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describes, Matt. xiii. 13, "Because they seeing see not; and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand."

In perfect harmony with this explanation we find the verb "to hear," ακουειν, used in the New Testament. Sometimes it is used to express the mere action of the sense of hearing in perceiving sound, as in John xii. 29, "The people who stood by, and heard, said it thundered; others said, An angel spake unto him;" though it is evident the words uttered were distinctly heard both by Christ and the evangelist John: and John having written, "they heard," might therefore, without any contradiction, give a second narrative of the same facts, and write, "they heard not the words which were spoken."

Sometimes the verb "to hear" is used to express the clear perception and mental admission of the words uttered, as in Matt. xviii. 15, " If he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother."

And in both meanings it is used in Matt. xiii. 13, "hearing they hear not." Thus the two passages, though variously expressed, instead of contradicting each other, beautifully harmonize with themselves and other parts of the word of God.

Many may have the privilege of attending on the sound of the gospel, and yet it may be said, they hear not; because they maintain indifference, and harden their hearts. The gospel is only a sound to them; but to the soul which receives it in the love of it is it a joyful sound. Its power is felt; its meaning is enjoyed as the word of Christ addressed to the soul.

THE CONTRAST.

"Look upon this picture-and on this!"

In the county of Norfolk there is a large old-fashioned family mansion, placed in the centre of a well-wooded park. A clear winding stream flows by it, whose banks are overhung by an avenue of ancient trees. In the front extends a noble lawn, flanked by groves of trees growing from a carpet of wild flowers, moss, and long grass. About half a century ago, this was the home of a large family of brothers and sisters, possessing a rare combination of rich mental endowments and personal attractions, and who with the buoyant spirits of youth were as eager in the pursuit of the pleasures that sur

rounded them as they were in the
acquirement of knowledge, and the
cultivation of their minds. They
were a choice band, and became in
after years the benefactors of their
country and race; and one of them,
Elizabeth, the heroine of this little
history, especially so. She was the
third sister, and the gayest of the
gay.
Tall, and with much per-
sonal beauty, she shone in many a
brilliant company; and her sweet
disposition, and graceful, winning
manners, made her the delight of
all. Now, she might be seen on
a spirited steed, gaily attired in a
scarlet riding-habit, enjoying the

morning breeze; and now, in the illuminated ballroom, glittering with jewels, her eye sparkling with triumph, for she is led by the hand of royalty itself, threading with light elastic step the mazy dance. And was she happy? She had all that earth could give, to make her so; youth, beauty, wealth, and, more than all, the love of a fond circle, Was she happy? Let us follow her to her silent chamber, and see her search into the depths of her heart, and record its feelings. She deplores her frivolity and vanity, and whilst she writes, "I feel I am a contemptible fine lady; I am now seventeen, and if some kind and great circumstance does not happen to me, I shall have my talents devoured by moth and rust-they will lose their brightness, lose their virtue, and one day they will prove a curse instead of a blessing." She is sad and unhappy, and she feels she was made for better things. Amiable and benevolent as she is by nature, there is a void in her heart, which none but God can fill. Yes, Elizabeth Gurney, thou wast indeed made for better things! and there is a spirit stirring within thee, and there is a voice in the land crying for thee, not from the palace or the ball-room, but from the prison and the dungeon.

Years have passed away, and the scene is changed, from the pleasant country house, with its fine old park, to the heart of London. Many of my readers have seen a huge, gloomy building, whose massive walls and barred windows proclaim it the abode of infamy and guilt. Let us enter there; and we shall see females, who

bear, alas, the marks of degradation, but who yet are neatly clad, listening with deep attention to the harmonious voice of one reading to them the words of life; and the subdued look, and the silent tear, betoken sorrow and penitence. Not very long since, this dwelling seemed more the abode of fiends than human beings. All was disorder, filth, and vice. No eye pitied them, till one, like an angel of mercy, seeing in these poor outcasts only fallen sisters, held out her hand to rescue them And can we, in that matronly figure, in the plain Quaker dress, recognise her of the scarlet riding habit, and the jewelled maiden? It is even so, There are the same benignant features; true, the hilarity of youth is gone, but the restlessness and disquiet are gone also, and have given place to a placid cheerfulness, which speaks of a heart at peace with itself and with its God; and perhaps not even the improved condition of those poor women she is addressing, presents a greater contrast to their former state than the former Elizabeth Gurney and the present Elizabeth Fry.

