WORDS OF THE WISE.

MANY a one works for the church of God that hath yet no part in it.--Bishop Hall.

What we are afraid to do before men, we should be afraid to think before God.-Sibs.

How opportunely hath God provided succours for our distresses! It is his glory to begin when we have given over; that our relief might be so much the more welcome, by how much it is less looked for.-Bishop Hall.

Though death be before the old man's face, yet he may be as near the young man's back.-Brooks.

He is too covetous whom God cannot suffice: he hath all things that hath Him that hath all things.-Bridge.

It is a matter of faith not to trust to that which the eye seeth, but that which the word promiseth.-Luther.

Among many things that Beza in his last will and testament gave God thanks for, this was the first and chief, that He at the age of sixteen years had called him to the knowledge of the truth, and so prevented many sins and sorrows that otherwise would have overtaken him, and have made his life less happy and more miserable. Young saints often prove old angels, but old sinners seldom prove good saints.

-Brooks.

There is no child that would be scourged if he might escape for crying.—Bishop Hall.

The whole world cannot weigh against this one comfort, that God is ours.-Sibs.

No man dare ask of God so much as he is ready and willing to give.—Luther.

So doth God love a good choice, that he recompenses it with overgiving.-Bishop Hall.

When we are most ready to perish, then is God most ready to help.-Luther.

God draweth straight lines, but we think and call them crooked. Rutherford.

There is no more certain way to glory and advancement than a lowly dejection of ourselves. How will our gracious God lift up our heads with true honour before men and angels, if we can be sincerely humbled in his sight.-Bishop Hall.

I have read of one Myrognes, who when great gifts were sent unto him, sent them all back again, saying, I only

desire one thing at your master's hand, I may be saved for eternity.-Brooks.

Where the father of a family brings sin home to a house, it is not easily swept out.-Bishop Hall.

So many accidents may deprive us of our lives, that we can never say that he who neglects to secure his salvation to-day may without danger put it off till to-morrow.— Archbishop Wake.

Nothing can be very ill with us when all is well within: we are not hurt till our souls are hurt. If the soul itself be out of tune, outward things will do us no more good than a fair shoe to a gouty foot.-Sibs.

Neither fears nor favours can tempt the holily resolute: they can trample upon dangers and honour with a careless foot.-Bishop Hall.

Trust God and be doing, and let him alone with the rest. -Sibs.

The worst man may grieve for his smart: only the good heart grieves for his offence.-Bishop Hall.

SUBMISSION TO THE WILL OF GOD.

QUIET, Lord, my froward heart,
Make me teachable and mild,
Upright, simple, free from art,
Make me as a weanèd child:

From distrust and envy free,

Pleased with all that pleases thee.

What thou shalt to-day provide

Let me as a child receive;

What to-morrow may betide
Calmly to thy wisdom leave:

'Tis enough that thou wilt care,
Why should I the burden bear?

As a little child relies

On a care beyond its own;

Knows he's neither strong nor wise-
Fears to stir a step alone-

Let me thus with thee abide,
As my Father, Guard, and Guide.

Thus preserved from Satan's wiles,
Safe from dangers, free from fears,
May I live upon thy smiles;

Till the promised hour appears,
When the sons of God shall prove
All their Father's boundless love.

NEWTON.

"I CAN'T bear it any longer; it is too dreadful," said Mary Johnson to herself, wiping her eyes.

It was very dreadful. There had been six hours of fearful suffering in the room below. Six hours! Ah, who can tell how much bodily anguish can be comprised and compressed within six hours? We think little of the hours as they pass away when we are in ease and comfort. We don't think of lifting up our hearts to God every hour that we live, in thankfulness that we are free from pain. We murmur and repine if but a nerve is jarred, or a muscle

AUGUST, 1865.

bruised; but we take all as a matter of course—just as it ought to be-when everything goes well with our poor, frail, sensitive bodies. But let us be crushed down, as John Smith was, by some sudden accident; and we shall know then how our daily and hourly mercies have been forgotten or ungraciously received.

"I can't bear it any longer," said Mary Johnson; and no wonder. First of all there was the sight she had caught of poor Smith's countenance, as he was brought in to his home. Then there were the distressing cries of the two children, when they were told of the accident, and saw their dying father. Then there was the running and rushing to-and-fro of neighbours, and helpers, and hinderers: those who came to offer assistance which they could not give; and those who came out of idle curiosity to see what was to be seen. Then there was the hurried arrival of the doctors who had, one after another, been sent for ; and their anxious consultation when they were all come. Worst of all to hear and to bear, were the piercing cries and deep hollow groans of the wounded, crushed man as he lay on his bed, and underwent the ɛexamination of the surgeons.

All this had been seen or heard by Mary Johnson, until she herself, poor cripple that she was, could not bear it any longer. She could not get away from the sound of suffering. Herrrooms were immediately over those of the Smiths; her bed-room over his bed room. She had thought of taking refuge in the attic story, which would be farther from the scene of misery, and asking the washerwoman to give her shelter for the night. But the husband had come home drunk, and thẻ children were screaming and crying; she could hear that; and she did not choose to venture into such a scene of confusion.

It was pretty quiet now, down below, except for the poor crushed man's moans. The doctors were gone, having done all in their power to give him present relief-and this was not much: the neighbours had gone silently away, one by one, excepting dame Higgins, of whom I have already spoken, who had kindly voluntered to stay through the night with the patient: the two girls had left off crying, or if they wept it was silently. So there was more stillness now in the rooms under the crippled needle-woman's; but this made the moans and groans more audible and more distressing to her.

"I can't bear it," she said for the second or third time; "I am afraid I did wish John Smith to be punished for making away with my poor Tiger; but I didn't think of anything like this."

Mary Johnson went into her bed-chamber, and took down her Bible and another book from a shelf. She could not go on with her needlework with such trouble so near her; but perhaps she could read. I purposely omitted in the former chapter, saying anything about Mary's religion, or whether she had any religion at all. The reader may have supposed, from the description given of her, that she was entirely worldly-minded and uninfluenced by piety. But it was not so. She was a devout woman. In her way, she thought a good deal about religion; and I think I am not wrong in saying that this had helped her to bear so bravely the personal trials which had been laid upon her. So far from having no religion, she was very strict in attention to its outward forms. She was as constant as her infirmities would permit in her attendance at the house of God, and she was a regular communicant at the Lord's table. She also frequently read the Bible, in her own room. She was anxious to do her duty as far as she could, and to behave properly to all around.

So far so well; but Mary's religion was not expansive in its influences. It was a case of hard service rather than of delightful, grateful, loving obedience. It rather contracted than enlarged her heart. It shut out her sympathies from others, rather than excited them towards others. She had not read the Bible right—not quite right-be sure of this, or she would have been a wiser happier Christian than she was, and would not have been so often harping as she was on that doleful string "I have nothing to love-nobody to love."

If Mary Johnson had not been so exclusive, she might, before the time of which I am writing, have found pleasure and profit in knowing a little more than she did know of John Smith. All she really knew of him was that he was a quiet, industrious man, rather silent and depressed in mind by bereavements and poverty; that he attended public worship regularly with his two children; and that he prayed with them, and read the Bible to them every night when he came home from work. She could not help knowing this, for the sound of his devotional tones had often reached her ear from the room below. This, one