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table with four gilt Books of Beauty on it, a mantelclock from Paris, and two bronze vases,-all these tell you only in frigid tones, 'This is the best room,' -only that, and nothing more, and soon she trips in in her best clothes, and apologizes for keeping you waiting, asks how your mother is, and you remark that it is a pleasant day, and thus the acquaintance progresses from year to year. One hour in the little back room, where the plants and canary-bird and children are, might have made you fast friends for life; but as it is, you care no more for them than for the gilt clock on the mantel."

Here Marianne shivered and drew up a shawl, and Jenny gaped; my wife folded up the garment in which she had set the last stitch, and the clock struck twelve.

Bob gave a low whistle.

late?"

"Who knew it was so

"We have talked the fire fairly out,” said Jenny.

WE ARE SEVEN.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

I MET a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd round her head.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be ?"

"How

many ? seven in all," she said, And, wondering, look'd at me.

"And where are they, I pray you tell?"
She answer'd, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother ;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.'

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet you are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then you are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more, from my

And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit;
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there,

mother's door,

The first that died was little Jane,
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her from her pain,
And then she went away.

So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

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"But they are dead-those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

INEFFICIENCY OF HUMAN WORKS.

REV. HENRY MELVILL.

SOME persons think that if they repent of their sins, they shall be pardoned. In other words, they suppose that there is a virtue in repentance which causes it to procure forgiveness. Thus, repentance is exhibited as meritorious; and how shall we simply prove that it is not meritorious? Why, allowing that man can repent of himself, which he cannot, what is the repentance

on which he presumes? What is there in it of his own? The tears? they are but the dew of an eye, which is God's. The resolutions? they are but the workings of faculties, which are God's. The amendment? it is but the better employment of a life, which is God's. Where, then, is the merit? Oh, find something which is at the same time human and excellent in the offering, and you may speak of desert; but until then, away with the notion of there being merit in repentance !-seeing that the penitent man must say, "All things come of Thee, and of thine own, O God, do I give thee."

Again, some men will speak of being justified by faith, till they come to ascribe merit to faith. By faith, is interpreted as though it meant on account of faith; and thus the great truth is lost sight of, that we are justified freely "through the redemption that is in Christ." But how can faith be a meritorious act? What is faith, but such an assent of the understanding to God's word, as binds the heart to God's service? And whose is the understanding, if it be not God's? Whose is the heart, if it be not God's? And if faith be nothing but the rendering to God that intellect and that energy which we have received from God, ⚫ how can faith deserve of God? Oh, as with repentance, so with faith away with the notion of merit! He who believes, so that he can dare the grave and grasp eternity, must pour forth the confession, "All things come of Thee, and of thine own, O God, do I give thee."

And once more: what merit can there be in works? you give much alms, whose is the money? "The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts." If you mortify the body, whose are the macerated limbs? If you put sackcloth on the soul, whose is the chastened spirit? If you be moral, and honest, and friendly, and generous, and patriotic, whose are the dispositions which you exercise-whose the powers to which you give culture and scope? And if you use only God's gifts, can that be meritorious? You

may say, "Yes; it is meritorious to use them aright, whilst others abuse them." But is it wickedness to abuse? Then it can only be duty to use aright; and duty will be merit when debt is donation. You may bestow a fortune in charity, but the wealth is already the Lord's. You may cultivate the virtues which adorn and sweeten human life; but the employed powers are the Lord's. You may give time and strength to the enterprises of philanthropy; each moment is the Lord's, each sinew is the Lord's. You may be upright in every dealing of trade, scrupulously honourable in all the intercourses of life; but “a just weight and balance are the Lord's, all the weights of the bag are His work." And where, then, is the merit of works? Oh, throw into one heap each power of the mind, each energy of the body; use in God's service each grain of your substance, each second of your time; give to the Almighty every throb of the pulse, every drawing of the breath; labour, and strive, and be instant in season and out of season; and let the steepness of the mountain daunt you not, and the swellings of the ocean deter you not and the ruggedness of the desert appal you not;-but on! still on, in toiling for your Maker! and dream, and talk, and boast of merit, when you can find that particle in the heap, or that shred in the exploit, which you may exclude from the confession-"All things come of Thee, and of thine own, O God, have I given thee."

THE SECRET OF ENGLAND'S GLORY.

J. C. TILDESLEY.

IN the beautiful isles of the burning South
A strange yet winsome story

Had passed along, from mouth to mouth,

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