distinct and full, in the princely donor's autograph. Of that letter the younger brother sat down and read a portion there; and, as he read, he looked around him to see that it was all reality; and then he read again, and his lip quivered, and his eye filled, and, as the letter dropped upon his lap, he smote upon his breast, and called himself by some bitter name. And then he started up; and if you had only seen him-such an altered man; such energy, and yet such mildness; such affection, and withal such heroism as beamed of a sudden in his kindling countenance; you would have thought that, amidst its other wonders, that foreign ship had fetched the remainder of his soul. And so it had. From that day forward he was another man; grudging no labour, doing nothing by halves, his character changed, his reputation retrieved, his whole existence filled with a new consciousness and inspired by a new motive, and all his sanguine schemes and cheerful efforts converging towards the happy day which should transport him to the arms of that unseen brother.

Reader, have you lost heart about yourself? Once on a time you had some anxiety about character. You wished that you had greater strength of principle, and that your moral standing were more respectable. You envied the virtuous energy of those friends who can resist temptation and combat successfully the evil influences around them. You have even wished that you could wake up some morning and find yourself a Christian; and you have sometimes hoped that this happiness might at length befall you. But there is, as yet, no sign of it. Startling providences have passed over you, but they have not frightened you out of your evil habits; and, from time to time, amiable and engaging friends have gained ascendency over you, but they have not been able to allure you into the paths of piety. And now you are discouraged. You know that some vicious habit is getting a firmer and more fearful hold of you, and, if you durst own it to yourself, you have now no hope of a lofty or virtuous future. You feel abject, and spiritless, and self-disgusted, and have nearly made up your mind to saunter slip-shod down the road to ruin.

You do not remember your Elder Brother, for he had left those regions before you were born. But this comes to tell you that he lives and wishes you well. In the far country whither he has gone, he knows how you are, and

is much concerned at your present condition. And he feels for you none the less that in all that land he is himself the richest and the mightiest. And to show that, amidst all his glory, he is not ashamed to be called your brother, he has sent you a noble gift, a ship freighted with some of his choicest acquisitions, and bringing every thing good for a man like you.

And be not vexed nor angry when I tell you that that ship of heaven is THE BIBLE. If, instead of touching at every land, and coming to every door-if only a few Bibles arrived now and then readymade and direct from heaven, and each addressed to some particular person-and if none besides were allowed to handle their contents or appropriate their treasures, how justly might the world envy that favoured few! But having purchased gifts for men whilst here amongst us, and being highly exalted where he is gone, the Saviour, in his kindness, sends this heaven-laden book, this celestial argosie, to all his brethren here below, and each alike is welcome to its costly freight. Despise it not! There is nothing dazzling in its exterior. It is plain and unpretending. No rainbow lights its margin, nor do phosphorescent letters come and go on its azure pages. But the wealth of the Indian carrack is neither its timbers nor its rigging; it hides its treasure in the hold. The wonder of the Bible is neither its binding nor its type-nay, not even (though these are wonderful) its language and its style. It makes God glorious, and the reader blessed by the wealth it carries, and the truths it tells.

To recite at full the letter would take too long. A brother's heart yearns in it all; but what a holy, and what an exalted brother! He informs you that all power is given him in heaven and earth, and that from his Father he has received such ample authority that all throughout these dominions life and death are in his hands. He says, that he is grieved to know your wretched position, but he bids you not lose heart; for if you only take advantage of what he has sent you, there will be an end of your misery. And he adds that, freely and lovingly as he forwards these gifts, they cost him much; they have cost him labour and sorrow, groans and anguish, tears and blood. He begs that you will take frankly what is given kindly, and assures you that nothing will gladden him more than to hail you to his home and instal you in his kingdom. And lest there be any

matter which you do not rightly understand, and on which you would like fuller information, or more help till then, there is a very wise and much-loved friend of his, who is willing to come and abide with you until he and you shall meet again.-REV. J. HAMILTON.

WHAT IS TIME?

I asked an aged man-a man of cares,

Wrinkled, and curved, and white with hoary hairs;
"Time is the warp of life," he said, “O! tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well."
I asked the ancient venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled;
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flow'd,
"Time sow'd the seeds we reap in this abode."

I asked a dying sinner, ere the stroke

Of ruthless death life's golden bowl had broke;-
I asked him, What is time?" Time!" he replied,
"I've lost it ;-O the treasure!" and he died.

I asked the golden sun, and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years;
They told me, time was but a meteor's glare;
And bade me for eternity prepare.

I asked the seasons in their annual round,
Which beautify, or desolate the ground,—
And they replied, (what oracle more wise),
""Tis folly's blank, or wisdom's highest prize."
I asked a spirit lost, but oh! the shriek
That pierced my soul, I shudder while I speak;
It cried, "A particle, a speck, a mite,
Of endless years, duration infinite."

I asked my Bible, and methinks it said,
"Time is the present hour, the past is fled;
Live, live to-day; to-morrow never yet
On

any human being rose or set."

Of things inanimate, my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply:
"Time is the season fair of living well,
The path to glory, or the path to hell."

I asked Old Father Time himself at last,
But in a moment he flew swiftly past;
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, that left no trace behind

I asked the mighty angel, who shall stand

One foot on sea, and one on solid land ;—

66

By heaven's Great King I swear, the mystery s o'er "Time was," he cried, "but time shall be no more." -MARSDEN,

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

To be, or not to be; that is the question ;-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them? To die,—to sleep,-
No more; and, by a sleep, to say, we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to ;-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die,-to sleep ;-

To sleep!-perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause ;-there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
Το groan and sweat under a weary life?
But that the dread of something after death,
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns), puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

--SHAKSPEARE.

RESTLESSNESS OF HUMAN AMBITION.

To all those who are conversant in the scenery of external nature, it is evident that an object to be seen to the greatest advantage, must be placed at a certain distance from the eye of the observer. The poor man's hut, though all within be raggedness and disorder, and all around it be full of the most nauseous and disgusting spectacles—yet, if seen at a sufficient distance, may appear a sweet and interesting cottage. That field where the thistle grows, and the face of which is deformed by the wild exuberance of a rank and pernicious vegetation, may delight the eye of a distant spectator by the loveliness of its verdure. That lake, whose waters are corrupted, and whose banks poison the air by their marshy and putrid exhalations, may charm the eye of an enthusiast, who views it from an adjoining eminence, and dwells with rapture on the quietness of its surface, and on the beauty of its outline-its sweet border fringed with the gayest colouring of Nature, and on which spring lavishes its finest ornaments. All is the effect of distance. It softens the harsh and disgusting features of every object. What is gross and ordinary, it can dress in the most romantic attractions. The country hamlet it can transform into a paradise of beauty, in spite of the abominations that are at every door, and the angry brawlings of the men and the women who occupy it. All that is loathsome or offensive is softened down by the power of distance. We see the smoke rising in fantastic wreaths through the pure air, and the village spire peeping from among the thick verdure of the trees which embosom it. The fancy of our sentimentalist swells with pleasure, and peace and piety supply their delightful associations to complete the harmony of the picture.

This principle may serve to explain a feeling which some of us may have experienced. On a fine day, when the sun threw its unclouded splendours over a whole neighbourhood. did we never form a wish that our place could be transferred to some distant and more beautiful part of the land