My young readers, I need not ask you which of my pictures you admire the most. Goodness is so lovely, that it is at once felt that neither youth nor beauty, nor indeed any earthly pomp, can compare with it.

But what effected this change? Many, as they looked upon Miss Gurney, and marked her unblemished character, her generous heart, ever alive to the feelings of others, and wishing to relieve distress, her intense affection, and desire to make all around her happy, would have scorned the idea that she needed conversion, and would have thought it most uncharitable to express a doubt as to her fitness for heaven. But she felt otherwise. There was no fixed principle, no pure motive, no true love to the Saviour; and she felt that without the aid of a higher power she was a prey to evil, and powerless for good. But her heavenly Father did not leave her to herself. By giving her to feel that the world could not make her happy, and that her own efforts were ineffectual to raise her even to her own standard of excellence, he prepared her heart for the reception of his truth; and if my readers would like to know how this change was brought about, I will, in another number of this magazine, give them a brief sketch of the life of this admirable woman; for it was a change so great, so decisive, as to alter the whole course of her life. Henceforth she had but one object, as she emphatically said to one of her children, during her last illness, "I can say one thing; since my heart was touched, at the age of seventeen, I believe I never have awakened from sleep, in sickness or health, by day or by night, without my first waking thought being, how best I might serve my Lord."

SHIPWRECKS.

M.

Nor many months ago, a newspaper correspondent, dating his communication from Shetland, after enumerating various disasters caused by the then late fearful storm, states that a dismasted vessel had been most distinctly seen by the inhabi

tants of the farthest north island, drifting quickly past them; that though at no great distance, they could not possibly render any assistance; and that, consequently, those on board, being rapidly driven into darkness, and falling short of provisions, must have all soon inevitably perished.

Amid many harassing details of shipwreck, the above case peculiarly affected us. Consider for a moment the circumstances and fate of those unfortunate voyagers. In all likelihood they had but recently left harbour, having gone on shipboard with firm foot and resolute air, high in expectation and in hope. They started with a fair wind and bright prospects. For the first day or two all is well. Progress is made. No care, no unpleasant thoughts of tomorrow trouble them. During the night, however, the wind begins to howl. It blows still fiercer. A storm arrives. Matters look serious. The stoutest heart fails. The mast is broken; and, with a tremendous crash, falls overboard. The helmsman has ceased to perform his duty. Where now is the brave and cheerful throng? All are as dead men. Not one can comfort or console his neighbour; each man's thoughts revert with awful force upon himself. Land is seen. It is near. They may be driven, and wrecked upon it. But no; onward, still onward. The people on shore show great willingness to aid, but human aid is vain. And now, the last faint glimpse of land dies away-is gone. Nothing is before them but a boundless, raging

G2

sea; dreary regions of night and darkness. A good many have already died, the remainder walk about more like spectres than living men. A day or two more, and none are seen; the last man has been washed away, and the once goodly vessel sinks for ever in the angry waves!

Can we not read a lesson here? -a lesson of thankfulness-that, while our fellow-men around us are thus continually exposed to imminent danger, and a bitter death, we are spared. We daily hold sweet intercourse with our friends. We meet in our schools. We are instructed in our classes. We sit down in our comfortable rooms, and by our cheerful firesides at home. Of warning-have we not all set out on a voyage that has oftener proved rough than otherwise? Are we not even now sailing it across life's tempestuous sea? If all be smooth and fair, how wise and prudent to prepare for storms! Oh, how right speedily and abruptly they may come, and we be drifted far past the point where mortal aid can be either extended or received! Again.

