Christianity, because it is a revelation from God, not a discovery of man. The acutest intellect and the most furnished mind cannot run faster after religion than the mind of an opposite kind. In describing or explaining the principles of Christianity, a learned man may outstrip an ignorant one; but he cannot do so in realizing or enjoying it. Belonging rather to the heart than to the head, the most talented and learned man can do no more than receive it when given him, and he can teach no higher devotion than that on which the "fool in other matters" stands when he exclaims-"I know in whom I have believed;" nor can he make known a richer knowledge than he who declares-"I have the spirit of adoption within me crying, Abba, Father."

The office of the preacher is, not to invent principles of action or bases of faith, but simply to make known those given us by "the Author and Finisher of Faith;" hence the most gifted and learned of our teachers cannot add one truth to those already revealed. Still, I like well arranged sermons, the gems of truth sparkling in their settings. But it is not the work of the workman that edifies and blesses, but the grace of God which accompanies the truths. Nor can all the learning of this world make that firmer which cannot be moved, nor illuminate that which is already bright as the "noon-day sun," nor make that more efficacious which cleanses from all unrighteousness, nor that freer which is offered without money and without price. O, my young friends, let but the Holy Ghost declare to your heart, when it is ready to break and burst with guilt and sorrow, "Thy sins are all forgiven thee; go in peace and sin no more," and-except as a means of intellectual pleasure-you will never need the "Evidences" to be laid before you to make you firm and happy believers.

A few years ago, when a revival of religion broke out on the northern coast of Scotland, a few poor fishermen were made happy in the love of a pardoning God. Animated by the ardour of their affections, they went about telling what Christ had done for them, thus trying to win others to Him. The old cry was soon raised, and many were the unfriendly remarks which were made concerning them, just because they were not in possession of the wisdom of the world. And what a deal is said now-a-days about education. It might be a potent agent for good indeed; but has the state of human society visibly improved? Granted that it has put away certain forms of evil; have not other evils found channels? Education may so refine the man as to make him unwilling to herd with the baser sort, but it does not destroy his love of sensual indulgences; hence, in deserting the jerry-shop he takes to the inn, or in leaving that, he makes his own parlour the scene of his indulgences. Knowledge or education may give us to see what is wrong, but it will not, it cannot destroy the appetite for wrong-doing. As well might we attempt to stop the out-flow of a bursted reservoir with a broom, as to keep back the out-gushing of a depraved heart by the contents of the spelling-book, the grammar, or Euclid. I don't believe that "ignorance is the mother of devotion," neither do I believe that devotion will be either begotten or fostered by education. The late Lord Macaulay, in his Essay on the poet Milton, said that poetry, real genuine poetry, is the product of rude minds, of minds untutored by education, but in which the creative element lives and revels in undisturbed sway. Thus it follows that education cannot make the poet; all it can do is to give him a channel wherein his melodious thinkings may flow. Neither can education make the Christian.

As the poet is the child of nature, so the Christian is the child of grace; and just as the poet may nurse and feel all the excitations of his musings, while yet he is the untutored savage, so may the Christian, ignorant of the science of words, figures, curves and angles, revel in his contemplations of his Saviour, his God, and of His eternal nature.

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And here the child who knows what gladness is, can equally with the parent safely rest and rejoice. Indeed we must become little children, would we enjoy the visions of delight which come from beyond the river, for it needs no learning nor cultivation of intellect to realize a taste or capacity for these things. He who is meek and lowly in heart, who sits at the feet of the Great Teacher, taking in what He reveals, without either testing its accuracy, or doubting its reality, is the man who gains clear and comprehensive acquaintance with the things unseen by feeble sense," and who thinks and speaks of them with all the certainty of knowledge, for he has the faith which is the "substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen." Hence he and the child are one in act, for he no more questions or disputes the truth of the things which are revealed to his mind by the Word and Spirit of God, than the child does the information its father gives it. This conduct refers also to the duties of the Christian in this life; though there is no seen connection between grace and the means which realize it, as faith in the Gospel and the salvation which follows. Prayer, and the blessings which result therefrom, or eating the oread and drinking the wine in the communion, and the renewal of strength which, by such waiting upon God, is certain to follow, yet the true Christian no more doubts the certainty thereof (except in the hour of temptation), than he doubts any effect known to result from natural causes.

THE ANTIDOTE.

"MOTHER, I was terribly urged to go to the theatre last week," said Charles Arnold, in one of his frequent visits at home, "Harvey and Brown were going, and they are pretty steady fellows, and I was really half inclined to go."

"Well, what saved you?"

