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be borne; for our Father in heaven will give strength equal to the day, and the change which is soon to come over these mortal bodies, and the frail spirits which now tenant them, will put a stop to pain and suffering forever.

HOW TO FEEL OUR SINS, OR, "STRIVE TO ENTER IN."

Persons who begin to wish they were Christians, are often much discouraged by the difficulty they feel in setting their sins before them in a sufficiently strong light. They hear and they believe repentance to be the first step in their wished for change, and it is so. But it is a mistake to suppose a sense of sin will always be felt the most keenly before the heart is made right. On the contrary, every step we take in the Christian life, shows us more clearly the sinfulness of our past course; every step towards the Sun of righteousness, causes the darkness behind us to appear more gross. If, then, we cannot feel the hatefulness of sin as we wish, let us feel the beauty of holiness. Let us "set God always before us; " let us contemplate his glorious perfections, till incited to endeavors after perfect conformity to his holy will. Every effort we make, will show us more and more of the exceeding sinfulness of our hearts. The more strenuously we aim at perfect conformity to the will of God, the more deeply sensible shall we become of our unworthiness in the sight of Him who can charge even the angels with folly. "Save us, Lord Jesus, or we perish," will be our cry.

Persons often profess to wish they were Christians, while yet they are making no efforts to become such. They wish they could feel their sins, and yet they refuse so much as to look at them. Now it is absurd for a sinner to expect to feel a strong repugnance for sin, while he continues to indulge in it. A sense of sin implies a knowledge of something better; we must strive after holiness. We must take our staff in our hands, show ourselves ready and resolute, and then the pillar of fire will be before us, to lead us from slavery and bondage. Shall we expect to receive the aids of God's Spirit without any effort of our own? Let us rather seek for it in the faithful performance of the services he requires, in obedience to every command. Let us ever manifest a desire to spend and be spent in his service, and we shall receive aid. While

we neglect religious duties, the more indifference we feel about our own sinfulness; the more we do for God, the stronger will become our attachment to him, and the deeper our repentance for our sins against him.

The grace of God is for those who, by a patient continuance in well doing, show that, in some measure, they value it as they ought. Let us consider the magnitude of the reward promised to those, who, in sincerity, seek to know and do the will of God. Shall we think any sacrifice too great, if we may but obtain assistance in fashioning our hearts and lives after the pattern held up to us in the Bible? Shall any effort be esteemed too great, that shall command as its reward, "an exceeding great, and eternal weight of glory?

INCONSISTENCY.

"Groveller on earth, yet wanting will to rise,
Tired of the earth-unfitted for the skies."

This world, it has been often said, is full of contrasts, of wonders, of mysteries. Life and death-good and evilbeauty and deformity - are everywhere so strangely blended, that we look on with a mixture of fear and wonder, and hardly know how to separate them. That men so generally live on, regardless, and even unconscious of these mysterious interminglings, is owing to that blinding of the inward eye, that incrustation of earthliness, which the soul contracts from exclusive intercourse with things of sense. Yet is this very regardlessness a part of the problem to be solved; and nowhere are these mysterious contrasts more strikingly observable, than in man himself:

"Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
An heir of glory! A frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

A worm a god!"

Few more interesting subjects of thought could be found, than those which would be suggested by an attempt to trace these principles of contrast, in their varied forms; but our present concern is with that only, which relates to the moral character of man. Compare his destiny with his demeanor,his purposes with his fulfilment of them his aspirations after good with his devotedness to evil — and where can you find a

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more strange, a more pitiable spectacle? The man who has so brutalized his nature, and hardened his heart, as to feel no desire after good, no remorse for evil, is less pitiable, because less miserable, than he whose road is the theatre of repeated contrasts between these opposing principles, while the victory is always on the side of evil; who, at least, at times, desires all that is noble, and excellent, and lovely; and chooses all that is unworthy, and base and grovelling. But instead of confining ourselves to general observations, which, however interesting, seldom produce conviction, let us select examples in illustration of our meaning; and let these examples be the most plain and familiar possible.

