RELIGION is a subject with which every human being is connected, and in which he is deeply interested. While it regards in no small degree his temporal welfare, it has reference more immediately and specifically to that which is eternal. It is by religion he can look for pardon, peace, and happiness, obtained by a sacrifice which speaketh better things than that of Abel, even the sacrifice of Jesus Christ the righteous. It is from religion he is to obtain much to smooth his path through the wilderness of this world, by means of this, his desponding fears may be allayed; his spiritual desires enlivened; and his ransomed soul elevated to God.

It is obvious, however, on even a cursory review of the religious part of mankind, that two kinds of religion, distinguished by their difference of situation, have obtained among them. I shall, no doubt, be anticipated as referring to that which has its seat in the head only, and that which holds a place in the heart. These are of such a nature that they should be concomitant in their progress and operations; though nothing is more common than to see them disunited, and speculative religion, or that of the head, usurping the place of the experimental. The cause of this disseveration is, perhaps, not very deeply concealed. Men, in general, aware of the truth of religion, give it, as far as external circumstances are concerned, a favourable reception. They profess to obey its authority and dictates, to acknowledge its excellency and advantages, and to be under its influences and control. But they form to themselves mistaken notions on the subject of that branch which is pure and undefiled: they build on an unsafe foundation; they conceive that if they unite in acceding to the importance and authority of religion, and attend to some of its outward and (if such an expression be proper on such a subject) least momentous particulars, they have fulfilled its requisitions. They behold the object, but do not desire to possess it. They are in error as to the very essence of religion: they stumble at the very threshold; and, like Chorazin ard Bethsaida, will come into greater condemnation; since, sinking with the light of "the glorious gospel of the blessed God" shining resplendently around them, they refuse to be cheered by its vital and vivifying influences.

The difference then, which exists between speculative and experimental religion must certainly be great. While the speculatist and the formalist may go on day after day, to the appearance of their fellow-men, walking according to the truths of religion, they are destitute of that inward witness which attests that it is not a cunningly-devised fable, or a specious and fallacious imposition, which the wisdom of God has devised. The carnal nature exerts its powerful sway in their various actions; and though the first appearance may deceive, a closer attention will manifest that they still lack "the one thing needful." Even that man who may descant upon the blessings

and privileges of Christianity; who may illustrate it by his expositions; and who may wade very far into the labyrinths of speculative truth, may be as far from the kingdom of heaven as the east is from the west. The publicans and harlots, the vilest of the vile, transformed by renewing grace, will enter with joy and gladness into the mansions of eternal felicity, while the learned sinner, with an unsoftened heart, will lift up his fiery eyes in the lake that burns for ever and ever.

The experimentalist is in a certain and happy state; he has embraced the gospel with all his heart. His nature has been renewed: he has been born of water and of the Spirit: he is in possession of that faith which purifies the heart, and "justifies the ungodly." He can lay his hand upon his heart, and, with the most sincere and indubitable satisfaction, point to the witness which he there feels of the truth and blessedness of the gospel. He is convinced not only by reason, but also by experience, a guide which "opens wisdom's way;" and, in the prospect of his final dissolution, can triumphantly and delightfully exclaim: know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though, after my skin, worms destroy this body; yet in my flesh shall I see God; whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another." Thus his reason and his understanding cordially unite with his affections in the delightful work of his salvation.

" I

The system of the Christian religion was devised, and is adapted for other purposes than those of speculation. Its astonishing and invaluable privileges were intended really to be partaken of, as well as to be believed in; to be subject to practice and experience, as well as to theory. The Christian religion is designed to restore to man the long lost image of his Creator; to alleviate the toils and contingencies of life; to regulate his desires and actions; and to inspire him with the hope of a future and incorruptible inheritance in eternity. And does it not most unequivocally answer its design in the heart of the true Christian? Does it not display all its efficacy and beauty in such a character? The divine Spirit applies the doctrines of truth with power to his soul. If in prosperity, he is preserved from pride and forgetfulness; and his breast is expanded with heavenly benevolence: if in adversity, his reliance is on his Saviour, in the hopes and promises of the gospel; though storms may beat around him, he is securely fixed upon "the rock of ages;" and in the midst of appalling darkness, supernal light arises in his soul. "He is a happy example of light and love. He perceives the excellency and suitability of spiritual objects, possesses an ardent attachment to them, feels their divine energy upon his soul, and hence it is that his religion is of an experimental nature." Not so the man whom a speculative religion has unhappily possessed; all his hopes are uncertain and vain; all his reliances are falsely placed; he has no comforts springing from heartfelt experience; he grows cold to religion; neglects its requirements, and, feeling not its power, loses all its blessings.

