we even now fear! What rest can it then give, or can it then have, when excluded from that rest" which yet romaineth to the people of God?"

You may, perhaps, little think that you are falling into the same hardness of heart with Israel of old in the wilderness. And perhaps Israel of old little thought that they were falling into the same obduracy with Pharaoh king of Egypt, who hardened his heart against the Lord. Yet they sinned even against greater mercies, longer notice, and deeper experience than ever Pharaoh had. And we may also, through the deceitfulness of sin, be hardened against the mercies of that dispensation of which Israel knew but the faint emblem and shadow; and, "if he that despised Moses' law died without mercy, ... of how much sorer punishment, suppose ye, shall he be thought worthy, who hath trodden under foot the Son of God?"

Next, redress the one great source of this hardness of heart, unbelief. "They could not enter in, because of unbelief:" "The word preached did not profit them, not being mixed with faith in them that heard it:" "Labour, lest any man fall after the same example of unbelief” (Heb. iii.,iv.). Belief in God must be a persevering, in order to be a true faith. For a time the Israelites "believed his works and sang his praise; but within awhile they forgat his works." "Forty years long was he grieved;" when surely forty years had been but a short time for that generation to have remembered mercies of the most enduring worth; which, when seen in all their extent, are " from everlasting to everlasting upon them that fear him." Believe unchangeably, my brethren, your own unchangeable God your Saviour" Jesus Christ, who is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." There is nothing that can alter his purposes: there is nothing one day more wonderful, than another day in his eternal counsels of grace. From all eternity he has planned your salvation. O strive that to all eternity you may show forth his praise.

In a word, unbelief lies at the bottom of all your failures and misdoings. You believe not that which is infallibly true, and eternally important. You feel not the majesty of that name which is great, wonderful, and holy; nor the extent of that grace which shone forth in the epiphany, in the doings and the dying of the Lord from heaven. You can believe and appreciate the suffering of a fellow man for great designs-of those devoted men who surrender life for their country or mankind in brave or charitable exploits: how is it you believe not the Saviour (often feebly imitated by them, or preached from their lips), who laid aside not human comforts only, but divine glory; who suffered far otherwise than

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as only a messenger sent from God to man, and who now ever liveth to make intercession for us?"

Finally: "To-day if ye will hear his voice, harden not your hearts." If at the end of your course perseverance be wanting, how much more must we press upon you resolution at its commencement! To some, indeed, I say "Persevere," but to many more I cry out "Begin." "To-day," after so long a time, as he saith, "To-day if ye will hear his voice," so would I now reiterate the same exhortation. Are there not many present in every congregation to whom the words may even now be applied? "Forty years long," yea, fifty, sixty, even seventy years have I been made to serve with your sins, and been wearied with your delays. Or, if younger, have not thirty, have not twenty years, or fewer still, have sufficed you, for God to have been grieved with you, to have striven, to have invited, pressed you; but are you still delaying the resolve to-day, and are yet crying out tomorrow?

Let

Well, then, after so long a time, God now says to you to-day-this day has he invited and admitted you to his tabernacle, his worship, his praise. You have said, "O come, let us worship and fall down, let us kneel before the Lord our maker.” not, then, another day find you the same heartless, worthless creatures as before. Let not another sabbath begin, as perhaps this has begun, with worldly thoughts and even practices; but let this sabbath itself close, and every other henceforth open, with prayer; and then shall each advance to praise, and close in gratitude and love, till that sabbath of eternal rest shall at length open upon you. Then shall the resolutions of this day, and the persevering praises of each returning day of holy rest, be remembered with a gratitude beyond all bounds; and the fulness of your joy shall harmonize with the shouts of other glorified spirits and the multitude of the heavenly host, in those never-ending hallelujahs which truly rest not day and night around the throne of God and the Lamb.

SABBATH MEDITATIONS.

No. XXXVII.

MARCH 9.-FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

Morning Lessons: Exod. iii.; Luke xx.
Evening Lessons: Exod. v.; 1 Thess. i.

MORNING.

"And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my

people, which are in Egypt.-Exod, iii. 7.

