work of God's word. Margaret subsequently recorded, in her poetical effusions, the various emotions of her soul at this important period of her life, and by means of them, we may trace the course of her pilgrimage. We see that she was strongly possessed with the sense of sin, and that she wept over the thoughtlessness with which she had been used to regard the flagrant vices of the world. She exclaimed

"Yawns there of evil gulf so deep and wide

That were not all too scant a tenth to hide
Of my huge sins."

That corruption, to which she had been so long blinded, she discovered every where, now her eyes were opened. "Well do I feel, within me is the root,

Without I bear branch, foliage, flower, and fruit." Still she felt that a God of peace had drawn nigh to her. "To me thou hast come down, to me, my God,

Poor naked earthworm on this lowly clod.”

And soon the feeling of God's love in Christ pervaded her heart.

"My Father, then-but what a Father! Thou,

Eternal, viewless, changeless, and immortal,
Who every trespass pardonest by grace;
Even as a criminal I cast me, Lord,

Before thy feet, O bless'd Emmanuel!
Pity me, perfect Father, pity me!
Thou art the sacrifice, the altar thou,

Who for our sakes such sacrifice hast made,

That thou, thyself, great God, art satisfied."

Therefore a great change took place in her state of mind. "Poor needy one, unknowing, feeble, she

Feels herself wealthy, wise, and strong in thee." Still the power of evil was not wholly extinguished in her; she experienced an inward conflict and strife that astonished her.

"Evil I fly, yet love transgression well;

Reason I love, and yet 'gainst right rebel.

Long as I breathe on earth the breath of life,
Evermore am I doomed to live in strife."

We are told that Margaret, seeking in nature for symbols to express the wants and affections of her soul, adopted the flower of the marigold, which by its rays and its leaves has

the greatest affinity for the sun, and turns from all parts to where he moves. She added to it this motto; "Non inferiora secutus ;" or, "I seek not the things of this low world," to signify, as a courtly writer adds, that she directed all her actions, thoughts, wishes, and affections, to that great Sun which was God; and therefore was she suspected of the religion of Luther.

In truth, the princess soon experienced the truth of the text, that "all that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution." At court, some began to talk of Margaret's new opinions, and great was the sensation. What! the king's own sister making one among those people! But Margaret's character, by degrees, disarmed opposition. Every one loved her.

Had Francis 1. partaken of his sister's convictions, he would, no doubt, have followed them out. The princess's natural temper shrank from the anger of the king. She was constantly distracted between her brother and her Saviour, and could not resolve to give up either. Though a Christian, we cannot look upon her as fully arrived at the enjoyment of the liberty of God's children; she is a perfect type of those exalted souls so numerous in all ages, especially among women, who, though strongly drawn towards heaven, have not yet force enough to free themselves wholly from the ties of earth. The star is somewhat veiled indeed, but its radiance is of incomparable sweetness, and even in the times we are speaking of, its light was beneficially displayed. Margaret had, indeed, a hard struggle with the worldliness around her on all sides. Her fondness for her brother, the obedience she owed her mother, the flatteries lavished on her by the court, all seemed to conspire against the love she had vowed to Jesus Christ. Margaret was alone against numbers. Sometimes, Margaret's soul, assailed by so many adversaries, and bewildered by the noise of the world, turned away from her Master. Then, acknowledging her fault, the princess shut herself up in her chamber, and uttered cries far different from the gay songs with which Francis and the young lords filled the royal palaces in their dissolute festivities. She thus ad

dresses the Lord Jesus Christ

"Left you have I, to list to pleasure's voice;
Left you have I, and for an evil choice;

Left
you
have I, and where then have I set me?
Where nought but malediction ever reigneth!
Left you have I, the Friend that never feigneth;
Left you have I, and in my haste to shun

Your love, unto your opposite have run.'

"I have all the tracts you sent me," Margaret wrote to her friend and adviser, Briconnet," of which my aunt of Nemours has had her part; and I will also send her the last, for she is in Savoie, at her brother's wedding, which is no small loss to me; wherefore I beseech you look with pity on me so lonely." The death of this lady, Madame de Nemours, shortly after, was a heavy blow to Margaret. Her friend, her sister, she who could fully comprehend her, was suddenly snatched from her. In her own words

"Tears so many fill my eyes,

That they see nor earth nor skies."

