can use, I neither do, nor can see them in the same light in myself that I do in others. I want humility. For what? To be admired. My pride will hardly let me believe this, though I fear it is truth. A certain person told me, that in advising, speaking of religious matters, and recommending religious truths, I was fierce, passionate, uncondescending. Blessed be God, I am sensible of it; and may God bless my friend for the admonition, though I fear it proceeded in part from anger. See and consider Gal. v. 19-26; vi. 1-3. I cannot help observing, that I had a very strong touch of this matter upon my spirit, a day or two before my friend told me of it. I cannot perceive any other principles in myself than those of fear and shame. I would disobey God, if I durst; and in some instances, I even should do it, upon a confused hope of mercy, or future repentance, if it was not for fear of hurting my reputation. Prayer and other spiritual exercises are often a weariness to me; a task and a force upon nature. I am too well pleased with pretences for omitting them; and when they are over, I feel myself at ease, as it were, after the removal of a heavy weight yet thou, O my Savior, dost warrant and command my importunity and earnestness in asking under all discouragements. I will therefore still present myself before the throne of grace, notwithstanding the want of sensible consolations. Fear not, my soul; the operations of the Spirit are in secret, and the daily growth of the spiritual man as imperceptible as that of corn; Mark xi.: 27; John iii. : 8. me. I have been, for some years, giving myself airs in religion, and assuming a part which does by no means belong to I fancied, that I must necessarily be something extraordinary, because I endeavored to be so. I am sensible, that all the time I advanced in nothing but outside and hypocrisy. I now see the reason of it. The work was my own, and the event, accordingly, shame and confusion, and conviction of my own impotence. I perceive, by some fatal symptoms, that higher qualifications for usefulness at present would only fill me with pride; it is therefore better for me, that they should be withholden, till I am disposed to receive them with proper humility, and as the means of a blessed intercourse between God and my own soul. Whenever I attempt to pray for others, I am soon made sensible that I do it in a cold, heartless manner; a plain indication, that love is not at the bottom. It is an awful moment, when the soul meets God in private, to stand the test of his all searching eye. When I am well, I think I could die contentedly; when I am sick, I am impatient to be well again. Could I bear to be the author of a treatise, which should be the means of enlightening and converting thousands, and be without the credit of it, or see it all given to another? I discern clearly that in all my dealings and conversations with others, I do not so much desire their salvation as their esteem. I find upon strict scrutiny into myself, that I am not so much influenced by a sense of reputation as to deny a prosecuted truth; nevertheless, I plainly perceive that, if I could be instrumental in spreading it, the great motive to it would not be the love of the truth, of Christ, or of the souls of men, and that my chief pleasure would arise from the credit of it. Is my retiring to converse with God, a state of enjoyment? or an earnest seeking to him in trouble and self-abasement, from the greatest of all wants? Or, is it affectation, and a force upon nature, proceeding from no real desire, producing no effect? Or, is it sometimes one, sometimes the other of these; sometimes a mixture of all three? I should be sorry to have it known what I am, how little I know, and what I have been doing in the world; and yet I am sure I swell with self-conceit, long for and expect applause, and catch greedily at it, where I know it is falsely given. Horrid depravity and meanness of soul. I puzzle myself about the prophecies, especially about the Apocalypse, and am often prying into futurity; but do not advert enough to what I may certainly know without a prophecy, what and where I shall be within a few years, at the most, if I suffer sin to keep possession of me; if I do not abhor and cast it from me in the fear of God; if I do not pluck out the right eye, and cut off the right hand; if I do not humble myself deeply before God; cry earnestly for mercy, and yield myself to him urfeignedly, and with the utmost sincerity of intention, for newness of heart and spirit. I am grievously offended with my flock, because they will not contribute to my reputation in the world, by being converted by me. Lord, let thy Spirit go with me into the depth of my heart, to show me more and more of its deceit and desperate wickedness. In all the good I do, I have little thought but of pleasing and enjoying myself. The inquiry is, how I shall find my account in such an action or course of life, in respect of ease and self-satisfaction; and if duty will not pay me something in hand, it is an hundred to one I neglect it. The point should be, not what will please myself, but God. The time and manner of enjoyment may be left to him. It appears also from hence, that the supposing virtue to be its own reward, is not the way to secure the interests of virtue, but destructive of Christian hope, and an unsteady, fallacious principle of action, which will oftener lead us from what is right than to it. Cone, my heart, draw nigh to God for remission and renovation, with fulness of desire for a full work; come now, this moment, as also to Jesus, for all his cleansing, for washing in his blood, for love, for fidelity. Deliver thyself into his hands, and beg of him to purge his floor in thee, and make thee pure wheat, fit for his garner. And O, Spirit of holiness, do thou bring me, in repentance and faith, to the blood of sprinkling; sanctify my spirit, soul and