if he could the sufferers. One man only had escaped, he was up the mast when the ship struck, had been thrown forward upon the ice, and was now lying there stunned with the fall. Melcolm raised him up, and when a little recovered placed him in his sledge and with great difficulty, for the ice was panting with the violence of the storm and splitting in every direction, they reached the shore. He then took him to his own hut, warmed and dried him; gave him the best provision he had, and spreading a clean seal-skin over his moss bed, invited him to rest. The man gladly lay down, and overcome by all he had gone through, was soon fast asleep. Melcolm sat by and watched him. He was the only white man he had ever seen except the priest. He understood the priesthood better than to imagine that he was of the holy office, but still he thought he had been brought up in a land where all were Christian, and that if he could not do for him all the priest could, at least, he must be a great deal better and know a great deal more than himself; and as he sat there he was thinking of the many things he wanted to ask him. How great was his surprise to find, when he awoke, that, on religious subjects, he was more ignorant than himself! He had been taught something when a boy; he could read, and had a Bible given him once, but did not know where it was now. He had seen many Churches; there was one where he spent most of his time while on shore; but he seldom went into it; in fact he had heard all these things but had thought little about them. Now, however, he was inclined to think; the awful death of all his companions, and his own narrow escape, were not without effect, and the earnest inquiries of the kind Esquimaux to whom he owed his life, touched his conscience. They brought out the priest's books which had been carefully preserved, and as he read, Melcolm called to mind the priest's instructions; they taught each other; and when, some months after, he had an opportunity of leaving the place, he left it an altered man. The unlettered Esquimaux boy had been made an instrument of good to his soul. Melcolm did not live very long after this. How he died is not known; but whether it was upon his seal-skin bed in that low, dark hut, or whether it might be from some accident amongst the ice, for his work was dangerous; wherever it was, we need not doubt but that Angels were waiting round to carry his soul to the bright, beautiful world he so loved and longed for. SINGING AT WORK.-Give us, O give us, the man who sings at his work! Be his occupation what it may, he is equal to any of those who follow the same pursuit in silent sullenness. He will do more in the same time-he will do it better-he will persevere longer. One is scarcely sensible of fatigue whilst he marches to music. The very stars are said to make harmony as they revolve in their spheres. Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness-altogether past calculation its powers of endurance. Efforts, to be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous-a spirit all sunshine, graceful from very gladness, beautiful because bright.-West of England Conservative. "WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE." Psalm cxxxix. 18. I. O HUMBLY breathe the duleet thought, 'tis precious and divine- H. My God-to be Thy child on earth, to own no joy save Thee, III. What were the few short fleeting years of pilgrimage and pain, C. A. M. W. ARTHUR AUBREY: A SKETCH. IN a pretty little drawing-room, on a fine summer's evening, were seated three persons, a gentleman, a lady, and a little boy six or seven years of age. The lady was pretty, of a mild expressive countenance, shaded withal with a look of sorrow, hardly usual in one, who, to judge from appearance, was still quite young. The gentleman was many years her senior, of a grave exterior, yet with a peculiar air of benevolence and kindness in his manner, which seemed to speak of one, who lived more for others than himself. These two were talking together, while the other occupant of the room, the boy of whom we have spoken, seemed trying to find some vent for the exuberance of his animal spirits, now rolling on the floor, now flinging his arms suddenly round his mother's neck, or exciting his little dog to play antics or cut capers with him in a corner. Yet there was nothing riotous or unruly in his way, and ever and anon you might see him glance at his companions, and then keep himself still for a few moments, speaking to his dumb friend in low whispers, as if trying to put a restraint upon the joyousness of his child's heart. "Arthur," at length said the gentle voice of the lady, “I must send you to bed now, it is late." He had just succeeded as she spoke in leaping from the window on to the lawn beneath, and back again, and was preparing delightedly to repeat the feat, but 66 her voice arrested him in a moment, as a thing not to be disputed. Yet he hung his head out once again, as if inhaling the sweet fresh air, and then said coaxingly, "Are you quite serious, mamma?" "Yes, quite serious, run away, now; to-morrow, when you wake, the happy day will have arrived, and I hope we shall enjoy ourselves as much as we expect.' Frederick's birthday come at last! I thought it never would be here, O, mamma!" and giving his mother a hug, and with a more moderate kiss to his friend, Mr. Vervyn, the boy bounded out of the room, and his merry voice was heard singing on the stairs, as he went up. There was a silence of a few moments when he was gone, and then the young mother said thoughtfully, "Poor Arthur is so delighted because I am going to take him to-morrow to a small party at the Mershams', given in honour of little Fred's birthday. It is so seldom he has any amusement, it almost turns his head. I sometimes think I am mistaken with regard to his education. My great desire, as you know, my dear friend, is to bring him up as a Christian child; but perhaps I am wrong in letting him dwell so much upon the things of a future life; such thoughts have been made natural to me by my great sorrow, but they may be too solemn for a young mind, and his feelings may be overstrained, as I fear he is already graver than becomes a child of his age.' Her companion did not immediately reply, but a peculiar smile played round his mouth. The lady marked it, and she also smiled, as she hastened to add, "I know what you are thinking of; you would say, that after the specimen Arthur gave us of his spirits to-night, I have no reason to fear a want of liveliness in him. But I assure you such ebullitions are not common with him. He is a happy child, I believe, yet his happiness generally consists in quiet studies, and ruminations on subjects above his years; he often