Margaret, feeling very weak against the assaults of grief and the seductions of the court, besought Briconnet to exhort her to the love of God. "The meek and gracious Jesus, who wills, and who alone can effect what he mightily wills," replied the humble bishop, "visit your heart through his infinite goodness, exhorting you to love him with your whole being. Other than he, madam, none has the power to do this; and it skills not that you expect light of darkness, or warmth of cold. By attracting, he kindles; and by warmth, he attracts to follow him, making the heart dilate. Madam, you write to me to have pity on you, because you are alone. I understand not that phrase. Who lives in the world, and has his heart there, is lonely, forasmuch as he is too much and ill companioned. But she whose heart sleeps to the world, and wakes to the meek and gracious Jesus, her true and lawful spouse, is truly alone, for she lives in her one and only thing needful; and yet withal, alone she is not, not being forsaken by Him who fills and keeps all things. Pity I cannot, and must not, such solitude, which is more to be esteemed than the whole world, for which I am persuaded that God's love has saved you, and that you are no longer the child thereof. Commending me, madam, to your gracious favour, I beseech you to be pleased to use no more such words as those you have done by your last. Of God alone you are daughter and spouse, and no other father should you demand,"

In spite of these words, Margaret was not yet comforted. She bitterly regretted the spiritual guides of whom she had been deprived; the new pastors forced upon her to bring her back, did not possess her confidence, and whatever the bishop might say, she felt lonely in the midst of the court, and all around her appeared night and desert. "As a sheep in a strange country," she wrote again to Briconnet, "wandering about, and overlooking its pasture from lack of knowing its new shepherd, naturally lifts its head to scent the corner where the good shepherd had been used to give it sweet food, in such sort am I constrained to supplicate your charity." Again, she says elsewhere, "The days are so cold, the heart so icy and chill," and she subscribes herself, "Your frozen, thirsty, and famished daughter, Marguerite."

This letter did not dishearten Briconnet, but it made him ponder; and feeling how much he who sought to cheer others had need himself of being inspirited, he thus requested the prayers of Margaret and of Madame de Nemours, Madam," he said, with noble simplicity, "I beseech you to awaken with your prayers the poor slumberer,"

66

Such was the nature of the sentiments interchanged at the court of France in 1521. A strange correspondence, indeed, which a manuscript in the royal library has revealed, after an interval of more than three centuries. Perhaps it has been brought forward to conduce to the spiritual benefit of some living at the present day. But there is a solemn inquiry which presents itself, Was the influence of the reformation in such high quarters an advantage to the court, or an evil? The sting of truth was felt by the great, but perhaps it only served to awaken their animosity against its progress among the nation at large. Thus the gospel is to some the savour of death unto death, to others, of life unto life, 2 Cor. ii. 16. See also Ezek. ii. 5, and John. XV. 22.

1

Extracted from D'Aubigné's History of the Reformation.

HOW DO YOU SPEND THE LORD'S DAY?

THERE is not, perhaps, a truer indication of the real state of the heart in reference to God, and our fitness or unfitness for heaven, than the manner in which we habitually spend

the Lord's day. During the six bustling days of the week, most are occupied in pursuits which they are compelled to follow, and which consequently may sometimes be not entirely to their taste; and the labours of the hand, therefore, cannot always afford a correct indication of the desires of the heart. But there is one day, when these compulsory occupations are, for the most part, in our happy country, laid aside, and when men, less the creatures of necessity than choice, show us by their actions what is really in their heart, and from their habitual conduct in respect to the duties of this holy day afford us the means of forming a tolerably just estimate of their real character. Then it is that men who, in most respects, appeared like one another in the absorbing business of the week, now, by their opposite companionships and pursuits, show the essential difference of their character.

The true Christian, on the return of this holy day, seeks, by thought, and prayer, by reading God's word, and attending in his house, to enjoy communion with God; and rejoicing to walk with him in this world, anticipates with delight the happy and never-ending sabbath above. It is then that he reminds himself of those duties which he endeavours to practise in the week, examines himself as to how he has hitherto fulfilled them, and especially prays for strength from above, to enable him to love God with all his heart and his neighbour as himself. It is then that the active and zealous seek to improve their fellow men, going from house to house, exhorting the careless, warning the hardened, teaching the ignorant, and relieving and comforting the sick and the poor. It is then that the pious Sunday school teacher, though wearied by the labours of the week, devotes a portion of his sacred leisure to the instruction of the young in the first principles of religion.

How differently is this day spent by others! The avaricious worldling uses it to post his books, pursue his commercial journeys, arrange his business plans, and calculate his profits. It is on this holy day that the ungodly and trifling seek their pleasure in the crowded suburbs of our cities, and in the public conveyance, the tavern and the tea-garden, recklessly employing others though they do not work themselves. By such persons, it is only distinguished from the other days, as being a day for additional