acquire a strength which overleaps every intervening barrier, and the most flagrant acts of transgression are committed without fear or compunction. The heart, naturally inclined to sin, needs constant checks upon its depraved tendencies, and it is only by the influences of God's Spirit, and severe conflicts, that the outbreakings of a sinful nature can be effectually restrained.

Most pious as well as philosophical was the estimate which the psalmist had formed of the power of secret faults over his own partially sanctified heart. He asked to be cleansed from them, thereby humbly confessing their polluting influence. He also said, "I hate vain thoughts." Here again is brought to view the power of unseen, yet corrupting sin. Like slowly consuming fires are those secret offences, which are so little heeded by the great majority of mankind. If holy thoughts were encouraged, and all the appliances of the gospel put in requisition, with a view to crush the first risings of sin, secret faults would become hateful, and the heart would be taught to love and cherish emotions of a sanctifying tendency. Sin may be secret, and yet highly pernicious within the limits to which it is confined.

The plague-spot, though scarcely perceptible at first, may increase in size and virulence until the entire system is brought under its fatal power. A mean hypocrisy is sometimes connected with secret sins, when they are allowed to retain undisputed sway within the human breast. There are those who pass in society as more than ordinarily virtuous, in whose wandering eye a keen observer would detect the index of hidden pollution, not acted out because selfish interests may depend on keeping up the appearance of morality. This restraint upon the outbursts of guilty passion attests, in no equivocal manner, the silent yet powerful control which the gospel exerts over the conduct of the unsanctified. Let this salutary restraint, which results from the prevalence of gospel principles, and a wise appreciation of their value to the temporal interests of society, be removed-let its hold upon the public mind become weakened, and many a heart, around which the flames of sinful desires are burning, would unbolt its heated doors, and the wide world would be changed to one vast scene of unbridled licentiousness. But, on the contrary, what a blissful world would this become, if all who inhabit it should be led by the grace of the Holy Spirit, through a lively faith in Jesus Christ, to exclaim with the psalmist," Cleanse thou me from secret faults."

H. S. C.

CHEERFUL AND AFFLICTIVE SOUNDS.

How influential are sounds of joy and sorrow! None but the insensible can be unaffected by the strains of innocent happiness; and none but the hard-hearted can hear a shriek of anguish without feeling a sudden pang, and experiencing a desire to relieve the sufferer whose cry has called forth emotions of sympathy.

The sound of a funeral bell calls up solemn feelings within us, and suggests the necessity of preparing to meet death, that may overtake us in a moment.

"Dost hear the toll of that sad, solemn bell?

It says, A soul has gone to heaven or hell."

Some sounds are unusually harsh and afflictive, filling the mind with fear or abhorrence. The war-whoop of the wild Indian in the woods, the hissing of serpents, and the roaring of beasts of prey, are terrific sounds to the ears of a traveller.

The voices of those we love sound soothingly and pleasingly to the ear, while words addressed to us in scorn or anger, are too apt to arouse corresponding feelings in our hearts.

Musical instruments excite mirth and melancholy, despondency and triumphant emotions.

"They move the mind to yield and to rebel :

What passions cannot music raise and quell!"

The human tongue is far above musical instruments in expression and power, appealing to the heart. How sweet it is to hear a choir of melodious voices blending harmoniously together in the praise of God!

If cheerful sounds can give us so much pleasure on earth, making the heart joyful; if the imperfect music that charms us here can kindle such rapturous emotions, what must be the power of heavenly harmony;

When filled with rapture, angel-choirs

Their tuneful voices bring;

And seraphs strike their golden lyres
And loud hosannahs sing;

When everlasting themes are given,

Of love and joy and praise;

And all the assembled host of heaven
Their halleluiahs raise!

H.

A HUMBLE MIND.

ZELLER, the director of a school in Germany, relates the "One of the children came to me one day

following fact.

in trouble, because, as he said, God would not hear his prayer. 'And what did you pray for?' 'I prayed to God that he would give me a humble heart.' 'And why do you think that he will not hear you?' The child said, with tears, 'Since I prayed for this, the other boys have been so cross to me. They tease me, and mock me at every turn, so that I can hardly bear it.' I said, 'You prayed that God would give you a humble heart, and why then should you be vexed, if the other boys are the means of humbling you? Here you see, that God does really hear you? You will find that the Lord has humbled you and heard your prayer. It is in this way that he sees fit to send you a humble mind.' The poor child had not thought of that. He had fancied, that God would have taken some other way with him, and thus he was mistaken in thinking that his prayer was not heard.”

