Their rooms are very large at the bottom on the ground, but very small at the top. Other men are built substantially alike from bottom to top, like a tower that is just as broad at its summit as at its foundation. But there is, in general, a great part of the structure of every man that is not used, and remains locked up. And they are, usually, the best apartments that are so neglected. Those that have a glorious outlook, that stand up to sun and air, from whose windows one may look clean across Jordan, and see the fields and hills of the Promised Land,—these men seldom go into. They choose rather to live in that part of the soulhouse that looks into the back-yard, where nothing but rubbish is gathered and kept. Many men live in one or two rooms, out of thirty or forty in the soul, all their lives. If you should take a candle,—that is, God's Word, which is a lighted candle, and go into these soul-houses, and explore them, you would find them, generally, very dark. The halls and passage-ways, the stairs of ascent, the vast and noble ranges of apartments,-all are stumbling dark. There, for example, is the apartment, or faculty, called Benevolence. You can tell by the way the door grates, that it is seldom opened. But if you were to thrust in a light, you would see that the room is a most stately place. The ceilings are frescoed with angels. The sides and panels are filled with most exquisite adornments. The whole saloon is most inviting to every sense. Seats there are, delightful to press; and the nitches are filled with things enticing to the eye. But spiders cover over with their webs the angels of the ceiling. Dust blackens the ornaments. The hall is silent, the chambers are neglected. No man in this house lives there! It is an apartment Turn to another room: it is called Conscience. wonderfully constructed. It seems to be central. It is connected with every other apartment in the dwelling. On examination, however, it will be found that, for the most part, the doors are all locked. The room is thick with dust. The dust is its carpet. The room is very dark. The windows are glazed over with webbed dirt. The light is shut out, and the whole apartment is dismal. The man who owns the house does not frequent this room! There is another chamber called Hope-if haply you can see the inscription over the door. It has two sides to it, and two windows. From one of these you may see the stars, the heaven beyond, the holy city, the angels of God, the general assembly and church of the First-born, and most wonderful things beside. This is shut. The other window looks out into the world's highway, and sees men, caravans, artificers, miners, artisans, engineers, builders, bankers, brokers, pleasure-mongers. That window stands wide open, and is much used. The room called Faith is shut, and the lock rusted. The chamber named Worship is silent, unused, unvisited, and is dark and cheerless. Indeed, in those upper and nobler apartments, on which the sun rests all the day long, from which all sweet and pleasant prospects rise, to which are wafted the sweetest sounds that ever charm the ear, and the sweetest odours that ever fall from celestial gardens, around about which angels are hovering,-these are, in most soul-houses, all shut and desolate ! But if you go into the lower ranges, you shall find occupancy there, yet with various degrees of inconvenience and misery. If you listen, you shall hear in some rioting and wassail. The passions never hold lent; they always celebrate carnival! In others, you shall hear sighs and murmurs. The dwellers therein are disappointed, restless desires, crippled and suffering wishes, bedridden ambitions! In others, you shall hear weepings and repinings; in others, storms and scolding; in others, sleep and stupidity; in others, toil and trouble; in others, weariness and disgust of life. You would be apt, from these sights and sounds, to think that you were in an ill-kept hospital. The wards hold ɛad cases. And here and there, if you enter unadvisedly, you shall find awful filth. You shall even come upon stark corpses,-for there is not a soul that does not num. ber, among its many chambers, at least one for a charnel-house, in which Darkness and Death abide! It is a dreadful thing for a man to be enlightened so as to see his feelings, passions, sins, crimes, thoughts and desires, motives and imaginations, as God sees them! It is a dreadful thing to go about from room to room, and see what a place the soul is! How unlighted and gloomy! How waste and unused! How shut and locked! And where it is open and used, how desecrated and filthy! Now, it is to the door of such a house-to the human soul with such passages and chambers-that Christ comes! To such a dwelling, he comes and knocks for entrance! We can imagine the steps of a good man, coming to houses that are nothing but habitations of wretchedness, to places of misery and infamy, to jails and houses of correction. But none of these can convey a lively impression of the grace and condescension of God, in coming to the doors of the soul-houses of men, and knocking to be admitted into their darkness, squalidness, and misery! For it is not because they are beautiful, that God comes, or because He is mistaken about their condition, and thinks them better than they are. It is because He knows the darkness and the emptiness of some; the abuses and misery in others; the rioting and desecration in others. And to all He comes to bring light for darkness, cleansing for foulness, furniture for emptiness, and order for confusion! He comes to turn the rusted locks, and to open the closed doors of every chamber,-to let men up into every part of themselves, and to fill the whole dwelling of the soul, from foundation to dome, with light and gladness, with music and singing, with joy and rejoicing! "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." Christ comes to the soulhouse, and stands there and knocks. On getting no answer, he goes away only to come and knock again. He waits at the door, and listens for a voice within, and goes away. He comes again, and waits, and goes away! He knocks, not at one door, but goes round to every door, and waits for an answer. As one who returns to his dwelling in the night, after a journey, and finding it locked, knocks at the accustomed door of entrance in the front, and getting no answer, then goes to the door in the rear, then to the side-door, if there be one, and then to every other door, in order, if possible, to get into his house,-so Christ, who longs to enter into the soul, goes to every door in succession, and knocks and listens for an invitation to come in, and leaves not one chamber in the soul-house unsought, or one door untried! He knocks at the door of Reason; at the door of Fear; at the door of Hope; at the door of Imagination and Taste, of Benevolence and Love, of Conscience, of Memory and Gratitude! He does not neglect a single one. Beginning at the upper and the noblest, where He ought to come in as a King of Glory, through gates of triumph, He comes round and down to the last and lowest, and retreats wistfully and reluctantly, returning often-morning, noon, and night-continually seeking entrance with marvellous patience, accepting no refusal, and repulsed by no indifference to his presence, or no neglect of his message! If He be admitted, joy unspeakable is in the house, and shall be henceforth. The dreary dwelling is filled with light from the brightness of his countenance, and every chamber is perfumed from the fragrance of his garments. Peace and hope, love and joy, abide together in the house,for Christ himself takes up his abode therein. But if, after his long knocking at the door, and patient waiting for entrance, his solici tation be refused or neglected, by and bye there shall come a time when you, who have denied him, shall be denied of him. For when you shall knock at the gate of heaven for admittance into the mansions which he has prepared from the foundation of the world, he will say unto you, as you said unto him, Depart! But that dreadful day has not yet come, and he still stands at the door-his locks wet with the dews of the morning-and waits to be invited into the chamber of your soul. Hear his voice once more, and yield to its gentle persuasion, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me!" THE ONE FAMILY. How sweet to think that all who love Who look by faith to Him above, Though severed wide by land or sea, Are members of one family! Christians who dwell on snow-clad ground, And those whose happy home is found In our fair peaceful land, Are linked by more than earthly tie, And form one lovely family. Our Father, is the hallowed sound, Trained by His love, their steps are found Their joys are one, alike their fears, The same bright hope their exile cheers. Yes, they are one,-though some, we know, But those who yet remain below In that bright world are mansions fair, THE TIMES OF REFRESHING. Oh, what a bright and blessed world When from its throne the tempter hurl'd But brighter far that world above, Where we, as we are known, shall know, Oh, blessed Lord, with weeping eyes, Come, Saviour, then o'er all below, Tales and Sketches. THE WANDERER BROUGHT HOME. It was a beautiful evening near the close of the last summer; the sky was bright and perfectly clear, if we except a few white and crimsoned clouds that lay cradled near the setting sun. It was delightful on that evening to go forth amidst all that was rich and lovely in nature, and enjoy the glorious works of Jehovah yet bathed in golden light. A child of God, well known and much beloved by the writer, on account of his fervent love to the precious Saviour,-humble, and so retiring in disposition, that he cannot often address a stranger without a considerable degree of diffidence,-on that beautiful evening had left the factory where he is employed as foreman, to enjoy, after the toil of the day, a walk into the country, and refresh his soul in silent communion with Jesus. He was just reaching the beautiful fields, when he felt a power which he could not understand, persuading him to turn back and walk through the town. At first he resisted the impulse, having a strong disinclination to walk through busy streets on that evening, yet drawn by this mysterious power he felt compelled to obey, he turned back and sought the town. Passing down one of the centre streets a man respectable in appearance,and accomplished in manners, but entirely unknown to him, accosted him in a most respectful way. That man was Mr. W Hitherto he had been of haughty spirit, and much too proud to address any one kindly whose worldly circumstances and station were below his own. Moreover, he had led an openly wicked life, and the counsels, warnings, affectionate entreaties, and fervent prayers of his relatives, some of whom are eminently pious, all seemed lost upon him,he persisted in treading the downward road. On the evening of which we write, his manner towards the man whom he accosted was very earnest and kind,evidently conscience was working, and mournful thoughts troubled him,-it was God solemnly speaking to his heart though he knew it not, for his mind was dark as to spiritual truth. The two immediately entered into spiritual conversation, which we will give, as nearly as can be remembered, in the words of the now only surviving one of these two persons. "Mr. W - abruptly enquired, 'Do you believe there is a God?' I answered, 'Yes, I do.' 'Do you believe him to be a good being, as they say he is ?' 