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about the Church, but the school more especially ; and he rejoiced when told anything pleasing, as a father over the prosperity of his own children.

He requested the prayers of the school for his recovery, and his frequent reference to its state and prosperity; and his evident impatience when other subjects were introduced, gave strong indication that the school's welfare lay very near his heart.

When the writer left him to return home, he expressed his determination to stay the whole winter at Southport, to give the change of air a fair chance of doing him good. His dear wife, however, was anxious to get him home ; ! and upon his son visiting him it was arranged to return to Manchester, in which he reluctantly acquiesced. He reached home, but was so ill as to be unable to go up stairs. A bed was made in the sitting room where he remained for two or three nights; and on Sunday, the day before he died, having expressed a wish to be taken upstairs, his brothers carried him to his own bed. He was pleased with the change, but gradually became weaker. On Sunday afternoon, the day previous to his death, he

1 appeared sensible of his approaching end. After a fit of coughing he lifted his eyes towards heaven and exclaimed, “Glory, glory be to God ! come Lord Jesus, come quickly, and take me to thyself." His dear wise knowing him to be auxious about getting better, said, “James, canst thou say Thy will be done,” and he answered emphatically, “Yes, yes." About an hour before death, about two o'clock on Monday morning, he was conversing with his wife as they lay together, unable to sleep, without the slightest notion that death was so near, when she noticed a change in his countenance. She called the servant and ! sent 'her for his son, but when he arrived his father was unconscious. In a few moments more, his spirit had passeď away from its clay tenement, to join the blessed throng around the throne of God, leaving upon the countenance a smile of serene happiness, as though the spirit at parting, bad caught a glimpse of the better country.

"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, from

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henceforth; yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them."

VERSES ADDRESSED TO A BELOVED SISTER.
There is a something in poetic strains,

Which lines prosaic never can convey ;
There is a nobler inspiration reigns

Where solemn truths require the solemn lay ;
And through the meanest channel, heavenly day

Quick penetrating, can transfuse its light;
Oh! that by me, one soul-enlivening ray,
Might reach my Sister-clear her mental sight;
And put remaining doubts, like morning clouds, to flight!
Almighty Sovereign of the earth and sky ;

Inspirer of the work thou deign'st to approve !
Oh ! sanction mine! and whilst I feebly try

To show the fulness, freeness of thy love ;
Grant I may never from my subject rove,

But from experience, point the path to peace.
To thee, and for thee, may I think, write, move,
Invigorated by thy strength'ning grace ;
My aim thy glory be, till life and being cease!
True, I am but a reptile from the clod

Lately emerged, to feel the warmth divine,
But tell thy creature, condescending God!

Hast thou not deign’d to call that reptile thine,
To bid my deadness live, my darkness shine ;

My fetter'd spirit, rise and follow thee !
Then take my thoughts, my motive, my design,
And send a blessing by thy weakness, me ;
Clay by thy hand applied, can cause the blind to see.
My sister! art thou guilty ? dost thou dread

The Day of Judgment as a day of woe ?
I charge thee, mourner, lift thy drooping head,

God hath commanded, and it shall be so;

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Thy sins, tho' scarlet, shall be white as snow,

Mountains may totter, promises are sure !
Art thou polluted ? to the fountain go,
There drop thy burden-wash thee and be pure ;
And feeling thy disease, accept the offered cure.
Thou canst not doubt the virtue of that stream,

Or if thou dost, remember I was there ;
Pardon, peace, life, are found in Jesu's name,

More full than thought can reach, more free than air.
Dost thou enquire on what condition ? where ?

What depth of sorrow ? with how sad a brow?
Join to thy present grief, believing prayer:
This moment at His footstool prostrate bow;
This is salvation's day, the time accepted now.
Thou can'st not purchase what's already bought,

The mere idea is absurd as vain ;
Nay worse, 'tis impious, at least in thought,

Works cannot merit; pilgrimages gain,
What cost our great Redeemer so much pain,

For which he suffered, bow'd his head and died. The crimson current cleanses every stain, Faith is the hand by which it is applied ; Faith is the only means" by faith,” thou’rt “justified.' “All things are ready now," the Father stands,

Beaming compassion, whilst He cries, “my child!' For thee, the Son extends His wounded hands,

Prays and beseeches thee “ be reconciled," And hark! the whispers of His Spirit mild,

Arise "why tarriest thou ?" disdain to dread; Spring forth my sister, be no more beguiled,

Angels might weep, had angels tears to shed, To see the hungry soul, refuse the living bread. Art thou afraid to trust Him? Oh! beware,

There's something selfish in a servile fear ; Cast self away, to Jesu's feet repair,

Tell Him, "I'll perish, if I perish, here !" Stretch forth thy hand, he brings the sceptre near,

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“What wilt thou Esther," what wouldst thou receive? " Lord ! as a guilty rebel I appear, Or send me from Thee, or my sins forgive ; I venture on Thy word, I must, I do believe." Dost thou ? then wondrous truth the cherub throng

With deepened rapture hallelujahs sing ?
Dost thou ? then catch the theme, the notes prolons,

Cry“endless glory to the Eternal King !"
Shout the full triumph till thy soul takes wing,

And feels a transport never felt before ;
Fly, break the willow, strike each a joyful string,
Thy harp shall know a plaintive sound no more ;
But all within rejoice, love, wonder, and adore !
Farewell, my sister, may the shadows fade ;

And day celestial open on thy view !
May He, whom I implore, impart His aid,

And in His image all thy soul renew;
The snare discover, force thy passage through,

And unbelief with power Almighty rend!
Only pray on ; thy morning days are few,
Soon shall the sinner meet the sinner's Friend ;
Thy sorrow disappear, thy comforts have no end.

ANNE SUTTON.

I CAN'T TELL A LIE, FATHER. When the celebrated George Washington was about six years of age, some one made him a present of a hatchet. Like other children, exceedingly fond of what is new, he went about chopping everything that came in his way; and going into the garden, he unluckily tried its edge on a very choice cherry-tree, stripping off its bark, and leaving but little hope of its recovery. When, on the next morning, his father saw the tree, which was a great favourite, in this wretched plight, he inquired who had done the mischief, declaring that he would sooner have given five guineas than it should have occurred; but no one could

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inform him of the offender. At length, however, George advanced with his hatchet, and immediately he was suspected of being the culprit. “George,” said his father, “ do you know who killed that beautiful little cherrytree?The child hesitated for a moment, and then nobly replied, “I can't tell a lie, father ; you know I can't tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.” “Run to my arms, my boy!” exclaimed his father ;"run to my arms! Glad am I, George, that you have killed my cherry-tree, for you have paid me for it a thousand-fold ! Such an act of heroism in my son is worth more than a thousand cherrytrees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of gold !”

Cheerfully do we join in this tribute of an affectionate and delighted parent. * The lip of truth shall be established for ever, but a lying tongue is but for a moment." It gains nothing but the disadvantage of being discredited when the truth is spoken ; and this, apart from its moral evil, should keep it silent. Its offensiveness to God has, however, been fearfully displayed in the punishment and immediate death of some who have nttered faisehoods. A regard for truth is always delightful. A party of Moors made an attack on the flocks of a village, and an African youth was mortally wounded. The natives placed him on horseback, and conducted him home, while his mother preceded the mournful group, proclaiming his excellent qualities, and by her clasped hands and streaming eyes, discovering the inward bitterness of her soul. But the chief one she mentioned was thus expressed-may : similar testimony be borne to you !-" He nerer, nerer, nerer told a lie !"

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"O what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!”

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