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fear. We depend upon their accomplishment, their certain fulfilment, as we are brought into the various conditions to which they are made to apply. We have therefore always at hand a provision for every recurring want, in a promise of God already prepared for our assurance and comfort. How happy is this condition in which faith in the promised mercies of God is made to place us !

As believers, the one great object of our faith, is God himself, revealed to us in his greatness and his glory. The Father giving his own Son. The Son taking upon himself the responsibility of our condition, and fulfilling all righteousness for us. The Holy Ghost applying to us the vast benefits thus prepared by the Father's love and Son's obedience. These are the offices and relations of our glo. rious God, from which all promises proceed, and upon which our faith depends. It stands simply upon the power of God. He is able to accomplish what he has promised. He will therefore certainly do it. With him faith is satisfied. And whatever be the particular subject to which faith is at any time directed, while the promise and the power of God secure it for us, he is the object of our faith. But all the great blessings which we need, are particularly laid up for us in our Lord Jesus Christ. In him all the fulness of the Godbead dwells. And he therefore personally becomes the special object of our faith. We believe in him and are called believers in him. We are thus united to him, made one with him, and rejoice in him with unspeakable joy. Is this our condition? Are we thus depending upon Christ our Lord ? Are we walking in him, and fixing our affections upon him? This is happiness indeed. We have an unchangeable God for our portion and defence,- we therefore cannot be moved,—God will give us his blessing,—nor can he fail those who put their trust in him. O, that we may ever have grace to be kept in this simple faith, resting wholly upon God, and putting our trust in him alone.

As believers, the warrant or foundation for our dependence is the single word of God. It is enough for us, that he hath spoken to man, and given his blessed promises to. man. We need no other evidence of their certainty than his single word. We answer all doubts by what he has written. We are satisfied with this. Our faith does not depend upon what we have done, or upon what we feel, but simply upon what God hath been pleased to say. Every thing else than this, is changing and uncertain. But this is a sure foundation, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. We are to be careful to mingle nothing with it. All our hopes of the blessings to which faith leads us, must rest upon the simple, single fact, that God hath spoken. To believe his promises, and to depend upon his power to fulfil them, because we have repented of sin or attempted in any way to serve him, or have been taught by himself to love him ; even if these be all facts, is but putting our own merits in the place of his truth. We are to esteem it always enough, that God hath declared his will, and opened his purposes in his word. There we must rest alone. And whatever objections or difficulties appear in our view, we are to meet them all by simply referring to what he hath been pleased to say. How precious does this make his word to us! How sure and certain are its testimonies! How unsearchable its riches of

grace and comfort to broken and contrite spirits who are trembling before him, and waiting for him to build them up.

As believers in the Lord Jesus, the effects and fruits of this faith will be peace. We shall enjoy in actual possession this gift of divine peace. Peace with God. God is reconciled to us in his dear Son. We have, in this simple dependence, fled in our helplessness to him. And we find ourselves at peace. We fear him, but we are not afraid of him. We feel our worthless character in his sight, but we still rest upon him. We take comfort in his assurance that he will be a father to us, and we shall be his children. This heavenly peace is the immediate fruit of faith. And if we have not an enjoyment of actual peace with God, the deficiency to be noticed is in our faith in his word. Another effect will be joy. We shall be happy, because we read and know such blessed things written and spoken by our glorious Lord. If we have real dependence upon our God and Saviour we shall necessarily rejoice, and always rejoice; not in our trials, and sins, and sorrows ; but notwithstanding them all, in the free and full provisions of divine grace. We shall have joy in our present experience; happy in what God hath done, and hath revealed to us. If we are not happy in him, the defect is in our faith. Another fruit of faith will be love. We shall delight in God, in his service, in his promises, in his works, in his character. We shall love his worship, his people, his cause, and every thing that he loves. This will be an immediate effect of faith in God; and one that always distinguishes the people of God. Another effect of faith will be hope. We shall look forward with confidence and sure expectation of God's presence and glory, resting upon his promises and word. Our affections will be set on things which are above, and our expectations in him will be sure. If we believe his promises, we shall necessarily hope for their fulfilment to us. Another fruit of faith will be obedience to God. We shall delight in every thing to do his will, striving to be holy as he is holy, seeking in all thiņgs to glorify and honour him. Thus our faith is proved and evidenced by its fruits.

