We kneeled down, and I offered prayer, while he wept in bitterness by my side. After a few moments, and still on our knees, I asked him what appeared to weigh the most heavily on his heart. He said that he had been

chiefly distressed by the fear of the hell to which he was exposed, but now that had ceased to fill him with peculiar horror, and his sins appeared so great, and so wicked, that he must sink under their power. We spoke of the peculiar aggravation of his guilt, who had enjoyed the highest religious privileges, had been early consecrated by pious parents to God, and had been the child of many prayers and tears, and had still refused to give his heart to Christ. And as hs ingratitude was revealed, he seemed to abhor himself as unworthy of the dust. And now dispair was filling his breast. Such sins, so many, so great, so inexcusable, can never be forgiven. I asked him if he felt that God would be just in shutting him out of heaven, and making him miserable forever. Oh yes, he replied, he deserved the everlasting wrath of a holy God. He could never suffer more than he deserved; but it was not hell, it was sin that made him miserable. He would suffer any thing, every thing, if he could only be delivered from this dreadful load of sin.

We spoke of the character of God; of his spotless purity, that could not bear with sin; of his justice, that burns to punish it; of his truth, that had sworn to take vengeance on the ungodly. But he anticipated all this, and my words were too weak to meet the views he already had of these attributes, conspiring against his soul. I spoke of the love of God; love against which he had sinned so long and deeply; love, that had given him the religious privileges of his youth; love, that was now keeping him out of hell; love, that even now offered to pardon and save him.

"No, no," said he, "I have sinned too much for that. There can be no pardon for so vile a wretch as I." And sinking under this despairing thought, he gave utterance to his grief in sobs and tears.

It was an awful moment. I loved him as my own soul; and his arm clung round my neck, as if I were holding him out of the pit. He seemed ready to perish. I plead at the throne of grace, that the convicted sinner

might find mercy in this hour of his extremity. I asked him to pray; and the few broken petitions that he was able to offer, discovered the depths of distress from which he cried. Thus far I had said nothing to him of the Savior, as waiting to be gracious. I had set before him his sins, as they appeared in contrast with the holiness of God, and had endeavored to lead him to a deep sense of guilt, on account of those sins. He had been well instructed in the great truths of religion, but the thought of a possibility of finding salvation from such sins as he felt on his soul, seemed not to have entered his mind. And when at this juncture I spoke to him of the atonement, which Christ had made for guilty man, he could see no provision that met his case. I called up the precious and frequent promises of God; the gracious and glorious offers of salvation that Jesus Christ has made; I explained to him how consistent it was for God to pardon, since Christ had suffered; and how willing that Savior was to have mercy on the chief of repenting sinners. We went to Calvary, and dwelt on the dying sacrifice, and I asked him, if, with that bleeding witness of God's willingness to provide salvation for sinners, he could doubt the eternal word. Here his unbelief was staggered. Seizing upon the first gleam of hope, I besought him to cast himself upon the sovereign mercy of God in Christ Jesus. "You are a lost sinner, self condemned and perishing. You acknowledge that God will be just in sending you to hell. But you see the provision, which he has made for just such sinners. Can you not trust your immortal interests in the hands of that Savior."

The solemnity of eternity appeared to rest on his soul, as he poured out his heart in prayer, and committed himself unto Him, who is able and willing to save. We wept in silence in the fulness of our souls that knew no words to express the emotions of that hour. With perfect calmness, almost incredible after the storm through which he had just passed, we rose from our knees-we had been praying and conversing for about two hoursand walked out together. A Sabbath's sun was just setting, but a brighter sun, with healing in its beams, was rising on his heart. We met some young and unconverted friends, and at my request he told them what God

had done for his soul, and tenderly invited them to seek the Savior he had found.

My brother is now a minister of the New Testament, and will never forget the two hours that we spent on our knees in the summer of 1831.

The Price of Happiness.