It is experience which is the true test of the Christian, whereby he indeed finds the gospel to be "the power of God." The longer he lives, the more he becomes convinced of the corruption of his own heart, and of the vanity and instability of the world; while his desires after God, after holiness, after heaven, are continually increasing; and, because he seeks and prays aright for heavenly blessings, he fails not to obtain them. The man, on the contrary, who is not possessed of this experimental religion, encourages no such sentiments and desires; he seeks only the pomps and vanities of earth; and falls at last a victim to his triple enemy-the WORLD-the FLESHand the DEVIL! J. S. B. Oxford.

From the Baptist Magazine. WRITINGS OF DR. JOHN HOOPER, Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester; Martyr, 1555. pp. 410. Tract Depository. AMONG the resplendent light of the English Reformation, Hooper shone with distinguished lustre. His hatred of superstition, his love of truth-his fearless exposure of the one, and his determined efforts in promoting the other, subjected him to the persecuting wrath of Bonner, Gardiner, and Tonstall, and in the 60th year of his age invested him with the crown of martyrdom. The concise account of his useful life and suffering death, prefixed to this volume, will be especially acceptable to those who have not read Fox's Martyrology; displaying as it does the astonishing influence of Christian principles in sustaining the mind, in the prospect and endurance of unutterable anguish.

The contents of this volume, which appears to be the fourth in the series now publishing by the Tract Society, aided "by the liberality of a highly respected individual," are-A brief account of Dr. John Hooper-A declaration of Christ and his office, in thirteen chapters-An oversight and deliberation of Christ and his office, in thirteen chapters-An oversight and deliberation upon the holy prophet Jonah, in seven sermons, preceded by an epistle to king Edward the Sixth, and his privy council-Ã godly confession and protestation of the Christian faith, with a dedication-Bishop Hooper's articles and monitory letter to his clergy-A homily to be read in time of pestilence-Comfortable expositions upon the 23d, 62d, 73d, and 77th psalms-Extracts from a brief and clear confession of the Christian faith: and twentythree letters to various persons.

From the seventh letter we give the following extract:

"Dearly beloved, if we are contented to obey God's will, and for his commandment's sake to surrender our goods and ourselves to be at his pleasure, it makes no matter whether we keep our goods and life, or lose them. Nothing can hurt us that is taken from us for God's cause, nor can any thing, at length, do us good, that is preserved contrary to God's commandments. Let us wholly suffer God to use us and ours after his holy wisdom; and beware we neither use nor govern ourselves con

trary to his will by our own wisdom; for if we do, our wisdom will, at length, prove foolishness. That is kept to no good purpose, which we keep contrary to his commandments. It can by no means be taken from us, which he would should tarry with us. He is no good Christian that conducts himself. and his as worldly means serve; for he that doth so, shall have as many changes as happen in the world. To-day, with the world, he shall like and praise the truth of God; to-morrow, as the world will, so will he, like and praise the falsehood of man: to-day with Christ, and tomorrow with anti-Christ. Wherefore, dear brethren, as touching your behaviour towards God, use both your inward spirits and your outward bodies, your inward and your outward man, I say, not after the manner of men, but after the infallible word of God." p. 446.

We are most happy in having an opportuniedition of the British Reformers; and sincerety of recommending to all our readers, this ly hope that it will receive the ample encouragement to which it is so justly entitled.

From the Immanuel.

A FADING SCENE.
BY ROBERT MONTGOMERY.

A FADING scene, a fading scene,
Is this false world below;
And not a heart has ever been

That hath not proved it so!
The clouds are dying while we gaze
Upon them, young and warm;
And sweet flowers in the summer rays
But perish while they charm.
The trees that woo'd us as we pass'd
With many a leafy strain,
Perchance, bow wither'd by the blast
When visited again.

