rum was cheap; the landlord dunned for his rent, and Mrs. Truesdell was obliged to keep at home, as she had no dress fit to appear abroad in, having pawned the last to pay a fine imposed upon her spouse by the police court. Misery, utter destitution, and famine, stared the unhappy family in the face. It is impossible to exaggerate the picture, even had we room or inclination. Mrs. T. was a heroine, though not of romance. She loved her worthless husband, and had borne his neglect, the tears of her chil dren, the gripe of famine, and the railing of the drunkard without repining. Never had her exertions slackenednever had a harsh word passed her lips. At night, when she put her children to sleep, she wept and watched for his coming, and when he did come, drunk, as usual, she undressed and assisted him to bed, without a murmur of reproach. At length, her courage well nigh exhausted, she resolved upon one last, desperate effort.

At night, having disposed of her three oldest children, she took the two youngest by the hand, and bent her steps to the groggery her husband was accustomed to frequent. She looked into the window, and there he sat, in the midst of his boon companions, with his pipe in his mouth and his glass in his hand. He was evidently excited, though not yet drunk. Great was the astonishment of that bad company, and enormous Mr. Truesdell's dismay and confusion, when his wife, pale as marble, and leading two tattered and barefooted babes, stepped up to the bar, called for three glasses of brandy toddy, and then sat down by his side.

"What the devil brings you here, Mary ?" said he, morosely.

"It is very lonesome at home, and your business seldom allows you to be there," replied the meek wife. "There is no company like yours, and as you cannot come to me, I must come to you. I have a right to share your pleasures as well as your sorrows."

"But to come to such a place as this!" expostulated Tim. "No place can be improper where my husband is," said poor Mary. "Whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder." She took up the glass of spirit.

"Surely you are not going to drink that?" asked Tim, in huge astonishment.

"Why not? You say you drink to forget sorrow, and if brandy has that effect, I am sure no living creature has so good an excuse for drinking, as I. Besides, I have not eaten a mouthful to-day, and I really need something to support my strength."

"Woman! woman! you are not going to give the children such stuff as that!"-cried Tim, as she handed each of the children a glass of liquor.

"Why not? Can children have a better example than their father's? Is not what is good for him, good for them also? It will put them to sleep, and they will forget that they are cold and hungry. Drink, my children; this is fire, and bed, and food, and clothing. Drink--you can see how much good it does your father."

With seeming reluctance, Mary suffered her husband to conduct her home, and that night he prayed long and fervently, which he had not done before for years.

The next evening as he returned homeward with a steady step, he saw his oldest boy run into the house and heard him exclaim, "O mother, here comes father, and he is not drunk!" Tears coursed down the parent's cheek, and from that hour he has not tasted strong drink. He had never been vicious or unfeeling, and as soon as his emancipation from the thraldom of a debasing appetite became known, friends, employment, and prosperity, return ed to him. As for Mrs. Truesdell, she is the happiest of women; and never thinks without joy and gratitude, of her first and last visit to the dram shop.

"If I was only.”

"IF I was only rich, how much good would I do with my money!" We are not so sure about the great good you would do. We will present a scriptural statement, and lay a fact out of history by the side of it. "He that is unjust in that which is least, is unjust also in much." Now for the fact. Every body knows that every penny that escapes out of your pocket into the charity-box has a hard run for it. In other words, you do not do the good you might with what you do possess; nor anything like it. It would be but a decent expression of your benevo

ence if you should quadruple your donations at once. We are afraid your head would be no higher above water in charitable matters than it now is, if you should become rich. Indeed, we have known people sink, and be absolutely drowned in the deep sea of covetousness, by the weight of their riches.

"If I only had health," says an invalid, "how happy I should be to be engaged in doing good!" But you poorly improve your present opportunities. There are twenty paths of usefulness, wide open before you, but you have not set your foot upon one of them. You have formed the habit of making your ill health a plea for neglecting many ways of doing good, fairly accessible. You are not cultivating a cheerful and happy resignation to the will of God. You are not improving your affliction to increase the spirituality of your own mind. You are not, therefore, showing to others the sustaining power of religion, and making the happy impression you might, in behalf of the value of piety. Your seclusion from the activity and bustle of life, gives you some important advantages to cultivate a heavenly mind, and the ills you suffer are divinely appointed agents of your increased sanctification. But if present opportunities of usefulness to your own soul, and of glorifying God in the sight of others, are neglected, what reason have you for discrediting the divine declaration, "he that is unjust in that which is least, is unjust also in much."