surprises me with his deep thoughts upon religion, yet perhaps after all, it is only because I am a fond and foolish mother, that I fancy him so much beyond other children." "A fond mother you doubtless are," replied the gentleman, "but I would hope not therefore of necessity a foolish one. If you are now asking my opinion as to your training of Arthur, I should encourage you by all means to go on as you have begun. It appears to me that so long as your child takes pleasure in religion, and is not puffed up by knowledge, you cannot teach him too much of it. In former times, we read of men, willing to give themselves up, soul and body and spirit to the pursuit of holiness. Why is it that such are so rare, so almost unknown among us now? May not the fault in some degree be traced to our nurseries, to the mothers at whose knees we are brought up? We are content with a low standard of good. GOD is taught as a refuge from the ills of life, but not held up as the chief Good, as the primary object, to praise and glorify Whom alone we live and have our being. Before a man can enter any profession, whether as soldier, lawyer, or to minister in CHRIST's holy Church, he must follow the particular education necessary to each, or we cannot expect him to distinguish himself in either. And so, I say, it is with a Christian; we cannot reasonably expect a man to be perfect in gifts of meditation, prayer, almsgiving, or any other virtue, unless the practice of them is taught him, ay, and practically taught him in childhood. And though many would laugh, and say it is impossible to expect so much from children, yet we know who has said, that out of the mouths of babes and sucklings praise is perfected. It is a painful reflection to me how often the workings of the Holy Spirit in the hearts of our little ones may be quenched, because their ardent aspirations find no response in the worldly minds of the men and women around them. That your boy has an unusual breathing after holiness I do believe, though to me, he does not speak of his deep feelings, nor should I wish him; go on therefore, dear madam, in your present course, show him the abundant means of grace offered to us all, pray with him, for him, and I doubt not we shall yet live to see him resemble Taylor, or Ken, or Wilson, and the other fathers of our Church, who, being dead, still speak, and show to us their degenerate children, what the consistent life of a Christian should be." The mother's cheek glowed; that her darling should one day emulate such men as these, should be one to testify as they do to a faithless generation, that the Church of England is sufficient to support her sons in the higher paths of holiness, was indeed the greatest flight her ambition had ever taken. She thanked her friend in a few earnest words for the comfort he had given her. "And I must say good night, like master Arthur now,” he said, "for before night-fall I have a sick person to visit, and I have stayed chatting here already longer than I intended." When she was left alone, Mrs. Aubrey, for such was the young lady's name, again fell to pondering on her friend's words, and thence to building castles in the air, in which her little son always played a prominent part. It was not strange that it should be so, he was the sole object now left her on which to rest her earthly love. Her story is soon told. An orphan from her earliest years, she had been left to the care of distant relatives, who, childless themselves, had no notion of training a child by love, but only by the strictest discipline. Kept thus in continual awe, poor Phoebe would have found no vent for the strong affections of her heart, had it not been for her cousin, Edward Aubrey. A few years older than herself, he began by taking a fatherly interest in the young orphan, attended to her education, and the cultiva . tion of her mind, and lost no opportunity of showing her kindnesses. It is no wonder that she should have repaid him with devoted love, and invested him in her imagination with all virtues, or that when on her attaining woman's years he offered her marriage, she should have accepted him with joy, and looked to a lot cast with him, as the happiest the world could offer. But alas! she had but too soon to learn the oft-repeated story of the vanity of all human hopes. Two years had scarcely passed from the time of her marriage when a sudden illness carried off her beloved husband, and she was left with her infant son once more to struggle alone with the cares of life. As soon as the young widow had recovered the first dreary sense of desolation, she had resolved to continue to dwell in the place where her husband had exercised his ministry during his short life, and where he had been known and valued. His rector, Mr. Vervyn, especially, had loved him as a son, and Mrs. Aubrey felt that she could turn to him for consolation and advice sooner than to any of her own relatives. The good man on his part regarded these parishioners with a true fatherly interest, and seldom, during the four or five years which had elapsed when they are now presented to the reader, had suffered a day to pass without at the least inquiring after their welfare, and speaking a few kind words to them. He had a great veneration for Phoebe's character, for her simple earnest piety, for her constancy in bringing up her child, not with foolish indulgence to please herself, but in obedience and faith, to please GOD. Of Arthur, he really thought, as we have heard him say he did : had he known how his opinion was treasured up, this alone would have induced him to speak with all sincerity. Mrs. Aubrey sat as we have seen thinking over what had been said, till the entrance of a servant with lights disturbed her meditations. Then she rose up to pay little Arthur the accustomed visit after he was in bed. She opened the door gently, and stole on tiptoe to his bed-side, thinking he slept. He was indeed lying motionless, nor did he seem to notice her entrance, but his eyes were open, fixed intently on the sky. His mother stooped forward to embrace him, then he laid his little hand on her head, and drew it down silently to a level with his own, pointing to the window, through which he was gazing so earnestly. It was indeed a gorgeous spectacle, which had so attracted him. In the western sky, where the summer sun had so lately set, masses of dark clouds were floating over the space reddened by his departing rays, now assuming the form of gigantic castles, now of cities and churches, while others towered above like vast mountains, and again in the foreground was the semblance of dense woods whose drooping branches were watered by silvery streams, and light golden clouds interspersed through |