Meditation." If we will needs follow our own lusts, our heavenly Father hedgeth our way with thorns, nurturing and humbling us through trouble, that we, being tried and purified as gold in the fire, may cry and call unto him, and that we may give over earthly things, seeing that we find no quietness in them. He

power. In all her great upward movements in the scale of national aggrandizement, her steps have been urged on by wealth. There is, therefore, a sort of grandeur about wealth in this country, which it has in the same degree in no other. The possession of vast wealth, in this country, invests a man with a weight and influence which are surprising. It not alone opens to him all the ordinary means of enjoyment, by putting all the productions of nature and art at his command, but it gives him a moral weight and influence which is almost unlimited. In short, it gives a man the weight and influence of a prince or potentate. We believe it is scarcely exaggeration to say, that there have been instances, in this city, of individuals who have, through their boundless wealth, influenced the destinies of nations and controlled the great political movements of the world. Such a thing has been known, as a man*, of humble and unpretending exterior on our public mart, having had it in his power either to set in motion or to stop the mightiest plans and projects of kings and generals, to suspend or to carry on wars between nations and empires. Hence the power of wealth is more strikingly seen and exemplified here, than perhaps in any other country. Indeed, it is enough even to mention the name of "rich man," to be satisfied of this, and the weight which it carries with it. What power and influence are associated with that name! What homage and deference are paid to it! (A reproach that it should be so, if there be nothing but possession of wealth to claim it.) How is the friendship and alliance and patronage of the rich man courted! How does wealth invest him with a hundred virtues which he possesses not! and, alas, what is worse, how does it palliate the vices with which he is stained, or almost turn them into virtues! It gives a man every thing (so to speak) which the world can give. It is the key to open all the means of earthly enjoyment. It gives all the world can give: that is, it gives all but happiness and contentment. It cannot bestow these, even for this short and uncertain life; and, as to happiness for another life, it does not even pretend to give it. When the idol, therefore, is so gorgeous, it might, as a matter of course, be expected that the homage of its worshippers would be proportionally fervent and profound; and, accordingly, in this country, and more especially in this great city, does the passion for wealth most conspicuously, as well as fatally, exhibit itself. Let a man, then, once become a worshipper at that shrine-the shrine of Mammon-let him become the passionate votary of wealth (for such is the character we must suppose in order to elucidate our subject), and ah, does it need any laboured comment to point out what an awful snare that wealth may become to the soul? For where is the passion likely to become so engrossing as in that place where there is so much to enkindle rivalry; and where, let a man accumulate whatever sums he may, he still finds a fortune towering above his own, as Alp rises above Alp? When once avarice takes possession of the soul, all a man's acquisitions become like fresh fuel to nourish the flame which already burns so intensely. His riches are like links, which bind the heart more strongly and more closely to

E. g. Rothschild. Is not this statement a little exaggerated? -ED.

earthly vanities. They involve him in an endless maze of schemes and projects of earthly aggrandizement. And, whilst the mind is occupied with these most engrossing of all objects, how little room can remain for attending to those sober and serious lessons which we would instil. There are none of those aids to reflection, none of those cold blasts of adversity, which are so needful to make one turn one's thoughts to higher and purer and happier scenes of existence: none of those disappointments which are necessary to make one sigh for a better "portion" than any in this life, and to open one's eyes, and "make him see and know himself." His life, amidst this unbroken flow of prosperity (supposing the individual not under the influence of religion), is likely to prove a golden but fatal dream of carnal security and self-deception. His wealth supplies all his earthly wants. His wealth keeps from his eyes all objects which may occasion him distress. His wealth keeps from his ears, too often, faithful reprovers: his wealth gathers around him flatterers: it keeps him from hearing the truth. His wealth gratifies those propensities, which so need to be kept down in us all. And how few are the opportunities afforded us of speaking plainly to the man on whom fortune smiles, on whose plan success ever attends, who is surrounded by "troops of friends!" It is afflictions, losses, trials, most commonly, which bring men to them whose commission is, "Comfort ye, comfort ye my people." Under those, men have an ear, and they listen to us; but, in a world like this, with so many snares and fascinations and allurements, all of which are spread for the rich man, it is but seldom an opportunity is allowed us of admonishing and warning; and, alas! even when it does occur, it is not always used*. Hence his position is so dangerous. Every thing in it, we may say, conspires to lull him into dreams of carnal security and self-indulgence. But, besides this, there is a kind of fascination-I had almost said bewitchment-about gold. The spell it exerts on the mind is a mysterious, unaccountable thing (we speak now of the passion of avarice-loving money for its own sake). This spell has been observed in all ages. When we come to think what is the object of this passionate attachment, viz., a little shining dust, it seems an extraordinary and mysterious thing how it should be so loved on its own account. But so it is. We know the affections of the human heart can gather around and centre in that "thick clay;" and that to such a degree as to exclude every other object. We know that, under its accursed spell, all the tender sympathies of nature may wither and die. We know that, for the sake of it, the dearest ties are often rent asunder; all that is due to the nearest and tenderest relations, to father and to mother, is forgotten. Alas, for the sake of gold what crimes have not been committed! what deeds-at which the heart grows sick-of cruelty and oppression, of wrong and robbery, of fraud and injustice, while widows' tears and orphans' cries appealed in vain to the iron soul of avarice!