"If I was only distinguished, and had office and honor among men, I would make my influence felt on the side of religion." You have now one of the highest and most important offices in the universe; certainly there are none higher in this world. You are a professor of religionthat is an office. The King of kings has created it, and put you into it. You belong to the Great Monarch's household. You are one of the royal family. You would not get any higher glory by becoming a statesman or an emperor. "But I should have a larger sphere of useful. ness." But you do not fill your present sphere according to its full claims. You dare not affirm that you are every thing a member of Christ's family ought to be. You had better not pine for a continent when you cultivate an acre so poorly. If eternal realities now exert so small an

influence over you, we fear that by rising to the pinnacle of human greatness you would lose sight of them altogether. The scenery of eternity is not best viewed from these heights. It is out of sight entirely to most that ride upon the high places of the earth.

"If I was only,"-pardon the intrusion-but we should like to fill out the sentence for you. "If I was only a better dresser of the vineyard I now occupy-a more faithful servant in the use of what the Lord has already entrusted to me, I should not want for honor or happiness." No. The fact is, that the cravings of your mind for some other sphere, are a proof that you are not faithfully occupying the one now allotted you. Due attention to that would so take up your heart that it would have no time for the absurd vagaries and groundless fancies in which you now indulge. "This is the raving, sickly humor of our minds," says Leighton, "and speaks their weakness, as sick persons that would still change their bed, or posture, or place of abode, thinking to be better. But a staid mind applies itself to the duties of its own station, and seeks to glorify him that set it there, revering his wisdom in disposing of it so. And there is a certainty of a blessed approbation of this conduct, be thy station never so low. It is not the high condition, but much fidelity that secures it. Thou hast been faithful in s

LITTLE."

Coming to Christ.

Do not some of you, my young readers, feel unwilling to came to the Savior, because you think that you do not feel a sufficient interest in the subject. You know that you are sinners, and would like to be free from sin. You would like such a friend as I describe the Savior to be, but you have no sufficiently strong conviction, and you think the promises are not for you.

Or, perhaps, some of you, though you feel a deep interest in the subject, may be discouraged and disheartened by the sins you feel constantly committing, and by your repeatedly broken resolutions. You think the Savior must be wearied out with your continual backsliding

and sins, and you are ready to give up the contest, and to think that final holiness and peace are not for you.

Now there are, throughout our land, vast multitudes who are vainly endeavoring to make their hearts better, in order to recommend themselves to their Savior's care. You must, indeed, endeavor, by every effort, to make your heart better, but not as a means of recommending yourself to the Savior. Come to him at once, just as you are, and seek his sympathy and assistance in the work.

Inquirers after the path of piety, are very slow to learn that the Savior is the friend of sinners. They will not learn that he comes to help us while we are in our trials and difficulties, not after we get out of them. How many say in their hearts, I must overcome this sin, or free myself from that temptation, and then I will come to the Savior. I must have clearer views of my own sins, or deeper penitence, or awaken true love to God in my heart, and then, but not till then, can I expect Christ to be my friend. What? do you suppose that it is the office of Jesus Christ to stand aloof from the struggling sinner, until he has, by his own unaided strength, and without assistance or sympathy, finished the contest, and then only to come and offer his congratulations after the victory is won. Is this such a Savior as you imagine the Bible to describe ?

At the door of one of the chambers in which you reside, you hear a mourning sound, as of one in distress. You enter hastily, and find a sick man writhing in pain, and struggling alone with his sufferings. As soon as you understand the case, you say to him,

"We must send for a physician immediately, there is one at the next door, who will come in a moment."

"Oh, no," groans the sufferer, "I am in no state to send for a physician. My head aches dreadfully. I am almost distracted with pain. I fear I am dangerously ill." "Then we must have a physician immediately," you reply. "Run, and call him," you say, turning to an attendant," ask him to come as soon as possible."

"Oh, stop! stop!" says the sick man, "wait till I get a little easier. My breath is very short, and my pulse very feeble, and besides, I have been growing worse and worse every half hour for some time, and I am afraid there is