The music that the soul doth melt,
Like magic from the skies,
Though sweetly heard, and softly felt,
In swiftest echo flies.

Our pleasures are but fainting hues
Reflected o'er the waves,—
Our glories-they are phantom views
That lure us to our graves!

And Beauty,-see her 'mid the crowd,
A night-queen in her bloom;
To-morrow in her maiden shroud,
A martyr for the tomb!

And Love,-how frequent does it mourn
For some remember'd scene;
Or doom'd, in darkness reft or lorn,
To live on what hath been!
And friends,-alas! how few we find
That consecrate their name,
With glowing heart and gen'rous mind
To feed the hallow'd flame.

But should there be some blessed one,
However sad or lone,

Whom dearly we can look upon,

And feel that friend our own,

The blasting wings of Fate unfold,
They bear him far away;
Or else we mourn him dead and cold,
Companion of the clay!

Oh no! there's nothing on this earth
We fashion or we feel,
But death is mingled with its birth,
And sorrow with its weal.

Then, hail the hour of glorious doom!
That wings my soul away
To regions radiant with the bloom
Of everlasting day!

From the Immanuel.

THE SUMMONS.

BY MISS M. A. BROWNE,

HARK there's a summons-the bugle horn And the trumpet's note on the light wind borne

"Tis echoed back by a thousand hills,

Its voice is swept o'er the distant rills,
And shakes at that summons the river flood,
As though it felt 'twould be stain'd with blood;
For 'tis the signal to come from afar,
And join in the tumult and din of war.

Another summons-a lowly voice,
Yet it makes an innocent heart rejoice:
A red lip at that sound hath smiled-
'Tis a mother calling her only child,
Her child who was laughing the sunny hours
Away in the shadow of leaves and flowers;
And it tottereth away from its verdant screen,
To tell her all wonders its eyes have seen.

Another summons—a voice of love
As well as the last:-from a window above
That fragrant garden a bright eye beams,
Bright from the spirit's happy dreams;
There's a bridegroom calling his promised
bride,

She points to the West, where the stars still ride,

With a blush and a smile, and then to her dress,
That hath yet no gem save her loveliness.

A summons again—a voiceless one,
Yet by the mortal it calleth well known,
A written summons-written on all
The summer flowers before they fall,
Written on the fading brow and eye,
Dimm'd by the touch of mortality-
Fluttering the pulses-shortening the breath-
All feel that summons-the summons of Death.

Know ye another summons shall come-
Piercing the ear in the silent tomb,
Rolling through Heaven-sweeping o'er earth,
And bidding the dead and the living stand
forth?

Forget it not! ye shall hear its sound

When Death your limbs in his chains hath

bound;

And forget not when ye shall hear that call— By your deeds on earth ye shall stand or fall.

From the Spirit and Manners of the Age. A BALLAD.

BY MARY HOWITT.

DIVES put on his purple robes,
And linen white and fine,
With glittering jewels on his hands,
And sate him down to dine.

He sate in a crimson chair of state,
And cushions many a one

Were ranged around, and on the floor,
To set his feet upon.

There were twenty dishes of wild fowl,
And twenty of the tame,

And flesh of kine and curious meats,
Which on the table came;

And he ate from plates of ruddy gold,
With a fork of silver fine,

And drank the while, in a crystal cup,
The bright and foaming wine.
And, twenty men beside him stood,
As silent as might be,

To wait upon him whilst he dined,
Amid his luxury.

Now, Lazarus was a beggar poor,
A cripple, old and grey,
Too old to work, a childless man,
And he begged upon the way;
And, as he went along the road,
Great pain on him was laid,
So he sate him down upon a stone,
And unto God he prayed.
'Twas in the dismal winter time,
And on a stone he sate,

A weary, miserable man,—

And 'twas at Dives' gate.
And, many servants, out and in,
Did pass there to and fro,

And Lazarus prayed, for the love of God,
Some mercy they would show,
And that the small crumbs might be his
Which fell upon the floor;

Or he should die for lack of food,
Before the palace door.

Now, Dives on a silken couch

In sumptuous ease was laid,
And soft-toned lutes, and dulcimers,
A drowsy music made,

And be heard the voice of Lazarus,
Low-wailing where he lay,
And he said unto his serving-men,
"Yon beggar, drive away!"

