming to thee to commence a new life in thy service, all my ́hope for forgiveness for my past sins, and guidance and help for the future is in thine undeserved mercy, through Jesus Christ who died for me. would be crucified with him, and thus bringing to a close my life of sin, I would henceforth live a new life by faith in the son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.'

Now who is there, young or old, high or low, rich or poor, who does not perfectly understand what is meant by such a surrender of himself to God as this. There are doubtless many, who do not wish thus to enter into their maker's service; they choose to continue in their own; but it is difficult to conceive how any one can say that he does not perfectly understand how to do this, if he is only inclined to do it, or can deny that entering thus into the service of God is the plain and unquestionable duty of every intelligent being whom he has formed. They therefore, who do not begin at once to serve their maker, neglect their duty, not because they do not know how to do it, but because they do not wish to do it. They love better the pleaures of sin.

THE FIRESIDE.

NO. I.

As our work is intended for families, the younger members of them ought not to be forgotten. We propose therefore, occasionally to insert under the above head, an article intended for them. We commence the series with rather a melancholy tale; but it is true, and it teaches us all a useful lesson.

The reader may perhaps extend its usefulness, by lending it to the superintendent of the Sabbath school, to be read, if he thinks proper, at the close of the exercises there.

MARTHA JANE.

When Martha Jane was twelve years old, she was as bright and playful and happy a child as could be found. Her mind was always on the alert; gathering from every quarter instruction for herself, or amusement or pleasure for others.

She had a happy home, and she was the life and soul of the circle of brothers and sisters which gathered around the fireside there. Doing good in this scene was not merely her continual occupation as a duty, but she seemed to enjoy it as a privilege and a pleasure. She contrived and executed with uncommon ingenuity, a thousand plans to promote the happiness of the younger children, and she watched with almost a mother's fidelity and care, to prevent or to relieve their sufferings and their fears. She was a treasurer for their property,—a commander for their enterprises, a judge for their disputes; their poet, their musician, their story-teller; and when father and mother were sick or busy or away, the little group were always safe and happy under the guidance and protection of Martha Jane.

She was a school-girl too, and though her uncommon maturity of mind gave her a high rank as a scholar, and classed her with those far above her in age, she yet in her dress, and manners, and conversation, carried all the simplicity of a child. She was the blithe companion of the little girls,-their universal favorite, the leader in their sports, and often the authority for their opinions. Sometimes she might be seen surrounded by a little circle listening to her lively talk or entertaining stories, and at others, you would observe her during a recess, mounted on a chair in a corner of the room, with her young companions crowded around her to join in some simple, cheerful tune, or to repeat the lessons she had received at the Juvenile Singing School. Many can remember now with what adroitness she would imitate at such a time, the tone and manner of a teacher, and how pleasantly her clear, musical voice led the song.

Martha Jane loved her books. No stimulus from without was applied to urge her forward in reading and study. She went quietly on in the performance of duties prescribed, and

She possessed an uncommon talent for music, and composed several pieces with accuracy and in good taste. One of her compositions, "Mount Auburn," may be found in the second edition of 'the Choir.' L. M.

also in voluntary efforts to which she was allured by her ardent love of knowledge. She read with deep interest, and pursued her studies with industrious, persevering attention, and consequently with distinguished success. She loved to write. Many a diverting, and many a serious and useful article did she communicate among the exercises of her class, or of the school. At one time she would amuse her companions with a humorous description of a blackberry expedition, or of ludicrous scenes in a badly managed school, and at others with dialogues drawn from life, illustrating the character and habits of a faithful schoolgirl, or of a dutiful child.

Martha Jane loved nature. She noticed every thing which came under her observation, and wherever she was, she found enough to occupy her powers. The most common operations of nature she often examined and admired, seeing in them illustrations of philosophical or chemical principles. Even the sight of a rough stone would sometimes excite her curiosity. She would inquire into its composition, find out its name, and then from the fragments into which she had broken it,-because to use her own expression "there might be something inside," she would select a specimen of convenient size, label it, and give it a place in her little museum, a neatly arranged collection of minerals, shells, dried plants, insects, and other wonders of nature and art.

But years moved on, and at length Martha Jane ceased to be a child. She approached maturity. How bright life must have looked to her! How fair her prospects of happiness!

During the summer which has just closed, her health began gradually to decline, and there were some symptoms which indicated a disorder of the brain. She was weak and languid and dejected in spirits. One summer evening I called to see her. It was the evening previous to my setting out upon a journey, to be absent a week or two, and I wished to see her before I went away. Her eye brightened a little as I entered, but it soon sunk to an expression of languor and dejection, and during the half hour that I remained, she sat in a rocking chair in the parlor, listening to the conversation I held with the other members of the family, but taking no part in it. She was silent and sad.

She told me however, in answer to my enquiries about her health, that her head was bewildered; she could not command her thoughts.

"How," said I. "What sort of thoughts and feelings do you have?"

"Oh, every kind;" said she.