We will first describe one who may stand as the representative of a large class of mankind-those whose great object is the acquisition of the good things of this world. When he set out in life, he intended, as all men intend, merely to acquire competency; and then to withdraw from the cares of business, perhaps to cultivate his intellectual and moral nature. But his ideas of what constitutes a competency, underwent some change in the course of a few years; and he found that his first calculations had been much too moderate. As he went on, too, he began to find pleasure in the acquisition of money, for its own sake; he has daily become more and more entangled in the toils of business, and is farther off than ever from any prospect of leisure for the concerns of his immortal nature. He toils on day after day, a slave to his own inordinate desires — tyrants, who only become more exacting, as he is more complaisant, and who never reward their captive with one moment's rest. But is he happy in this servitude? Is the soul which God made for freedom, for immortality, for heaven, contented in its bondage?

Let us listen to his soliloquy, as he returns home, late, exhausted in body and mind, after the fatigues of a day. "To what purpose all this labor and anxiety? What advantage do I expect to derive from all my toiling, my rising early and sitting up late, my speculations and projects? Why, I shall only amass wealth, which cannot make me happy while I possess it, and which I must soon leave. Leave? - and for what? To go to a world for which I have made no preparation to enter upon a state of existence in which nothing that I prize here, will be of any value to me to account for talents which I have abused. How vain and unsatisfying are all these things I am weary of them even now, and yet for them I am neglecting my soul. What folly! what madness! Why

do I not at once change my conduct, and begin to live for something better?"

Such are his reflections; and to one ignorant of the human heart, it might appear impossible, that, after so clear a perception of the absurdity of his past conduct, he should repeat it. Alas! the very thoughts themselves may be chased from his mind by the recollection of some transaction of the day-or perhaps he begins to think of the difficulties in his way, and concludes to dismiss the matter for the present-or, perhaps, one of his neighbors talks to him of gain and loss, and bargains and speculations, and the momentary impression is effaced. It will probably be repeated at some future period with a similar result.

Let us leave him and look at another a cold, inconstant, worldly professor of religion. It is Saturday evening. The cares and bustle of the week are over; the sun is just setting; he sits at his window and muses. "Another Saturday evening!is it possible?—it seems but a moment since the last. To-morrow is the Sabbath." Then comes a feeling, not sufficiently well defined for a thought, of his unfitness for it; of the utter incongruity between the state of his mind and its holy duties. He takes up a book:-it happens to be the Life of Martyn. As he reads, his conscience accuses him yet more loudly. "Have I anything of this ardor, this zeal, this love?" he asks; and knows the answer. "What have I done for God this week? Have I made one sacrifice of my own ease and convenience to the happiness of others, or the glory of God? Yet with all my self-indulgence, I am not happyMartyn, in the midst of his sufferings, was infinitely happier. I do not enjoy the world, and I deprive myself of the comforts of religion. Besides, my conduct will prejudice others against religion and after all, while I live thus, how do I know that I have any myself. I am determined not to live in this way another day; I will do my duty." He prays for help to keep this resolution, and on the Sabbath repeats it; finds more sweetness in the attempt to pray, than he has done for some time, and begins to hope that better things are in store for him.

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Monday morning comes. His business is pressing, and he has not so much time as he would like for devotion, before he mixes with the world, but he prays with apparent sincerity and fervor for strength. He goes to his business, and not till night comes, does he perceive that this day has been spent like other days. True, he has not been guilty of fraud or injustice; he does not recollect any particular act of transgression- but

where has been his zeal for the glory of God? Has he thought of God during the day? In what instance has he loved his neighbor as himself? On the contrary, his ruling desire has been to succeed in his worldly plans, and his first thought, in his intercourse with others, How can they be made to subserve my interest?' In short, the next Saturday evening finds him no more holy and self-denying than this one. Reader, have I described your case? Are you pursuing a course, which, in your inmost soul, you disapprove; which you even despise yourself for pursuing? Content yourself no longer with vain wishes and regrets. You may wish and regret forever, and be still the same. What is necessary is a vigorous effort of the will; your whole soul must choose the path of duty and self-denial. Cast off the shackles of sin, and determine that, henceforth, reason and conscience shall govern not obey. Is your own strength insufficient for so great a work? Help is offered you only take care that you sincerely desire to seek it. Then shall you "mount up as an eagles' wings; you shall run and not be weary, and walk and not faint." IOTA.

THE FIRESIDE.

THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. Grammar and returned it to his

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little boy.

William was but ten years old at this time, but he had learned to love very dearly the praise of man. He was a bright boy, and though he gave but little time to study, no one in school was at the head of his class so often, or so uniformly correct in his recitations. He always spoke in a clear distinct tone, and when a general question was proposed to the class, the prompt and ready answer of William Morrison, was always first heard.

Now all this was well, exceedingly well, and it is the duty

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