A great many real Christians make the same mistake. They pray for faith, and hope, and love, and God hears them, and brings them into such a state, that they are tempted to doubt and fear, to yield to unbelief and despair, and suppose that their prayers have not been heard, and perhaps they even become full of bitter and unkind feelings. This is the way he takes to make the good seed that is in their hearts to grow. In truth, every Christian virtue which we are taught to desire must grow out of such a struggle, and we shall not fail to be conquerors if we continue to pray without ceasing, looking to the Lord for strength.

GN. P.

THE POOR WIDOW'S BOY.

A NUMBER of well-clothed, happy-looking boys, just dismissed from school, were at play on the village green. Their joyous shouts caused other boys who did not belong to the school to join them, and they were readily allowed to take part in the sports. Soon after a little boy about nine years of age, came slowly out of a neighbouring lane, and taking his station by the fence, near where the play was going on, watched the proceedings with very earnest attention. He was very pale and thin, his clothes were old and patched, but clean; his feet were without shoes, and his hat wanted a rim. Now and then a smile would pass over his face as he witnessed some feat of the boys; but for the most part, it wore a very melancholy expression. He did not ask to play, and no one took any

notice of him.

In about twenty minutes David Halsey joined the group.

He had remained during that time in the school-house, with the teacher, in order to receive some explanations in regard to his lesson. He always wished to understand things thoroughly. He had done his lessons well, but there were some things which he did not perfectly comprehend. He staid, therefore, after school, to ask some questions which the teacher was happy to answer.

David was very fond of play as well as of study. When he played, he played with all his might, and when he studied, it was after the same manner. He had not been on the ground long, before he saw the lone boy by the fence, and he felt sorry for him. He went up to him and said, "Do you wish to play?" The boy nodded in reply.

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Boys," said David, "let this fellow play."

66 No," said one, "he does not belong to the school."

"No matter," said David, "there are several here who do not belong to the school."

"He is too ragged," said another boy. The pale boy who had come forward a little when David began to speak in his behalf, turned back as he heard this speech, and resumed his station by the fence. He looked a little sadder than before.

David was sorry that the boys would not let him play, but he concluded there was no help for it. So he joined in the play which was going forward with his usual vigour, but not with his usual pleasure. He could not help thinking of the poor boy. Whenever he looked that way, he saw that he was watching him. He made another effort to get the boys to allow him to play; but the reply he received from the most influential one of the group was, 66 Oh, don't make such a fuss about a ragged boy!"

It was now proposed by one of the boys that they should go to a neighbouring hill. This proposition was agreed to by acclamation, and all the boys except David set off with a run. David stayed behind and talked with the poor boy.

"Where do you live?" said David.

"Down there," said the boy, pointing towards a lane, where there were several small houses.

"How long have you lived in the place?"

"About two years."

"I do not remember that I have ever seen you before." "I was always at work in the factory till I got ill, and was obliged to stop.'

"Where did you live before you came here? Tell me something about it."

"We used to live in L-. Father had a snug little farm there, and we used to live so nice and happy. But father was taken ill and died, and then they came and took away the farm."

"Was he in debt for it?"

"No, he had just finished paying for it; and then a man came and said the title was not good, and after mother had paid the lawyers a good deal, they told her she must give up the farm; so we had to move out of the house: we had to sell almost all the furniture to get money to live on. Then mother took in sewing, and sat up at night till she got so weak that the doctor said she must stop, or she would die and leave her children without anybody to see to them. She then came here, that sister and I might work in the factory." "How old is your sister?"

"She is a year older than I am. About a month ago I was taken ill, and had to stop working; I am better now: I am going into the factory again next week."

"You do not look well enough to go to work."

"I feel better than I did; I feel pretty well, only I am not as strong as I used to be, and I have a bad pain in my side most of the time. I do not tell of that though, for mother would not let me go to work if I did."

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"I think you are rather foolish for wishing to go to work, when you are not well enough."

"You would not think so if you knew how little mother has to eat, and how thin sister is growing."

"Has not your mother enough to eat?"

The boy shook his head, while a tear stood in his eye. "Are you hungry now?"

"Not very."

"Not very! you ought not to be hungry at all, because you are willing to work. Come, go home with me.'

"I had rather not."

"I will ask my mother to give you something to take to your mother."

This argument could not be resisted. He followed David home. David made a statement of the facts he had learned, and Mrs. Halsey, after making a few inquiries of the boy, and addressing some kind words to him, put up a basket-full of things which she thought would be useful to the afflicted family. She told David to go with him, and assist him in carrying it. David was well pleased to go, for he was quite interested in his new acquaintance, and moreover he knew