body; and baptize me with thy fire, unto obedience and love of the truth. THE FIRESIDE. No. IV. ARTICLE I-CHILDREN DOING GOOD; ANOTHER WAY. EMMA walked hastily across the school-room, greeting, in a pleasant tone, such of her companions as came in her way, with "Good morning," and took her seat at her own desk. She lifted its lid, and her eye rested on a slip of paper, which had been placed there since the preceding day. She unfolded it and read, "Ye are notyour own." There was not a word beside. "Ye are not your own." What can this mean? exclaimed Emma. I don't understand. O, it is Maria's hand-writing. I will ask her for an explanation,-and why she put it in my desk. Maria usually came a little before the school-exercises commenced, and Emma was disappointed when the signal for opening the school was given, and the punctual Maria had not made her appearance. She took out her books, and began to prepare for her recitations; but she was restless and uneasy. It was much more difficult than usual, to fix her attention upon her studies. "Ye are not your own," was running in her head, and more than once she quite forgot where she was. At the recess, Emma asked Maria's little sister why she was not at school. Their mother was sick, and Maria remained at home on that account. Emma found time, during the recess, to write the following note: "Dear Maria, "I am sorry your mother is sick to-day. I have missed you very much, as I always do, and I have wanted you here more than usual. My curiosity you contrived to excite not a little, by leaving that slip of paper in my desk. I know it was intended for some sort of a reproof, and had more than half a mind to be a little angry; but I remembered that it was my friend Maria's doings. Besides, you are two years older than Lam. But I don't very clearly understand what that text has to do with me. If you can't come to school to-morrow, do write me one of your long notes. I love to read them, but I will not promise that it will do your volatile friend any more good, than its predecessors have done. I should like to be like you if I could. "Nothing new in school to-day. gebra were as dull and stupid as usual. have, scarcely one, even tolerable. need the patience of Job. The girls in Latin and Al- Maria's mother had been so sick through the day, as to need her constant attention. Towards evening she looked brighter, and to Maria's inquiry if she felt better, answered, "Much, thank you, my daughter. What a good nurse you are. I think I can sleep a little now." Maria felt very happy to hear her mother say this. She gave her some cool, refreshing drink, tied her cap for her, smoothed her pillow, and drew the curtains at the side of the bed, so that the light might not be too strong for her, and then sat down in a low chair by the bedside. Her mother was soon in a quiet sleep. Maria then took from her belt the note her little sister had brought from school, and read it. She knew she should not attend school the next day, and with a silent petition that she might be enabled to write such a reply, as would do her friend good, she folded half a sheet of paper, and, placing it on a book in her lap, wrote with a pencil the following note:- "My dear Emma, "Excuse my writing with a pencil. My mother is asleep, and I don't like to leave the room for pen and ink, lest she should wake. "I have much to say in reply to your note. You need no assurance of my affection for you, Emma. You wish me to tell you why I wrote that text for you. I will endeavor to do it, frankly and fully. "I have observed how deeply you are interested in your studies. You have long, and difficult lessons, but you are always fully and thoroughly prepared. No one can charge you with a violation of a single rule of school. You are too much absorbed in your studies, to meet with any temptations to transgress. Now this eagerness for knowledge is commendable-highly so, if higher duties are not neglected ;-if a desire to excel others, is not the main-spring;-if you realize, while enriching your own mind, that 'You are not your own.' "But, Emma, have you not in your devotion to your studies, neglected higher duties? You come into the school room, and have no more intercourse with the girls than formal politeness requires. You seem to make it your sole object to cultivate and enrich the intellect, while the heart is neglected. You neglect to cherish and cultivate those feelings of sympathy and interest in your companions, that would lead you to make an effort, to make every individual with whom you have anything to do, happier than she would be, if you were not in school. If you would do this, you would be rewarded by an increase of happiness, tenfold, in your own heart. "You express a good deal of contempt for the girls in your classes. If you are their superior, who made you to differ? Is intellect, the gift of God, or acquisitions which he has given opportunities to make, to puff up with pride the receiver? "You will think I am too plain, perhaps severe. But I am older than you. My school-days are almost over. You will remain some time longer. What would I not give to have two years of school-days before me, with my present feelings. I long to have you improve as I wish I had done. "But I have something more to say. Have you realized that you are not your own? It has seemed to me, that the claims of your heavenly Father have been forgotten, as well as those of your companions. He made you such a being as you are. He has given you uncommon opportunities for im proving your mind, and so constituted you, that you find great enjoyment in it; and to his service, your all should be consecrated. He is your sovereign; a kind and gracious sovereign, if you are but ready, humbly and earnestly to know, and to do, and to be what he requires. "Now, Emma, I wanted you to feel that you are not your own,' and I hoped that you might be led to think seriously |