When a passion for wealth masters the soul, it turns man into a demon. The love of it has

Who has the courage now, either from the pulpit or in private, to speak plainly and faithfully and pointedly to the "rich man," as our Lord did to the "rich man," and to warn him, "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God?"

been, as history and the records of human crime show, at the bottom of the most atrocious crimes ever committed. There is, therefore, a sort of dreadful spell about the thing. "O, accursed thirst of gold," exclaims the great epic poet of antiquity; "what wickedness has not man perpetrated for thee!" And, when the love of it seizes the soul, it breaks up, it destroys the whole moral system. It hardens the heart: it steels the bosom against every tender sympathy: it turns men to stone: the passion becomes all-engrossing. It may be mentioned, as a singular fact, and it is the remark of ancient as well as of modern times, that the love of money grows with the increase of wealth, i. e., the more you have of it, the more tenaciously you grasp it. And instances are on record, where men, who were comparatively generous and liberal when not worth a hundred pounds on earth, after they became possessed of enormous wealth, of tens of thousands, valued a guinea as if it were coined from their heart's blood, and grasped, with a death-gripe, their gold. Now this, we say, cannot be a natural state of feeling. There must be something wrong; there must be some mysterious spell at work, where it exists. And, knowing what the scripture has said of gold, can we disbelieve that that spell is from the author of evil, and that he is exerting a direct influence on such a mind? O, yes; to some influence of the kind, some evil, some satanic influence, we must attribute the effect. The truth is, we always see that a perversion of God's gifts is judicially punished in some dreadful manner. When God bestows wealth on a man (for it is his gift-"the Lord he giveth power to get wealth"), he does not mean that wealth to be a curse or a snare to him; for it may be a blessing, and will be a blessing if used aright. He bestows it on him that it may be a blessing to others and to himself; and, if used for the end for which it is given, it will be a blessing to the giver as well as to the receiver. But man would cross the purpose of heaven, and defeat the end for which wealth is given. What is meant to be a general good, he would hoard and keep to himself. And what is the consequence? That which would, if rightly used, be a blessing both to himself and to others, is not allowed to be a blessing to him, who thus frustrates the divine intention, but, on the contrary, is turned into a curse. The avaricious man would keep all to himself. He does so. But God turns it into a curse in his hands. It is like the manna which bred worms. He keeps it, but God does not permit him to enjoy it. It gives him no real or solid happiness: he only hoards it up; and it becomes, in righteous retribution, the rock on which his everlasting hopes split.

Panellings and "pickings-out" of rainbow hues were set off by pillars of imitative and varnished marble, the like of which no quarry ever knew; and these again, touched up with bronze-paint and gilding, gleamed in the sun with almost dazzling lustre. A good verandah led by French windows to the two front rooms, into which I walked, without seeing any inhabitants or attendants. A few gaudily-painted chairs, a small bad mirror in a large gilt frame thickly shrouded in yellow gauze, and a new cedar table covered with tobacco-ashes and liquor-stains, composed the furniture of either apartment. After a long and ineffectual sonata on the hand-bell (no other de scription being seen, save in a very few of the very best colonial houses), just as I began to despair of its power, a young girl shuffled along the hall from the back settlements, and, holding fast by the door-handle-for she was almost too much intoxicated to stand-took my orders for luncheon; and, after many vain attempts, at length succeeded in wiping the table with a ragged, very dirty apron. Her dull, light-coloured hair hung in matted tangles about her neck and ears, her dress was disordered, torn, and dirty, and her face bloated and stupid from the effects of drink: never did drunkenness wear a more revolting aspect; and I felt relieved when the wretched creature left the room. My companions had a similar tale to tell of the male portion of the establishment: every soul was drunk; and it was some time before they could arouse any one to attend to the horses. The same unfortunate girl I had before seen laid our cloth, and brought what we wanted, or rather what we could get for I imagine the copious libations indulged in by the whole household had made them regardless of eating, and the larder was, accordingly, very ill supplied. Bread and a few eggs (positively without ham!), which our ministering Bacchante rolled on the floor as she staggered in with them, formed our repast; but she took pains to impress upon us the pleasing assurance that there was "plenty o' ale an' sperrits."

We strolled down to the bank of the little rivulet, where I found many beautiful flowering shrubs; and the verdure of the adjacent little flats showed how excellent a garden might be made there, but, I fear, never will: idleness and drinking are such besetting sins, and money to provide them both so easily earned by "keeping a public" in this colony, that nothing demanding bodily exertion is attempted. Meat can run about and feed itself on the wild hills, and flour they can buy: fruit and vegetables they don't heed,' as they would demand some little labour to pro

duce.