"He's old," said one; another spake,

"He's lame and cannot go."

Said a third," He asketh for the crumbs, That lie the board below."

"It matters not," said Dives,

"My blood-hounds, gaunt and grim,
Go take them from their kennel warm,
And set the dogs on kim.
And hunt him from the gate away,

For while he thus doth moan,

I cannot get a wink of sleep ;"
And so the thing was done.
But when they saw the poor old man,
Who not a word did say,

The very dogs had pity on him,
And licked him as he lay.

And in the middle of the night,

Sore smitten with want and pain,
Lazarus lay down on the frosty ground,
But he ne'er arose again.

And Dives likewise laid him down,
On a bed of soft delight,
And silver lamps were burning dim
In his chamber all the night.
But a ghostly form stole softly in,
And the curtains drew aside,
And laid its hand upon his heart;-
And the rich man likewise died.
Then burning guilt, like heavy lead,
Upon his soul was laid,

And down and down, yet lower and lower,
To the lowest depths of shade,
Went the wicked soul of Dives,

Like a rock into the sea,

To the bottomless pit, where the evil ones
Wailed over their misery:

And he wildly opened his burning eyes
In a gulf of flaming leven,

And afar he saw, all green and cool,
The pleasant land of heaven,

And a broad clear river went winding there, 'Mong trees in leafy pride,

And there sate the beggar Lazarus,
And Abraham by his side.

"Oh father!" then cried Dives,

"Let Lazarus come along,

And dip his finger in yon wave,

To cool my burning tongue;
For I'm tormented in this flame
Which burneth evermore !"

Said Abraham, "Dives think upon
The days that now are o'er:

Thou hadst thy soft and pleasant things,
Thy water, food, and wine;

And decked thyself in costly robes,
Purple and linen fine;
Yet was thy heart an evil one,
Amid thy pomp and gold;
And Lazarus sate before thy gate
Despised, and poor, and old,
A beggar, vainly craving bread,
And whom thou didst revile,
Wretched and weak, yet praising God,
With a faithful heart the while.

And now, in the blooming land of heaven,
Great comfort doth he know;

But thou must be in torments dark.
In the burning seas below.
Besides all this, there is a gulf
That lieth us between,

A boundless gulf, o'er which the wing
Of the blessed ne'er hath been."

So Dives saw them pass away
From the broad, green river's shore,
And angels many, on snowy wings,
The beggar Lazarus bore.

From the New Baptist Miscellany.
STANZAS.

Written on a beautiful morning in Spring under circumstances of disappointment.

LIFE has its joys, but transient these;
In all their forms appear;
Inconstant as the passing breeze,
And frail as well as fair.

Hope o'er the path her freshest flowers, With rosy fingers spreads;

A man with his superior powers,

A willing captive leads.

While peace, on all the charms of spring Smiles by the side of time;

But smiling, plumes her downy wing,
To seek a fairer clime.

The happiest scenes some dark event
Obscures with passing gloom!
And often, as in mercy sent,
Reminds us of the tomb.

O happy they whose views and aims,
Each hour ascends on high;
Whose elevated hope proclaims,
Their treasure in the sky.

He is the wisest of the wise,
Who as a pilgrim here,

In that sweet light which truth supplies,
Pursues his calm career.

J. W. S.

From the Home Missionary Magazinė.

“ WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE

NIGHT?"

Isaiah xxi. 11.

WATCHMAN! tell us of the night,
What its signs of promise are:
Trav'ller! o'er yon mountain's height,
See that glory-beaming star!
Watchman! does its beauteous ray
Aught of hope or joy foretel?
Trav'ller! yes: it brings the day,-
Promis'd day of Israel!
Watchman! tell us of the night,
Hither yet that star ascends:
Trav❜ller blessedness and light,
Peace and truth, its course portends.
Watchman! will its beams alone.
Gild the spot that gave them birth?
Trav❜ller! ages are its own,

And it bursts o'er all the earth!
Watchman! tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn;
Trav❜ller! darkness takes its flight,
Doubt and terror are withdrawn.
Watchman! let thy wand'rings cease;
Hie thee to thy quiet home;
Trav'ller! lo! the Prince of Peace,
Lo! the Son of God is come!