These are some of the fruits which belong to believers. We are to show them forth; to seek them ; to possess them in an increasing measure. O, that it may ever be your privilege, my beloved friends, thus, having received the Lord Jesus Christ, to walk in him ; strive thus to honour his great name, and to do his will. Ever realize your privileges in being allowed to believe in him ; and let your whole hearts rest upon his promised providence, his free salvation, his secure and everlasting countenance, unto your life's end. Ever your affectionate friend and pastor,


London, May 1, 1842.


No. IV.


At an early age a deep interest was excited in my mind, for those most afflicted of our fellow-mortals, the deaf and dumb; by witnessing, -I can scarcely say hearing—the painful efforts of the pupils of the deaf and dumb asylum in London, repeat the Lord's prayer, and articulate a few verses from the Bible, after divine service, when the annual sermon was preached on their behalf at St. George's Church. And at a later period, when, in order to complete my medical studies, I resided a few months in Paris, those sympathies were revived by visiting the admirable institution for the deaf and dumb, founded by the Abbé de l'Epée; where the bright eye, smiling countenance, and ready answer to our signs, spoke, in language not to be misunderstood, of awakened intelligence, happiness restored, and usefulness conferred on many a youthful being, previously cut off from all the endearing ties of society. But it remained for a neglected child, in an obscure English cottage, irresistibly to force upon me the conviction, that our heavenly Father's dealings with his creatures are sweetly tempered with mercy, nay, even when some of the avenues by which the highest enjoyments of man are conveyed to his mind are totally closed, and a moral darkness would seem to prevail.

Early in the month of May last, I was sent for to visit a sick cottager, in a beautiful afternoon, when nature seemed rejoicing in its renovation, for the birds were singing their evening hymn, and the soft refreshing air was perfumed with the violets which grew in profusion on the high banks by wbich my road was skirted, and nothing occurred to disturb the train of pleasing thought into which I bad fallen, as my horse trotted quietly down a shady lane. A sudden turn in the road brought me unexpectedly upon four cottages neatly thatcbed, and surrounded by gardens well stocked with common fruit and vegetables. An old man was working in one of them, and on my enquiring of him where Dame Beale lived, he pointed to the next door. I entered, and found myself in a large airy room, in which everything bore the appearance of extreme neatness. It was a Saturday evening, and the whole of the female portion of the fainily were assembled. The mother, a tall, gaunt woman, was busy ironing in preparation for the coming Sabbath. Three little girls, from eight to twelve years of age, were learning their Sunday lessons ; in the corner of the old chimney sat the eldest daughter, who rose on my entrance and curtsied respectfully, but immediately sat down again, and busied herself with a frock she was making for one of the younger children.

I wondered as I gazed at her heavy features and listless eyes, at the celerity with which her fingers moved, and the dexterity she displayed in the use of her needle ; and my surprise was increased, when I was informed that she was deaf and dumb.

The mother told me that a lady in the neighbourhood had proposed to send the girl to an asylum for this unhappy class of sufferers; but that she had been unwilling to let her go there, lest she should be treated with harshness. I believe also that in declining the proffered advantages for her daughter, Dame Beale was influenced by some delusive hope, that time might develop the dormant faculties. When the deaf aud dumb creature grew up to womanhood, without any chance of her ever possessing the sense of hearing and the power of speech, the mother solicited the boon which she had before refused ; but the answer to the application was, the candidate is too old.'

Thus unhappily was a very intelligent and clever person, notwithstanding her physiological imperfections, deprived of the great blessing of that mental culture, which is communicable by signs. Yet with such disadvantages, she was able to earn more money than any other young woman in the parish; for besides being so expert at her work in the silk-mill, as to obtain high wages, she added to her regular earnings, by making up caps and bonnets, and doing other little turns for her young companions, during those brief hours of recreation, which her infirmity prevented her from enjoying with them.

