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be taken; and if this be done, I think there is something in the perfect stillness of the night favourable to mental effort, and that it may then be made without injury to health. But, for the ordinary and active occupations of life, I think there can be no doubt that early rising is by far the best plan in all respects. It helps to make a man healthy, it tends at any rate towards his becoming wealthy; and if the early morning hour be used aright, it will make him wise in the very best sense of the word.

To spend the early morning hour alone with God is an unspeakable advantage—an advantage it would be worth any sacrifice to obtain, and one which many may obtain with little or no sacrifice at all. Temptations we all meet with, duties we all have to perform, trials we all, more or less, experience; and what a blessing is it, before we go forth on the cares and toils and trials of the day, to enlist on our behalf the aid of Infinite power, wisdom, and love! What a blessing to have an -almighty Friend to whom we may tell every want, every fear, every care—a Friend who, though infinitely above us, yet sympathizes with us and knows us far better than we know ourselves, and who has promised without limit to hear us when we come to him in sincerity, and in the name of Jesus.

Early rising gives us time also to read and meditate on that book which is able to make us wise unto salvation through faith in Christ Jesus; and this blessing of the revelation of God's will concerning us, and of his wonderful love to us, we can never too highly value and never be sufficiently thankful for.

Kise early then, and search for its hidden treasures, and you will not search in vain. Seek God's teaching and guidance, commit yourself and your all to him, and go forth to the duties of the day feeling that "you are not your own," and that He whose you are will indeed bless and keep you; and you will find that in the early morning hour thus spent is the battle of life really fought and won.


J— B— was a prosperous Christian merchant. As his worldly goods increased, so did his love to the Giver of alJ good, and more earnestly did he desire to aid in sending the " good tidings" to those sitting in the darkness of unbelief. Day by day, as bale after bale of goods was sent forth from hie warerooms, he placed in each a good book of tracts. North, south, east, and west, here and there and everywhere went the messengers of good; and eternity alone can divulge the benefits resulting to souls therefrom.

God willed it that in one instance Mr. B— should find fruit from his widely-scattered seed. Travelling on business, and far from home, he stopped among strangers to spend the sabbath. Entering the village church, he tarried after the morning services to watch the happy faces of the little ones as they took their places in the sabbath school. He was invited by the superintendent to address the school, and mentioned his cherished habit of planting in every bale of goods the word of truth.

A flush of joy passed over the countenance of the superintendent; and when the exercises were closed, he pressed eagerly forward and invited Mr. B— to accompany him home. The invitation was accepted; and to the joy of the Christian merchant, the superintendent told him he was a tradesman of the village, and how, nine years before, he had been led to seek the Saviour through the influence of one of Mr. B—'s books. On receiving the book, he carried it home to his wife. It proved the means of her conviction and conversion. He then read it himself; with a like result; and stretching on and on through all those years, that little book had been the root from which had sprung buds and blossoms of faith.


Consider solemnly whether you area friend of Christ? There are thousands, I grieve to say, who are not Christ's friends. Outward members of his church, attendants on his means of grace—all this they are, *no doubt; but they are not Christ's friends. Do they hate the sins which Jesus died to put away? No. Do they love the Saviour who came into the world to save them? No. Do they care for the souls which were so precious in his sight? No. Do they delight in the' word of reconciliation? No. Do they try to speak with the Friend of sinners in prayer? No. Do they seek close fellowship with him? No. 0 reader, how is it with you? Are you, or are you not, one of Christ's friends?

If you are not one of Christ's friends, you are a poor miserable man. I write this down deliberately: I do not say it without thought. I say, that if Christ be not your friend, you are a poor miserable man. You are in the midst of a failing, sorrowful world, and you have no real source of comfort or refuge for a time of need. You are a dying creature, and you are not ready to die. You have sins, and they are not forgiven. You are going, to be judged, and you are not prepared to meet God. You might be, but you refuse to use the only Mediator and Advocate. You love the world better than Christ. You refuse the great Friend of sinners, and you have no friend in heaven to plead your cause. Yes, it is sadly true: you are a poor miserable man. It matters nothing what your income is; without Christ's friendship, you are very poor.

If you really want a friend, Christ is willing to become your friend. He is ready to receive |you, all unworthy as you may feel, and to write your name down on the list of his friends. He is ready to pardon all the past, to clothe you with righteousness, to give you his Spirit, to make you his own dear child. All he asks you to do is, to come to him.

He bids you come with all your sins, only acknowledging your vileness, and confessing that you are ashamed. Just as you are—waiting for nothing—unworthy of anything in yourself—Jesus bids you come and be his friend. Come, and bo wise. Come, and be safe. Come, and be happy. Come, and be Christ's friend.


What is the language of those strange afflictions,
Which come like guests unbidden 'mid our joys,

Till e'en our blessings seem like maledictions?
They are not speechless; eloquent their voice;

For to the heart with change and woe oppress'd,

They softly whisper, "This is not your rest."

Though earth and sky be decked with spring-time glory,
And sunbeams tremble through the branches green,

So that we almost disbelieve the story

That sin and death can blight so fair a scene;

Still doth truth whisper to the musing breast,

"Arise! depart! for this is not your rest."

When youth and health you feel to be decaying,
And steps move slow that once were blithe and free.

And silver threads the clustering locks arraying
With the first blossoms of the almond-tree;

Still is your portion yet to be possess'd:

"Arise! depart! for this is not your rest."

What says th' immortal longings of the spirit,
Dashing its pinions 'gainst'its prison bars?

Hears it not voices which have power to cheer it.
Of an inheritance beyond the stars?

Are these immortal longings in thy breast?

"Arise! depart! for this is not your rest."

Of sin and doubting art thou worn and weary,
Of that stern warfare which the Christian knows?

To-day a victor; but, oh prospect dreary!
To-morrow greets thee with still other foes.

Fight on, faint heart; those wounds are not unblest.

This is the battle-field, and not " your rest."

There are ten thousand voices all around us;

Each sunset whispers of life's closing day: Friends passed away in loving tones surround us,

And. to our listening spirit seem to say, "Why build on this low earth your eagle's nest? Arise! de part! for this is not your rest."


Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon.
My scrip of joy (immortal diet!)
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gauge;
And thus I take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,
While my soul, like peaceful palmer,
Travelleth toward the land of heaven:
Other balm will not be given.

Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar-fountains,

There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill:,
My soul will be adry before,
But after that will thirst no more.

Sir Walter JlaUigh.



"A Capital year this has been," said Mr. Ackman, closing his book with a clap, and warming his chilled hands by his bright counting-house fire. The book he had been engaged npon was an interesting volume to him: he studied it every day; and on this last day of the year he had given it some hours diligent and anxious attention. It contained a summary of his profits and losses. It had grown under his hand, from day to day, through the three hundred and odd business days of the past year; and now, on this final page, he had brought together the results of

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