are accountable. And how stands that account? I appeal to your conscience. If you are assured that your soul is safe, I have no more to say. But if conscience tells you there is something wrong-if there comes over you, in your solitary meditation, some fearful foreboding of future wrath-if you know that you have not loved the Lord your God with all your capacities of loving, or served him with all your capacities of serving, and that, for the violation of this first and great commandment, you are exposed to the penalty of eternal death,--do not refuse to give attention to this business of the soul's salvation, until it shall be forever too late. Inestimably precious as the soul is, it may be lost, and lost without remedy! Will you incur that loss?

Consider whether you yet have a clear conception of the value of the soul. It is easy to acknowledge its infinite worth, without having any distinct idea of it at all. The interests of your single soul are, in truth, of more moment than the worldly interests of all the nations of the earth, put together. They are not only of more moment, in their relation to you, but even in themselves considered. The humblest and weakest Christian, that has secured the safety of his soul, and "fought the good fight of faith," has accomplished a nobler, sublimer, more momentous work, than all the achievements of all the intellectual giants, military heroes, and political statesmen, that have ever rendered their names illustrious. The revolution that must be effected for the soul's emancipation, calls for more intense interest, and more intense action, than the greatest political revolution. The moral struggle you are conscious of, in your own breast, is to decide a question, bigger with momentous consequences than the vital interests of the greatest nation on the globe. In being invested with the care of your soul, you are invested with a higher trust, and placed under a more overwhelming responsibility, than could arise from being made the ruler and arbiter of all the nations of the earth. Do you believe it?

Suppose you were made the chief magistrate of your country, with uncontrolled and unlimited power to make its laws, judge of their infraction, and see to their execution-to direct all the national concerns, and secure the public tranquillity and happiness--to decide every question-to reconcile the jarring interests of Commerce, Manufactures and Agriculture,-in a word, to manage all its public concerns, both domestic and foreign;— would you not feel yourself almost overwhelmed by the responsibilities incident to such a task?

Suppose, again, that the interests of all the nations of the

earth were committed to your care, so that on your plans and management should depend the public condition, the public welfare and happiness of them all. And suppose, in addition to this, that, if it were possible, the social, domestic, and individual happiness of all the millions of this earth's inhabitants were made entirely and directly dependent on you, so long as you should remain in the world;--would you not be crushed under the insupportable burthen? Add, now, the care of the temporal welfare of another world just like this-a third-a fourth-hundreds-thousands-yes, millions of such worlds; and even then, all the weight of responsibility that would rest upon you, would bear no comparison with that, under which you are now living. You have, under your care, a soul, whose eternal destiny depends upon you-a destiny that plainly and undeniably involves a greater amount of weal or woe than could fall to the lot of all the inhabitants of millions of worlds like this, in the short space of your present life.

But perhaps you may say, that the task of managing so complicated a machine as the political government of the world, would involve a much greater number of particulars, and a much greater amount of labor, than could be required for the care of a single soul. But, think you, that to make rules by which you may be guided in all the changing scenes and involved circumstances of life-faithfully to apply, and unhesitatingly to execute those rules-to deny the craving appetites-to direct the wayward desires-to restrain the headlong passions to fix the wandering affections-to resist, daily and hourly, temptations on the right hand and on the left-to keep yourself perfectly unspotted from the world--to wrestle, not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers-all the while to be assiduously engaged in active benevolence, and in mental and moral improvement, without yielding to the enticements, either of pleasure or of indolence ;-think you, that this is not a task involving many particulars, and demanding labor?

Be urged to an immediate attention to the concerns of your soul-not only by the happiness that is to be gained, but by the misery that is to be avoided. Remember, that the soul's capability of misery, is equal to its capability of happiness--that you have the testimony of God, that it is now exposed to that misery, and unless you make a determined and desperate effort, it is ruined forever. Its immortality will be an eternal death;an eternal death! Who can fathom the full significancy of those awful words? Eternity of death!-Reader, are you exposed to such a destiny? Think of it. If you are-" be wise to day, 'tis madness to defer."

If you neglect the interests of your soul, there is coming a day of judgment, when you will be exposed, in the intensest light which Omniscience can throw upon you, to the gaze of an assembled universe, as a betrayer of a most sacred trust. That day of judgment, when it comes, will be a reality, and the burning shame of that exposure, will be a reality,—and that eternal death, too, will be a reality, which will assuredly

come.

It will not avail you, to plead that you never made any promise to attend to the care of your soul. You are accountable, nevertheless, and your accountability, you cannot avoid-you cannot decline it—you cannot run from it—you cannot suspend it, or rid yourself of it a single moment. It is inseparable from your nature, a part of your very being. It clings to you, and will forever cling to you. Your Maker waits with you, that you will do your duty. He requires it of you now. The vows of the professed Christian are nothing more than an expression of his determination to perform what it was his duty to perform before. His duty is yours. Will you do it?

