in this world. Some will be raised to seats of honour, and glory, and blessedness," at his right hand," where is "fulness of joy," and where are "pleasures for evermore.” Others will depart accursed "into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels ;" "where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched," and where are "weeping and gnashing of teeth."

The world to come is perfect. Everything here is imperfect. The best are, in many respects, imperfect, and the purest happiness here has some alloy. But there, everything' will be fixed, settled, perfect. The heavenly city will be furnished and fitted in the most perfect manner to make its inhabitants happy. The world of woe will be perfectly fitted to express the awful wrath of God against sin. The spirits of the just will be made perfect, in character and in bliss. Not a pain, not a sorrow, not a want, not a sin will be found among all the hosts of heaven. And, in the pit of darkness, not a joy will thrill the bosom, not a hope cheer the heart. It will be "the blackness of darkness for ever."

Reader-are you prepared for the world to come ?

Not if your heart is placed supremely on this world. The two worlds are so unlike, that he who loves this world will find no corresponding object of affection in that which is to come. If placed in the midst of heaven, he would be completely miserable; for he would not find in all its glories an object that he could love, or that could minister delight: all his sources of happiness are gone for ever, and there is nothing to supply their place.

You are not prepared, if living in the habitual commission of sin. Not prepared, certainly, for the pure society and holy employments of heaven; for without holiness no man shall see the Lord. Nothing can enter the holy city "that defileth," or "worketh abomination, or maketh a lie."

You are not prepared unless you have experienced a great change a change which is called in the Scriptures being "born again;" "created anew in Jesus Christ;" having "passed from death unto life." If you have experienced this change, you have repented of your sins, humbly mourning over them, confessing them to God, and forsaking them. You have believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, renouncing all dependence upon your own righteousness, and trusting in him alone for salvation. What then is your condition? What says conscience? If it decides against you, your situation is dangerous beyond conception. With all the guilt of a life of

wickedness resting upon you, and the law of God denouncing on you its curses, should you now enter the world to come, how wretched, how hopeless would be your doom! Oh, be persuaded immediately to set about preparation-yes, immediately, for you have no time to lose. "This night thy soul" may "be required of thee."

6 Ye

Do you ask what is to be done? Give up this world as the object of your love. It is impossible for you to be saved, so long as you cleave to this world as your portion. cannot serve God and mammon,' "Matt. vi. 24. If you cannot give up the world; if its honours, or riches, or pleasures have such hold upon you that you cannot renounce them for Christ; then settle it in your mind that, continuing as you are, your damnation is sure. Renounce your sins. "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon," Isa. lv. 7. Go, then, humbly and penitently confess your sins to God; and, in the name of Christ, ask his forgiveness. Trust no longer in yourself; but by a living faith commit your guilty soul to the Saviour, to be washed and purified through his all-cleansing blood. Resolve at once, in dependence upon the Holy Spirit, that henceforth you will live to God; that you will make his glory the end, and his will the rule of all your future life.

Are these "hard sayings?" You will not think they are when you have entered the world to come. You will then see that these were the most reasonable and easy terms that God could give, and the only ones consistent either with his own honour or your happiness. They must be complied with, or you are lost for ever. They never can be given up, or softened down. God will not change. You must change or die.

Reader, why should you hesitate a moment? You have everything to gain by complying; everything to lose by refusing. Why will you die? Your soul is precious. Remember, it is a choice between eternal happiness and eternal woe. Can you hesitate? Oh, decide for God and heaven ; decide now, and for ever. The God of infinite mercy help you to fix the purpose; accept the consecration, and make you eternally blessed.

A. T.

SCENE OF A REVOLUTION.

THE FRENCH WIDOW'S SON.

"COME along Victor, come along. What are you poring over those stupid books for? Do you not see the school is breaking up? The master has given us all a holiday; he has gone himself to see what is going on, and the boys are all going too come along."

So deeply absorbed had young Victor been in his book, that he had been unmindful of the confusion around him, till his cousin Martin had pulled his sleeve and roused him to the consciousness, that the school was indeed abandoned by the master, and that the boys, without staying to put up their books, or arrange the school-room as usual, were seizing their caps and rushing out to join the throng, which in dense masses was pouring along the streets, shouting and singing the Marseillaise hymn, or the still more favourite modern chorus, Mourir pour la patrie; Die for our country.

With a deep sigh Victor collected his books and locked them in his desk, first selecting those which he usually took home with him, and transferring them to his satchel he flung it over his shoulder. "And what," he exclaimed, fixing his earnest and thoughtful eyes on Martin, "are all these people doing?"

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Why, do you not know they are all going to see about reform, and we will have it too-we want reform."