AN interesting but care-worn mendicant, in vacan mood of mind, entered one day the store of a wealthy merchant in the city of New York, and as he paced along his eye rested on an unusual quantity of gold and silver coin which the clerks were busied in counting. His heart sunk within him, as he felt the chill of November, which reminded him of the poverty of his lot, and the misery of his family, and turning away in despair, he ejaculated to himself, "How happy some of that money would make me !" "What is that you say, my friend ?" interrogated the merchant. The confused mendicant begged to be excused-he was not conscious of uttering any thing; at any rate, his thought was not intended for his ear. But the kind hearted merchant would not take denial, and the poor man repeated what before had involuntarily broke from his lips.

"And how much, my dear fellow, would it take to make you happy?" "O, I don't know!-the winter is coming on apace, and I have no wood: my wife and children are poorly clad, for I have been sick. Our wants are limited, however, and fifteen dollars would dissipate the gloom of winter." "John, count this man fifteen dollars." The ingenuous heart can feel, like the grateful stranger, the nobleness of such bounty, and exult for hu man nature, that meek-eyed charity should find such a kindred abode. A ray of heavenly light does occasionally break upon this scene of war, of selfishness, and ambitious strife; enough to agonize the spirit for the future safety of that unnumbered host, who, even in a christian land never feel the glow of charity, and who never know the luxury of bestowing a dollar upon the children of want

The Praying Shepherd.

ONE of the ejected ministers of Wales, went to England, and hired himself as a shepherd to a nobleman of that country. One day the nobleman's wife was ill, and he sent for the officiating clergyman of the parish to come and pray for her. The clergyman being a sportsman, told the messenger that he would comply with the reques after his return from hunting. The nobleman hearing this, became very uneasy in his mind, and thought it very strange that a professed minister of the gospel, preferred hunting to praying. A domestic told him that the shep herd could pray very well; that he went out every nigh to pray in a certain private place; and that he had watch ed him, and heard him pray frequently. The shepher was immediately sent for, and prayed so powerfully, tha the nobleman's heart was melted. He urged the poo man to recite his whole history, and he reluctantly com plied. "Well, then," said the nobleman, "you sha. henceforth be a shepherd of men." He built him a meet ing house, attended his ministry, and never again trouble the sportsman.

Kindness Rewarded.

SOME years ago, during a rebellion in Ireland, a person named Edgeworth thought it his duty to raise a company of soldiers to aid in restoring peace; and finding one day that a large body of rebels were only a mile off, he and his family fled to a place at some distance. The only person left behind in the house was a faithful housekeeper. On the evening of the day of the flight of the family, a large number of the rebels entered the village. After some delay they went to the gate of the house, and the housekeeper expected every moment they would enter by violence. But why did they not? One of the rebels who had some authority, placed his back against the gate and declared that no one should open the gate, or set the foot of an enemy inside that place. He said that the housekeeper was a good woman, and had done him a service, though she did not know him, nor he her. He

had never seen her face, but she had the year before lent his wife a small sum of money to pay the rent of his flax ground, and he would stand her friend now.

This led the mob to talk over the matter; and at length, they determined to send six of their number, to go into the house to demand fire-arms, and to know the truth. The six men went round to the back door, and summoned the housekeeper. One of them presented a gun at her and asked for arms; she said that she had none. Her defender, then, addressed himself particularly to her, and inquired if she remembered him. She answered, "No;" to the best of her knowlodge she had never seen his face. He asked her if she had lent a woman money to pay her rent of flax-ground the year before. She replied, "Yes, she remembered," and named the woman, the time, and the sum. The truth of what he had stated was thus proved to his companions. He then bid her not be alarmed, for that no narm should happen to her, nor to any belonging to her; not a soul should have leave to go into her masters house, not a twig should be touched, not a leaf should be harmed. With a loud huzza the rebels went off; but the care of this grateful man for the person who had been kind to him did not cease here, for the whole time that the rebels were in town, he kept guard at the gate.

When Mr. Edgeworth returned, the town presented a most deplorable spectacle: the windows were shattered and the doors were broken, but within his own gates all was safe; a map which he had consulted before his departure was still on the table, and a flower which one of the children had been copying was still on the chimney piece.

A Merited Rebuke.

MR. Locke, having been introduced by Lord Shaftsbury to the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Halifax; these three noblemen, instead of conversing with the philosopher, as might naturally have been expected, on literary subjects, in a very short time sat down to cards. Mr. Locke, after looking for some time, pulled out his pocket-book, and