pain and disease, if, by remaining, he could afford relief, no matter how short and temporary soever? Would the Almighty's blessing follow such conduct?"

Minna. "I consider the soul of far greater importance than the poor perishing body; if you should lose it, what is to become of you?"

Henry. "You would oblige me exceedingly, Minna, by studying the 14th chapter of the Romans; and any of the verses you do not understand, I am certain my father or Charles will be very happy to explain them to you."

His sister did not answer. Indeed, it was seldom that she ventured an argument with her brother. A complete estrangement seemed now to exist between Charles and Minna, and they never spoke to each other unless by pure accident. The nature of the latter was peculiarly sensitive, and, like all sensitive people, she was proud; therefore, though conscience whispered she had treated him unkindly, she revolted at anything like a confession of error; besides, her self-love was hurt at the manner in which he appeared to resent her conduct. He quietly performed his various duties as usual-read, walked, drew, and played with Alice as before. To herself, his behaviour was polite and respectful, neither cold nor kind; but nothing on his part like a reconciliation was attempted.

Mr. Mornton saw all this, and when he spoke to his daughter on the subject, she replied to him concerning her cousin in a manner similar to the language she had used to himself.

The father ceased to remonstrate. It was in vain to reason; but it was her unchristian habit of judging-her spiritual pride and self-righteousness, that grieved him most; nevertheless, he gave her credit for good intentions.

A CHURCH-YARD SCENE.

It was a gloomy Sabbath eve—
I felt in dreamy mood,

And wander'd to a lone church-yard

To join its solitude;

The village groups had all withdrawn,

But, through the twilight grey,

I saw a lonely woman stand

As loth to go away.

She was array'd in widow's weeds-
I could not see her face,

Which might have told why at that hour
She sought the silent place;

I stole aside, with soften'd step,
No rude annoy to bring

To one who seem'd bow'd down with grief-
For grief's a sacred thing.

The shadow of the old grey church
Fell round me like a pall,

But the mourner's figure I could see
Upon the church-yard wall;
She knew not any eye was near
Except the eye of Him,

Whose presence we the more behold

The more our eyes are dim.

Long, long she gazed upon the ground,

On one small spot, alas!

Which seem'd to swell to meet the hand
She laid upon the grass;

Her hand she laid upon the grass-
Retired, yet lingering staid,

And aye upon the silent grass

Her long thin hand she laid.

That hand had often smooth'd the couch
Of him who slept beneath,

And the love by which 'twas guided seem'd
A love that knew not death;

And so she knelt as if to feel

If earth were warm and soft

As the pillow-vacant now-on which
His head had lain so oft.

Ah me! what depth of love was her's,
Who thus her home forsook,

And all the living world beside,
Upon his grave to look:-

I could not see the tears she shed,
They flow'd not to be seen,-
But well I knew the grass was wet,
O'er which her eyes had been.

And still the grass she gently touch'd,-
And bended meekly o'er,

As if to give her hand to him

Who took it once before;

That so she might bring back the time,
The morning time of life,
When by his side-a girl in

She felt in heart a wife.

Or haply 'twas in memory
Of some old early vow,
To love him even after death,

years

That she sought his grave-place now;
Or, for some word unkindly said,
Though not unkindly meant,
Perchance upon his grave to shed
Atoning tears she went.

And oft upon that grave she look'd,
And oft she look'd above,

As if between that spot and heaven

She shared her whole heart's love!-
'Twas long before she left the place,
And as she moved away,
Methought her inmost bosom yearn'd
For ever there to stay.

A few stars glimmer'd over-head,
Deep darkness crept around;
Beneath, old generations slept-
The place was holy ground!

All silent, through the dull grave-mounds,
I homeward sadly turn'd;

Yet almost deem'd 'twere sweet to die,

To be so loved and mourn'd!

EDINBURGH, 1841.

་་༢ ་ ང་་ ་་་་་་

J. H. JUN.

A BRIEF EXPOSITION OF THE GOSPEL OF MATTHEW. (Continued from page 359.)

CHAPTER XIX.

VERSES 16, 17: "And, behold, one came and said unto him, Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life? And he said unto him, Why

callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is God." The character of Jesus was so pious, so pure, so moral, so loving, that we, with our present powers, can conceive of nothing to exceed it. Yet it is infinitely exceeded by the character of the infinite Jehovah. Between God and the purest created intelligence, there is a vast disparity of excellence; so that not only men and angels, but the "Well-beloved" himself, may go on throughout eternity, increasing in wisdom and in virtue, without ever attaining to the excellence of the Highest. This Jesus knew, and refused to have applied to himself the epithet "good," reminding him who so ascribed it, that there is none perfectly, absolutely good, but ONE, that is, GOD. If ever any one on earth deserved this title, it was Jesus of Nazareth; yet he does not accept it in that strictest sense of the term in which it belongs only to the Father. Compared with that of the best of ordinary men, the character of the Christ may be well denominated perfect; but, compared with the character of God, it would not be rash to affirm, that He as much excels his Son in all perfections as that Son excels the rest of our frail and sinful race. This reply of Jesus furnishes a strong argument for the exclusive Deity of the Father. If there be none absolutely good but the One God, and if Jesus declares that the title absolutely good, does not belong to him, he declares, in other words, that he is not equal to the One God, that he is not the One God. If two beings be equal, we must be able to say of the one whatever we can say of the other; the same titles and the same qualities must pertain alike to each; if they do not, it is obvious that the beings are unequal. If the title "good," in its highest sense, belong rightfully to God, and if it do not, in the same sense, belong rightfully to Jesus, it is manifest, even to the lowest capacity, that God and Jesus are unequal, and that God is greater than Jesus.

When he had refused to accept for himself a title which belongs solely to the Supreme, Jesus answers the question of the young man who had inconsiderately applied it, "If thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments." The interrogator demands "Which?" and is answered, "Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt

not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness, Honour thy father and thy mother; and thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." These the young man had observed; he had made them the directory of his conduct and the guide of his life; so far, his moral character had been unexceptionable. Yet, apparently desirous to have a full reply to his important question, he inquires, "What lack I yet?" While he could look with general approval on his past existence, yet his conscience told him he was deficient in some one particular. Jesus tells him this great deficiency: "If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven; and come and follow me." Covetousness seems to have been his besetting sin, an inordinate affection for the wealth of this world; he had laid up a great quantity of treasure on earth, and he was scarcely willing to transfer it to heaven. He thinks on his gold, and he thinks on his soul; the conflict in his heart is a fierce and painful one; but the world and the world's wealth eventually triumph. "But when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions." One can scarcely avoid feeling much regret on reading this account; the young man seems to have put the question in all honesty of heart, "What shall I do to inherit eternal life?" He appears to have maintained an excellent moral character, living in strict obedience to the commandments; even his thoughtless ascription of the untransferable title of God to Jesus, shows that he admired and loved the Master. Knowing these things, we feel interested in his fate, and are vexed and disappointed when avarice triumphs over his better nature.

Jesus takes occasion, from this striking termination of the discourse, to exhibit to his disciples the strong tendency of riches to obstruct their possessors in procuring everlasting happiness: "Verily, I say unto you, that a rich man shall hardly [or, with difficulty] enter into the kingdom of heaven." There are many reasons why it should be difficult for a very wealthy man to attain to spiritual felicities. The command of money is the command of pleasure; the rich man may therefore consume his probationary existence in a career of enjoyment, in