As we returned towards the house I looked at it again, as it stood in raw, shiny, comfortless newness, like a great toy freshly unpacked. Behind it lay a crowd of dirty, old, ruinous hovels, that formerly served in its stead, and still were used as outhouses, stables, &c., all broken, and half unthatched. All the fences within sight exhibited the same dilapidated aspect, whilst ashheaps and other less sightly things lay all around. How different would be the state of almost everything in this colony, were that greatest curse man ever created out of God's good gifts, intoxicating liquor, less easily obtained by those who ought to be the industrious and prosperous, but, alas! too

generally are the idle and worthless, part of the community! Time, money, character, decency, feeling, principle, ambition, and honesty-all are sacrificed to the demoralizing passion for rum, when once it gains the ascendancy; and, to know how often that is, we need only observe and listen to the sad evidence so continually passing around us, I perhaps praise the tidy appearance and good cookery of a friend's servant: "Ah, yes, she is an excellent cook; but we can so seldom keep her sober." The coachman of another seems quite a model for his class, till you hear he is so confirmed a drunkard that his mistress dares not trust him to drive her home alone from a party. Another family have an honest old "majordomo," faithful and good in every other point; may be trusted with untold gold," but not with a bottle of rum. It is a universal failing; and a really sober servant or mechanic may, consequently, be held as a pearl of great price. Age and sex make no difference: your dainty lady'smaid or pretty young nurse-girl is just as likely to be over-liberal in her libations to Bacchus as your groom or shoeblack; and no threats, no bribes, no punishments, avail to keep the besotted creatures from the dram-bottle, if it be by any means or in any shape accessible. I have known a female servant drink camphorated spirits of wine, and suspect the same individual of consuming a pint of hartshorn which mysteriously disappeared about the same time from my room, its evident strength being, no doubt, too tempting. Eau de Cologne and lavender-water, I know, they drink whenever they are left about, or anything else believed to contain spirit. The universality of this vice is most dreadful to contemplate, and far worse to witness and endure. Almost the only exceptions among the lower classes are the families of English emigrants, who, accustomed to poor living and hard work at home, continue sober and industrious, thankful for the many hitherto unknown comforts and luxuries they can enjoy, and carefully and fearfully abstaining from all excess. Of this class I have known excellent examples, both old and young, male and female; and can only hope that in time their better and wiser course may be appreciated and emulated by other portions of this now numerous population.

The prevailing vice of drunkenness, among the lower orders, is perhaps more resolutely practised at this season than any other, I have heard of a Christmas-day party being assembled, and awaiting the announcement of dinner as long as patience would endure; then ringing the bell, but without reply; and, on the hostess proceeding to the kitchen, finding every servant either gone out or rendered incapable of moving, the intended feast being, meanwhile, burned to ashes. Nor is this by any means a thing of rare occurrence, as the crowded police-office can bear ample testimony.

Poetry.

HYMN.

(For the Church of England Magazine.)

"Thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, shall inherit the kingdom of God."

THERE is a land on high

Of joy untold, unknown,
Where saints behold the face of him
That sits upon the throne.
There spotless spirits dwell,
The followers of the Lamb,
They who have not defiled their robes
With deeds of sin and shame.
No drunkard entereth there,
Nor, in that bright abode,
Drinks of the river that makes glad
The city of our God.

O, no; but he must dwell

Where the worm never dies, Where not one cooling drop shall soothe His burning agonies.

Great God, to every soul
Impart thy mighty grace;
That we may ever hunger more,
And thirst, for righteousness.

So, when we reach our home,
Our holy home above,

For ever we shall drink of thee,
The Fount of life and love.

HENRY DOWNTON.

REFLECTIONS FOR A CHILD,
ON GEN. III. 8-24.

UNHAPPY pair! does each one fear
Jehovah's voice and presence near?
His footsteps do they terror bring,
And make them feel sin's bitter sting?
No stormy blast or earthquake wild
Plac'd God before their troubled mind:
He walked; and from his presence they
Fled his offended majesty.

He walked; nor then in scorching beams,
To paralize their trembling limbs,
With measur'd steps came nature's God,
While mercy held the chast'ning rod.
At cool of day, when sweet repose
O'ershadow'd the luxuriant groves,
Sovereign pity give a place

To screen them from his angry face.
Wrath moved slow and calm along
The path Omnipotence trod on:
Himself the harbinger of grace,
When justice to his love gave place.
Th' affrighted pair, in agony,
Hid from his awful majesty:

His voice reach'd to each trembling one,

And pierc'd alike each guilty soul,

"Where art thou, Adam ?" struck his ear
In solemn accents, mild and clear:
Jehovah's words wrung thro' his heart
In agitating visions dark.