thoughts which were produced at such an incalculable expense of mental laborare contained in so small a compass (as, indeed, all sublime imaginings must be) that they may be procured for a sum that any decent lad may soon save from his weekly allowance. Thus it is, by the kind and wise arrangements of Providence, that, while great riches and worldly honor are the portion only of a few, and unattainable, generally speaking, by those who have them not; yet that all that is of intrinsic worth in this world-knowledge and virtue-are placed within the reach of every one who diligently seeks them. For with regard to the most important and interesting discoveries of science, the grand results are known even to the vulgar; and the most material facts are of no difficult access. If it were necessary to possess all these books, and in their splendid bindings too, in order to know what Newton discovered, or to enjoy what Milton thought, gold would, indeed, attain a value and a dignity which no image or superscription whatever has yet stamped upon it.

Arthur. When one is looking at such a number of books, it is amusing to observe what very different subjects different writers have chosen.

Father. Yes, and it is well they have. We are apt to feel discontent, and sometimes contempt, when we meet with people whose tastes, pursuits and opinions differ widely from our own; yet to this circumstance (the vast variety of tastes, pursuits and opinions that exists amongst men) is chiefly to be attributed the progress that has been made in useful knowledge. Only suppose that all thinking men had been of one opinion on every point of philosophy, and exactly agreed on all matters of taste, how little stimulus would there have been to thought and invention! and what a dull uniformity in the few writings that would have been produced! Nothing, therefore, is more narrow or illiberal, than to regret the diversity of opinion and taste that exists; since it is the grand means which Providence has appointed for

keeping the human mind from stagnation, and for eliciting truth. We should, therefore, learn not only to tolerate but to respect the views and predilections of other people, however they may differ from our own.

Arthur. Yet surely we ought to regret it when we think, and are almost sure, that people are in the wrong?

Father. We ought to be very sure of that, indeed, before we even regret it: there are, however, some errors of opinion, which are so injurious in their consequences, and which show such a perversion of mind in those who hold them, that we ought not only to regret but to counteract them by every fair and gentle means in our power. But there are very widely differing opinions, on less essential points, amongst persons of equal piety, learning and genius; and while it is both curious and instructive to observe this, it is, at the same time, most consoling and satisfactory to remark how, in all things most important, the wise and good agree. Observe that large compartment opposite to us, entirely occupied by works on divinity. Doubtless there is much error and much lumber mingled there with what is valuable and true. Yet, with respect to all those amongst these writers who may be fairly called men of piety, what a happy harmony would, after all, be found to exist in their sentiments! There is, indeed, no consideration more satisfactory to the inquiring mind, than this universal agreement of good men, in opinion and experience, on essential points. Nor is there any reflection more impressive than to consider the weight of argument and force of persuasion which their united testimony affords, as to the importance of the subjects on which they write. Thus the very sight of these books preaches silently as persuasive and eloquent a sermon as can be heard from any pulpit.

Arthur. Then, father, it seems one may, by a little reflection, get more good from the outside of a book than many people do from its contents.

Father. Why truly, it is more profitable to reflect

without reading, than to read without reflecting. But let us suppose that all the forcible arguments, lively representations, affecting appeals all the warnings, threatenings, invitations, persuasions, that the piety, benevolence and genius of these various writers have employed (with their "diversity of gifts, but the same spirit") in reminding mankind of the infinite importance of their eternal interests-suppose, I say, that all this mass of persuasion could be collected into a focus, and with its united force bear upon the mind-would not the effect be overpowering?-and yet this would be no false impression; nothing more than the real nature of the case would justify; no more than we should constantly feel if our minds were not blinded with sin, and rendered strangely insensible by earthly objects.

Arthur. But how would it be possible to retain such a strong impression, supposing one could feel it for a moment?

Father. We must remember that, after all, no power of human eloquence, nor all its powers united, would be sufficient to enlighten the darkness of the mind of man. But one ray of light from above--one powerful word from Him who can open the eyes of the understanding, and cause things to be "spiritually discerned," will instantly effect the happy purpose. Therefore, however diligent we might be in using and improving every means for exciting profitable impressions, all would be vain, unless we are perpetually seeking this all-powerful influence. But if we do ask and seek it earnestly, God will assuredly bestow it; even that habitual impression of the superior importance of our future and eternal interests which constitutes a spiritual mind, and which will cause our affections and conversation to be in heaven.

Arthur. There are many books not exactly on religious subjects, that yet are very profitable.

Father. Yes; and this is the case even with the writings of some men who were wholly ignorant of true reli

gion, and which affords, indeed, an additional argument in favor of it. Men of thought, wisdom and genius, in the darkest times, have borne witness to the truth of the divine declaration, that "wisdom excelleth folly, as much as light excelleth darkness." The laws of God, written in the hearts and consciences even of them who "knew not God," are thus vindicated and enforced; so that when, either in thought, word or action, we offend against them, we at the same time oppose the combined sense, wisdom, experience, and the general testimony of all mankind.

Solomon, I dare say, was never in such a library as this; yet he expresses a sentiment which is very suitable on such an occasion, when he sums up all the sage refleotions he had been making on the vanity of the world, in this concise sentence :- " Of making many books there is no end:" (he would, indeed, have thought so, if he had lived in these days!)-and he evidently spoke from experience, when he added, "that much study is a weariness to the flesh." "Let us then," he says, "hear the conclusion of the whole matter;-Fear God, and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty and the whole wisdom of man."

LESSON CIII.

M. S. C.- CHARLES SPRAGUE.

I KNEW that we must part-day after day, I saw the dread destroyer win his way; That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell, As on my ear its prophet-warning fell; Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew, Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue, Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clung, Each sweet "Good night" fell fainter from thy tongue.

I knew that we must part-no power could save
Thy quiet goodness from an early grave:

Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they cast,
Looking a sister's fondness to the last;

Thy lips so pale, that gently pressed my cheek;
Thy voice-alas! thou couldst but try to speak ;-
All told thy doom, I felt it at my heart;

The shaft had struck-I knew that we must part.
And we have parted, Mary-thou art gone!
Gone in thy innocence, meek-suffering one.
Thy weary spirit breathed itself to sleep
So peacefully, it seemed a sin to weep,
In those fond watchers who around thee stood,
And felt, even then, that God, even then, was good.
Like stars that struggle through the cloud of night,
Thine eyes one moment caught a glorious light,
As if to thee, in that dread hour, 't were given
To know on earth what faith believes of heaven;
Then, like tired breezes, didst thou sink to rest,
Nor one, one pang the awful change confessed.
Death stole in softness o'er that lovely face,
And touched each feature with a new-born grace;
On cheek and brow unearthly beauty lay,
And told that life's poor cares had passed away.
In my last hour be Heaven so kind to me-
I ask no more than this-to die like thee.

But we have parted, Mary-thou art dead!
On its last resting-place I laid thy head;
Then, by thy coffin-side, knelt down and took
A brother's farewell kiss and farewell look:
Those marble lips no kindred kiss returned ;
From those veiled orbs no glance responsive burned:
Ah! then I felt that thou hadst passed away,
That the sweet face I gazed on was but clay;
And then came Memory, with her busy throng
Of tender images, forgotten long;
Years hurried back, and, as they swiftly rolled,
I saw thee, heard thee, as in days of old;