“Oh, I knew just how you would look, mother dear, and I would rather never see a theatre than face that grieved look of yours. Mother, the thought of you has saved me from many temptations to do wrong, and if I am good for anything, when I am a man, I must thank God for my mother."

"Thank God for his preserving grace my dearest Charley, and ask him to give you more and more of it."

Not many days after, Mrs. Arnold was in company with her son's employer. "Your son promises well, Mrs. Arnold," said he," he is very accurate, obliging, respectful. I am somewhat hasty at times, and a few days since blamed him severely for something which I thought he had done wrong. He showed no ill-temper, but received it with so much meekness, my heart smote me. The next day he asked me very respectfully if I would inquire of one of the clerks about it, which I did, and found he had done nothing blameworthy in the least.

He is a fine boy, madam, a very fine boy, and I hope will make as good a man as his father."

But a good man, Charley was not destined to be. Her reward was nearer than she had thought; and he who had learned of the lowly Saviour to be meek and lowly of heart, was soon to be transplanted to dwell with "loving and holy ones above. One day he returned home unexpectedly, and the first glance told his mother he was in trouble.

"Mother I feel really sick, I was sick yesterday, but I kept in the store; but to-day I could only go down and see Mr. Barker, and tell I him must come home for a day or two. Oh, mother, it is a comfort to see your dear kind face again," said he, as she felt his pulse, examined his tongue, and inquired how he felt, "and perhaps if I rest quietly an hour or two, this dreadful pain in my head will be relieved."

He went to his pleasant chamber, to his quiet bed, the physician was summoned, and all that skill and tenderest care could do was done, but he rapidly drew near to the grave. He was patient, gentle, grateful, beautiful upon that bed of death, and while his mother's soul was poured forth in earnest prayer for his continued life, her heart swelled with grateful thanksgiving for the sweet evidence he gave of a subdued and Christian spirit, and she could say with true and cheerful submission, "Not my will but thine be done, whether for life or death, for it is well with the child."

Just at twilight, one evening, he awoke from a short slumber, and his eye sought his mother at his bedside. She leaned over him, and softly pressed her lips to his forehead. "Mother," he said, faintly, "the doctor has given up all hope of my life, has he not?"

Nerving herself to calmness for his sake, she answered, "He thinks you very sick, Charley, but I cannot give up all hope. How can I part with you my beloved ?"

"Mother," said he, as he took her hand in both his, and laid it on his breast, "I want, while I am able, to tell you how I feel, and I want you to know what you have done for me. I was a passionate, bad-tempered boy, and you know father-" He stopped. Mother, I should have been a ruined boy, but for you. I see it all now plainly. You have saved me, mother, you have saved my soul. You have been my guide and comfort in life. You have taught me to meet even death and fear no evil, for you have shown me my sin, and taught me to repent of it, and love and trust the precious Saviour, who died that his blood might cleanse even my guilt. I feel that I can lie in his arms, sure that he has forgiven my sin and washed my sinful soul white in his blood. How often you have told me he would do it if I asked him, and I have asked him constantly, and he will do it, he will not cast me off. Mother, when you think of me be comforted, for you have led me to my Saviour, and I rejoice to go and be with him forever."

The next sun arose on the cold remains of what was so lately the active and happy Charles Arnold, and there was bitter grief in that dwelling, for very dear had the kind and loving brother been to them. The father was stunned— thunder-struck. Little had he expected such a grief as this, and he seemed utterly unable to endure it, or believe it. How much he communed with his own heart of his neglected duty to that departed boy, we know not, but dreadful was the anguish he endured; and the mother had the joy to perceive that

his manner afterward was far more tender to his remaining children, whom he seemed now for the first time to realize he might not always have with him, to be neglected and put aside, as a trouble and as a care, rather than as a precious gift, to be most carefully trained up for God.

But all wondered at the perfect calmness of that afflicted mother. So devoted-so saint-like-it would seem she was in constant and sweet communing with the redeemed spirit of her boy. No regret, no repining, escaped her lips, and many who knew how fondly she loved her children, and had feared that this sudden blow would overwhelm her, gazed with wonder at her perfect submission, the cheerful, touching tenderness of voice and speech. And though tears would at times flow, yet she would say in the midst of them, "These are not tears of grief but of joy, that my darling son is safe, and holy, and blessed for ever. Tears of gratitude to God for his goodness." And when hours of sadness and longing for her lost one came, as they will come to the bereaved at times, a sweet voice seemed to whisper in her ears, "Mother, you have saved me, you have saved my soul!" And sweetest comfort came with that never-to-be-forgotten whisper from the dying bed of her precious child, to sustain her in the darkest hour.