THE FIRESIDE.

No. 2.

WHAT CHILDREN OWE TO THEIR PARENTS.*

I have just spoken to you of the grateful girl, who took such good care of her poor sick mother. When that good girl dies, and meets her mother in heaven, what a happy meeting it will be! With how much joy will she reflect upon her dutifulness as a child. And as they dwell together again in the celestial mansions, sorrow and sighing will forever flee away. If you wish to be happy here, or hereafter, honor your father and your mother. Let love's pure flame burn in your heart and animate your life. Be brave, and fear not to do your duty. Be magnanimous, and do more for your parents than they require or expect. Resolve that you will do every thing in your power to make them happy, and you will be blest as a child, and useful and respected in your maturer years. Oh how lovely is that son or daughter, who has a grateful heart, and who will rather die than give a mother sorrow. Such an one

is not only loved by all upon earth, but by the angels above, and by our Father in heaven.

*We extract this article, by permission, from "THE CHILD AT HOME," about to be issued from the press of Messrs. Crocker & Brewster.

Eps.

It may assist you a little to estimate your obligations to your parents, to inquire what would become of you, if your parents should refuse to take care of you any longer. You at times, perhaps, feel unwilling to obey them. Suppose they should say, "Very well, my child, if you are unwilling to obey us, you may go away from home, and take care of yourself. We cannot be at the trouble and expense of taking care of you, unless you feel some gratitude."

"Well," perhaps you would say, "let me have my cloak and bonnet, and I will go immediately."

"Your cloak and bonnet?" your mother would reply. "The cloak and bonnet are not yours, but your father's. He bought them and paid for them. Why do you call them yours?"

You might possibly reply, after thinking a moment, "They are mine, because you gave them to me."

"No, my child," your mother would say, "we have only let you have them to wear. You never have paid a cent for them. You have not even paid us for the use of them. We wish to keep them for those of our children who are grateful for our kindness. Even the clothes you now have on are not yours. We will, however, give them to you." And now, suppose you should go, and see how you can get along in taking care of yourself.

You rise to leave the house, without any bonnet or cloak. But your mother says, "Stop one moment. Is there not an account to be settled before you leave? We have now clothed and boarded you for ten years. The trouble and expense, at the least calculation, amounts to two dollars a week. Indeed, I do not suppose that you could have got any one else to have taken you so cheap. Your board for ten years, at two dollars a week, amounts to one thousand and forty dollars. Are you under no obligation to us for all this trouble and expense ?"" You hang down your head and do not know what to say. What can you say? You have no money. You cannot pay

them.

Your mother, after waiting a moment for an answer, continues,-"In many cases, when a person does not pay what is justly due, he is sent to jail. We, however, will be particularly kind to you, and wait a while. Perhaps you can, by working hard for fifteen or twenty years, and by being very economical, earn enough to pay us. But let me see; the interest of the money will be over sixty dollars a year. Oh, no! it is out of the question. You probably could not earn enough to pay us in your whole life. We never shall be paid for the time, expense, and care, we have devoted to our ungrateful daughter.

We hoped she would love us, and obey us, and thus repay. But it seems she prefers to be ungrateful and disobedient. Good bye."

You open the door and go out. It is cold and windy. Shivering with the cold, and without money, you are at once a beggar, and must perish in the streets, unless some one takes pity on you.

You go, perhaps, to the house of a friend, and ask if they will allow you to live with them.

They at once reply, "We have so many children of our own, that we cannot afford to take you will pay for your board and clothing."

you, unless

You go again out into the street, cold, hungry, and friendless. The darkness of the night is coming on: you have no money to purchase a supper, or a night's lodging. Unless you can get some employment, or find some one who will pity you, you must lie down upon the hard ground, and perish with hunger and with cold.

Perhaps some benevolent man sees you, as he is going home in the evening, and takes you to the overseers of the poor, and says, "Here is a little vagrant girl, I found in the streets. We must send the poor little thing to the poor-house, or she will starve to death."

You are carried to the poor-house. There you find a very different home from your father's. You are dressed in the coarsest garments. You have the meanest food, and are compelled to be obedient, and to do the most servile work.

Now suppose, while you are in the poor-house, some kind gentleman and lady should come and say, "We will take this little girl, and give her food and clothes for nothing. We will take her into our own parlor, and give her a chair by our own pleasant fire-side. We will buy every thing for her that she needs. We will have persons to teach her. We will do every thing in our power to make her happy, and will not ask for one cent of pay in return."

What should you think of such kindness? And what should you think of yourself, if you could go to their parlor, and receive their bounty, and yet be ungrateful and disobedient? Would not a child, who could thus requite such love, be deserving of universal detestation? But all this your parents are doing, and for years have been doing for you. They pay for the fire that warms you; for the house that shelters you; for the clothes that cover you; for the food that supports you. They watch over your bed in sickness, and provide for your instruction and enjoyment when in health. Your parents do all this, without