But the patient whom I had been summoned to attend, was her sister ; a girl of seventeen, who was lying in a bed in the corner of the room, screened off by a green baize curtain, so that when I first entered the apartment, she escaped my observation. This girl was unusually beautiful, with bright hazel eyes and dark glossy hair, which contrasted finely with a brilliant complexion ; but it was the deep hectic of disease which glowed on her cheek. I cannot describe the feeling which came over me when this young bright creature removed the clothes, and showed me her emaciated limbs. Her simple story was soon told ; and as soon I saw that the disease bad made too fearful progress to be subdued. She used, she said, to work at the silk-mills, and when about eleven years of age caught cold, by standing all day in her wet clothes, after walking through a pouring rain. Since that time she had never enjoyed a day's health, and latterly, the disease (which was scrofula,) had made such rapid strides, that she was now on her death-bed, though her mother with fond but vain hopes, had called me in at the eleventh hour, too late, alas ! to be of any service. The unfortunate girl suffered such extreme pain that the perspiration stood on her forehead ; and yet, while her feeble frame was racked with pain, a sweet smile played upon her lips, and it seemed to me that her mind at least was at rest.

After giving a few directions which I hoped would alleviate her sufferings, I left the cottage; at the door of which I found the deaf and dumb sister waiting for me, her hitherto emaciated countenance now lighted up with a bright look of intelligence. She offered me, with a low curtsey, a small bundle of violets, and some polyanthuses, doubtless the produce of her own little garden, and her inquiring eyes appeared to ask me whether I could cure poor Sally. My grave face and shake of the head seemed to give her the answer she required, for she immediately turned away, and burst into tears. I endeavoured to console her as well as I could, but she heeded me not. .. Weeks and months rolled on: no medicine had any effect on my poor patient, who grew daily worse ; her beautiful face was disfigured with eruptions, her bones protruded through the skin, and she could not move in her bed without assistance. Her end was evidently approaching. After six year's suffering like hers, who could wish to prolong her life?

One evening, I was passing near the cottage, and although I had seen her a day or two before, I determined to go in for a few moments. On approaching the door, I observed that the family were crying ; and fearful lest something should have happened for which I was un. prepared, I entered hastily, and found Sally exhausted, and bearing marks of an excitement too violent for her declining strength. Her tongue protruded from her mouth, and a film was over her eyes which too surely indicated that she had not much longer to live. The deaf and dumb sister was sitting in the chimney corner, where I had first seen her, sobbing aloud. "What is the matter ? 'I exclaimed, • what has occurred to make Sally so inuch worse?' Her mother vainly endeavoured to conceal her emotion, and wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, offered me a chair, and gave me the following explanation. My poor Sally, Sir, felt stronger this morning than she had done for some days, so she said to me, • Mother, I feel better to-day, but I know I have not long to live, and I should like my old companions to be sent for, that they may see what I am come to, who am no older than they are, and learn by seeing me, to think of God while they are still in health, and have the strength to serve him.' I could not gainsay the poor child, and so I let them come ; and Oh ! Sir, if you had but heard the way in wbich she talked to them ! but it has been too much for her, and I fear, Sir, she will not live out the night.' Here she again burst into tears, but checking herself, said, 'I ought to rejoice rather than grieve, for my poor child will change great earthly sorrow for eternal blessedness, and she has no wish to stay herself.

A lady who had been a frequent visitor at Dame Beale's cottage, and the teacher of the Sunday School class which Sally attended, afterwards stated to me the following touching particulars respecting the girl during her illness, and especially of a conversation which she held with her young companions and mother about an hour before I had made the call which I have related.

Turning to the awe-struck and agitated group around her, she said to one girl, · Mary, be dutiful to your parents, or you will be miserable when you come to die : and make your sister attend the Sunday. school-seek instruction- seek thatseek spiritual improvement 'tis that I want more and more myself—and yet God is giving me a fresh insight into his ways every day—I see Jesus.' She looked up and pressed her shrivelled hands upon her bosom, and said, “I'm so comfortable within, when the racking pains leave me for a while: I have no trials now; and I never was so happy since I took to my bed these thirteen weeks. Oh, God is very, very good to me!'

Seeing her mother in tears, she faintly said, -and all her sentences were slowly delivered, and in disjointed words, from the weakness of her lungs and general debility,-Mother, dear mother, I wish I could take you with me; but what a foolish thing this is to say, what would become of you—and youand you, turning to a brother and sister,

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