Fathers! plead as you will that you are full of care and labour to support your families. Say it over and over again till you really believe it yourself, if you please, that when you come home at night tired, you cannot be crazed with the clatter of children's tongues. You want to rest and be quiet. So you do, and so you should, but have you any right to be so perfectly worn out with business, that the voice of your own child is irksome to you. Try for once a little pleasant, quiet, instructive chat with him. Enter for a few moments into his feelings, and pursuits, and thoughts, for that child has thoughts that need cherishing tenderly, for your own future comfort. He has pursuits and you are the one to talk with him about them, and kindly tell him which are right and useful, and which he would do better to let alone. He has thoughts, and who shall direct that mind aright which must think for ever, if not the author of his being? Ask of his school and his playmates, and see if your own spirit is not rested and refreshed, and your heart warmed by this little effort to win the love and confidence, and delight the heart of this young immortal, who owes his entrance into this weary world to you, and whom you are under the most solemn obligations to strive to prepare to act well his part in it. Do not say this is his mother's business. Has the Bible laid any command upon mothers? Would it not seem that He who formed her heart knew that she needed not to be told to labour, in season and out of season, for her beloved offspring? But to you is the strong command, "Fathers provoke not your children to wrath, but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord !"

Mothers! do you not reap a rich reward for curbing your own spirits, for every self-denial, for untiring devotion to the immortal giver to your care, with souls to be saved or lost? Oh! neglect them not, lest conscience utter the fearful whisper, "Mother you might have saved that soul!"

GIVING SIGHT TO THE BLIND.

In the "Life of Mary, Queen of Scots," by Henry Glassford Bell, Esq., we find the following account of a pretended miracle upon a blind boy. The author was certainly not induced to give this account from any partiality to the Scottish Reformers, of whom he speaks in no friendly terms. The mirac'e is in good keeping with many related in the Roman Breviary, and is a fulfilment of the prophecy of Paul the Apostle concerning "lying wonders," 2 Thess. ii. 9. "There was a chapel in the neighbourhood of Musselburgh, dedicated to the Lady of Loretto, which, from the character of superior sanctity it had acquired, had long been the favourite resort of religious devotees. In this chapel a body of the Catholic priests undertook to put their religion to test by performing a miracle. They fixed upon a young man who was well known as a common beggar in the streets of Edinburgh, and engaged to restore to him, in the presence of the assembled people, the perfect use of his eyesight. A day was named, on which they calculated they might depend on this wonderful interposition of divine power in their behalf. From motives of curiosity, a great crowd was attracted at the appointed time to the chapel; and the blind man made his appearance on the scaffold erected for the occasion. The priests approached the altar, and after praying very devoutly, and performing other religious ceremonies, he who had previously been stone blind, opened his eyes, and declared he saw all things plainly. Having humbly and gratefully thanked his benefactors, the priests, he was permitted to mingle among the astonished people, and receive their charity. Unfortunately, however, for the success of this deception, a gentleman from Fife, of the name of Colville, determined to penetrate, if possible, a little further into the mystery. He prevailed upon the subject of the recent experiment to accompany him to his lodgings in Edinburgh. As soon as they were alone, he locked the chamber door, and either by bribes or threats contrived to win from him the whole secret. It turned out, that in his boyhood this tool in the hands of the designing had been employed as a herd by the nuns of the convent of Sciennes, then in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. It was remarked by the sisterhood, that he had an extraordinary facility in 'flipping up the lid of his eyes, and casting up the white.' Some of the neighbouring priests, hearing accidentally of this talent, imagined that it might be applied to good account. They accordingly took him from Sciennes to the monastery near Musselburgh, where they kept him till he had made himself an adept in this mode of counterfeiting blindness, and till his personal appearance was so much changed, that the few who had been acquainted with him before would not be able to recognise him. They then sent him to Edinburgh to beg publicly, and make himself familiarly known to the inhabitants as a common blind mendicant. So far everything had gone smoothly, and the scene at the chapel of Loretto might have had effect on the minds of the vulgar, had Colville's activity not discovered the gross imposture. Colville, who belonged to the congregation, instantly took the most effectual means to make known the deceit. He insisted upon the blind man's appearing with him at the cross of Edinburgh, where the latter repeated all he had told Colville, and confessed the iniquity of his own conduct, as well as that of the priests. To shelter him from their revenge, Colville immediately afterwards carried him off to Fife; and the story, with all its details, being speedily desseminated, exposed the Catholic clergy to more contempt than ever."