"There is no doubt about that," said Victor smiling; "but our good pastor says, 'if we would each reform our own selves, that would be the surest way of getting universal reform.'"

"Pooh, pooh, you know nothing about it;-but I must go with those people," said Martin, for at that moment loud shouts and cries broke forth from the crowd.

"And I," said Victor, "will go home as fast as I can, for my poor mother will be frightened."

The widow Bernard had neatly folded some work on which she was employed, and put it by. She had promised to take it home on the morrow to the milliner who employed her, but she wanted some sewing silk to complete it; she had been out to get it, but found the shops were all closed; and alarmed at the cries and the appearance of the fierce and tumultuous crowd, which thronged the streets, she hastened to return home. Not being able to finish that work she folded it up, and took out from the neat press with drawers,

with which her pleasant and comfortable abode was furnished, a shirt she was making for Victor, and sat down to wait his return. He usually came home from school at five, but it wanted yet an hour of that time, so she sat down to work. Why was it she could not rest? Why did she look so frequently at the clock? Why, when the shouts of the noisy multitude rose on her ear, did she put down her work, and bowing her head on her joined hands, strive to calm her fears by prayer? "The Lord reigns," she exclaimed, "be the people never so unquiet ;" then she put down her work, and brought from a neat book-shelf a large Bible, which she began to read, and from which it was evident by her countenance she derived comfort and strength. Five o'clock struck; she rose, and prepared for their evening meal. The kettle was boiling, the pretty china was arranged on the clean table cloth; the eggs were ready to boil; all was prepared, and all spoke of comfort and order.

"Victor is not at all likely to have gone with the crowd," said the anxious mother; "he would be sure to return home as soon as possible; he was so anxious, too, to finish the book he was reading to me."

Again, and again, she went to the door and looked out; it was growing dark, but the lamps had all been broken, and there was no light in the streets; the shops were all shut, and the street in which she lived was now quiet and deserted, the crowd having all gone towards other parts of the city, though the shouts and songs rose occasionally with fearful dissonance on the car. At length the tread of measured steps approached, and the sound of a crowd, who sang with a low and mournful voice, the popular air, Mourir pour la patrie. They stopped; she heard her name called, and on opening the door, the first object she beheld was the apparently lifeless body of her beloved boy, borne by some men, while others carried torches. She did not shriek, or faint, but she pressed her hand against her heart, and silently motioned to them to follow her. She opened the door of the adjoining room, where a neat bed was prepared for the night, and there she requested them to place her son.

"We were going to take him to the hospital," said one of the men, "but he so earnestly begged to be brought home to you, that we could not refuse him."

He is not dead! then," said the mother, a ray of hope animating her heart; "oh will some of you go for Mons. J-?"

"You will not find him, or any one else at home; he is one of the National Guard, and they are all engaged on other matters; besides, a surgeon has seen him, and says he cannot live an hour, so it is of no use."

"You ought to be the proudest and happiest mother in the world," said a ferocious looking man, 66 to have a son who has died for his country. Your name will be covered with glory."

The widow gently said, while she fell on her knees by the side of the bed on which they had now placed her son, “Thy will, O Lord, be done; teach me, oh teach me, to have no will but thine.”

A dirty, wretched-looking woman, a neighbour of widow Bernard's, stood looking on. “Why, neighbour," said she, "don't grieve, you should be proud of such a son. I am sure I wish it had been my Gerard." Her Gerard was a profligate, disobedient son; a disgrace and terror to the neighbourhood.

The widow was now, however, engaged in bathing the temples of her son; she heard no one she thought only of him, and at length she was left with him alone. She had been quite right in supposing that Victor had not willingly mingled in the scene of riot. He had been quietly pursuing his way towards his home, when, at the turning of a street, he had been met by a violent and tumultuous throng, who, with cries and menaces, were forcing their way, against all opposition, towards the residence of the unpopular minister. To resist them or force his way through was impossible, and hoping soon to find some opening for escape, poor Victor was borne along by the crowd to the scene of combat. He remembered no more; a ball, by whom fired he knew not, entered his body, and a surgeon who was near having pronounced the wound to be mortal, and that nothing could be done for him, he had earnestly entreated to be carried to his mother; and now her tender cares were rewarded by seeing him open his eyes, and gaze at her with a smile of tender recognition. He thanked her for all her cares; and though his voice for a moment faltered while he told her how he had hoped to have been her future comfort and support; how he had dreamed ambitious dreams of earning by his diligence and his talents fame which should have gratified her maternal pride, and a competence which should have placed her above want, he yet could comfort her by reminding her that he had been happily taught by her to look beyond this