The inhabitants, the islanders referred to, beheld one ship disabled gliding swiftly by. We daily witness a sadder scene. We may at any time behold crowds of immortal souls hasting onwards to destruction; old, middle-aged, and young. They are "driven away in their wickedness," some engulfed in the whirlpool of scepticism and infidelity, without any anchor to their souls; some in the bewildering maze of fashion and frivolity; others in the midnight darkness and uncon

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BY REV. OCTAVIUS WINSLOW.

As an intellectual being, there are snares to which you are peculiarly exposed. Most young men pride themselves upon their intellectual character. They are solicitous of being thought reflective and intelligent. In a modified degree this is proper. An undervaluing of mind has often led to a total abandonment of its proper development and culture. A just and modest estimate of what man is as an intellectual being will go far to pave the way for high purposes and resolves. But yet there is danger, concealed and unsuspected danger, here. Intellect has its appetites, and they must be met. Mind has its cravings, and they must be supplied. The danger lies in substituting a light, frothy literaturethe popular reading of the day-for such intellectual food as can alone nourish the mind, enlarge its capacity for thought, enrich its stores of knowledge, and fit it for noble and great achievements. And what is that species of reading with which a young man is naturally the most fascinated? Is it not the literature of writers as Bulwer, and Dickens, and Sue? the literature of fiction

and romance? the flimsy novel, the mind, to stunt the power of the jejune story, the vapid poem? thought, to starve the cravings of And has not the appetite created by intellect, to vitiate the taste, to missuch writings in its turn created a guide the imagination, to give a demand for their increased publica- false view of life, throwing over all tion? Is there not a craving in the its sober realities an air of fiction mind of a certain class of readers and romance, of ideality and of unfor more excitement? for new ro- truth, the most injurious and fatal mances, for fresh novels, for works in its consequences? Verily it is less intellectual in character, and So. It is impossible to form a just less refined in taste? Would it not ❘ estimate of works of fiction, and not seem that the amiable and pious to condemn them in the severest Cowper had written his caustic lines terms, as baneful in their tendency, for the present dayand as disastrous in their effects.

"Habits of close attention, thinking Their intellectual tendency is bad, heads, Become more rare as dissipation spreads,

Till authors hear at length one general cry,

Tickle and entertain us, or we die!" Is it not a truly humiliating fact, that genius and intellect, quitting the lofty sphere of their operation, should thus stoop to gratify the cravings of bad taste, and pamper to the vain desires of depraved mind? Is it to such an end that the mental wealth of our nation is to be devoted? Let us inquire into the character of the popular literature of the day, of which, alas! the press is so fertile. Is it a literature calculated to inform the judgment, to furnish the mind, to strengthen the intellect? Is it a literature tending to cultivate the moral affections, to fill the heart with noble sentiments, to stimulate to generous actions, to virtuous resolves, and to prepare the mind to meet the stern duties, temptations, and trials of life, with cheerfulness, fortitude, and strength? Verily I believe not. Is it not rather a literature calculated to emasculate

their moral tendency infinitely more so. For the most part, they are constructed upon false principles of philosophy, morality, and religion. They are generally so framed as to mock at virtue, and to lend a charm to vice; to lessen the exceeding sinfulness of sin, and to stifle every aspiration after holiness. They degrade the character of God by falsifying it; they annihilate his law by lowering its standard; and they weaken the bond of moral obligation between man and man, by holding up to laughter and to scorn every noble virtue and every generous action. Let it be remembered that these works, for the most part, fall into the hands of those whose principles are yet unfixed, whose judgments are yet untutored, whose characters are yet unformed, whose minds are yet unfortified, and who are but just preparing to take their part in the great drama of life. They need a literature far different from this-works such as will fit them for the part that will be assigned to each. But at the very period that

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