'Yes, most aɛsuredly I do.' He then said, 'He has created a race of beings, and placed them on this earth for a term, say of seventy years, and at the end of that period, he will punish them eternally for a few crimes; how can you reconcile that with his goodness?' I answered, 'I can reconcile that most easily. I see it quite clearly.' He then took my arm, and said, 'Do walk with me a little.' I did so, and answered his question in this way. 'The Almighty made us at first intelligent and holy creatures, and gave us a will capable of choosing good and refusing evil; but when he saw that we chose the evil and refused the good,-knowing the state into which we were fallen, and the eternal miseries to which we were exposed,-he, out of his superabounding mercy and grace, sent his dearly beloved Son into the world to suffer and die in our stead, and to make an atonement for human guilt: if we reject that Saviour, and turn away from the offers of his grace and mercy, he will justly punish us eternally.' He then seemed deeply affected, and said with great seriousness, 'What a providence it is that we should have met this evening. I feel that God has sent you to me.' I then explained to him the way of salvation, as well as I was able, through faith in the atoning blood of Christ, and exhorted him very earnestly to seek the Lord, assuring him of the power of Jesus to save, and his willingness to save, even him. He seemed deeply moved, and begged that I would see him on the morrow. I replied, I could not, as the morrow would be fully engaged, but promised to see him on Monday evening. "On Monday evening I called upon Mr. W-. When I entered his parlour I found him quite alone, with a number of religious books and papers around him on the table, he seemed delighted with my visit, and was most anxious for spiritual instruction. After conversation of some length, he gave me, with deep and painful emotion, some account of his past history, and I gave him a little of mine. The con versation then turned upon the holiness of heaven. I told him if there was one thing more than another which endeared heaven to the christian it was because it is a holy place, he would be free from sin; it waɛ the greatest desire of a christian on earth to be holy like his Lord. I said that I had some beautiful lines at home speaking of heaven and its holiness. I repeated some of the lines, which are as follow: "There's calm in heaven, and perfect rest, And undisturbed repose; Sweet prospect to an aching breast He much admired the lines, and I promised to send them the next morning. "The evening was now advanced, and I rose to leave, but said I should like us to kneel down together, and so we did. Sweet liberty was given me in commending him to God, and never shall I forget, when we rose from our knees, how earnestly he clasped my hands in both of his, and said, 'Come to see me often; do not leave me now.' I promised that I would come often, and then we parted. The "I could not forget Mr. W. thought of his state broke my rest, and in the morning I rose early, and wrote to him a solemn and affectionate letter, especially directing his attention to portions of Scripture which I thought suitable to his case, and enclosing the poetry I had promised. "On Thursday evening I went from my knees out of my chamber to see Mr. W and to resume, as I expected, our spiritual conversation. When I approached his house, the darkened dwelling told of death, and you may judge in part of my overwhelming feeling when I was told that he in whom I had felt so deep an interest was dead. He had died suddenly, and most unexpectedly. The Lord had taken him away at a stroke. Eagerly did I enquire, How did he die? Was there hope in his death?' The answer was, We have great · hope.' The day before he died he went to the house of a near relative, an eminently pious lady, and he said that he was feeling as he never had felt before. He had met with a man whom God he was sure had sent to him; he had received from this friend a solemn and affectionate letter, which had convinced him of his state as a guilty and lost sinner, and led him earnestly to seek salvation through the atonement of Jesus; he said that the solemn, fervent, affectionate prayer this friend had offered for him on the Monday evening, he never could forget as long as he lived; he hoped his sins were forgiven, and his soul snatched from hell. During the night which preceded his death, his Bible and that letter lay open before him; both were read with tears of delight, and in sweet assurance of pardon he died." And is there not all reason to hope that He who saved the dying thief plucked also this brand out of the fire? Can we fail to see the Divine hand in causing him whom God employed as the instrument in bringing to Himself this wanderer,-drawn by a mysterious power which he could not understand,-to turn back on that beautiful evening, and walk where he felt a disinclination to go, that he might pass the very house where the Lord would use him? And can we fail to mark the power of the Holy Spirit in causing the wanderer, who had broken through every barrier thrown around him by pious friends, and to whom arguments, motives, entreaties, had been equally vain? He could listen to them all with an eye tearless, and a heart unmoved. Why did he this night address an entire stranger? Why was his usual haughtiness laid aside, and his heart opened to receive the instruction he had despised? Why now recollect all his past course, and, as the mournful recollections throng on his mind, feel that he is lost, and seek salvation through the atonement of Christ? Why was he drawn so powerfully to a christian man whom he had never before known? and why is that christian led so intently to yearn for his salvation? In these things can we fail to see the power of the Holy Spirit ? And should not this monument to the praise and glory of Divine grace encourage us to seek and to hope for the salvation of the greatest sinners? Why are such from time to time called, created anew in Christ Jesus, and translated to endless glory ? It |