the floor, for the third time, and thought of turning over the cushions again.

No one offered to give him anything, for if any one felt disposed to a generous act, he had not courage, because every other one would think, "Why, what a fool you are to give money to everybody that gets into a fix! If you undertake to give to every one, your hands will be full."

"Come, hurry up!" cried the driver; can't stay here all day." And on went the 'bus, tumbling over the rough pavement.

"How much did you say you needed?" asked a lady. "Four shillings," was the reply. Without saying another word, she quietly drew out her purse. The effect was electrical. Every lady fumbled for her purse; every gentleman put his hand into his pocket, as they do when the conductor comes along and says, "Fare, gentlemen!" And almost before the lady could put her money into the young man's hands, six or eight hands were extended to him with their contributions.

"There, there!" said the young man; "take care,-don't give me too much. I only want four shillings; that's all. There, you keep that,-no, I don't want it, here's enough ;" and he refused to take several pieces that were held out. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you;" and immediately he jumped from the 'bus and was out of sight.

I looked at that lady, whose magic touch of her purse called money from so many pockets, more surprisingly than Signor Blitz could possibly have done. She was perhaps thirty, well dressed, though not richly, with a fine, interesting countenance, yet not particularly beautiful. She was evidently in easy circumstances in life, and yet as evidently not wealthy. She was, also, I suppose, a mother, as she had a beautiful little girl, of some four years old, about whose smiling rosy cheeks the chestnut curls danced, as she nestled into her mother's lap, or whirled round to look out of the window.

The gift of the money was a very small affair; but the manner in which it was done, and the circumstances, made a deep impression on my mind. She did not ask who his father was, and where he lived, and what he came to town for, and why he was not more careful, and if he could not beg the money, or borrow it, or work for it. There was no flourish or parade-not a word; no vain-glorious look of triumph.

She did not gaze round at others, as much as to say, "Now follow my example."

It was a small particle, but it was the genuine, pure gold. She was a mother; perhaps she had a son; and he might meet sometime with a little accident away from home, and need a few pennies to return him to her fireside and her embrace. Would she not then bless the heart that might prompt a generous though a trifling service?

If it had only been in an old-fashioned country stage-coach, so I could have talked with her! In stage-coaches, anybody may talk to anybody without being intrusive. Even in a Railway Station, waiting for the train, you might venture to speak. But in an omnibus, it is scarcely polite to do more than assist a lady in getting in or out, or make change for her when she pays her fare, or give her your seat.

But a mother has always a second self in her child. The little rosy-cheeked girl was reaching her dimpled hands out of the window, catching at the carriages as they passed, and laughing at the sport. I patted her cheek, and said, "Won't you come and sit with me ?" She turned around with a merry laugh, that made her sweet face radiant as if the golden borealis was playing with her curls.

"Won't you go and sit by the gentleman?" said her mother, turning around and smiling. What mother ever failed to be pleased when you caressed her child?

"Ah! hold up, driver-I must get out." No matter; I left the stage, and the child, and the mother. Who she was, where she went, I do not know. It's of no consequence. But there is one home, somewhere, that she makes happy; there is one fireside, not very rich, not very poor, where the comforts if not the luxuries of life, and even its toils, are sweetened by her goodness.

God bless her! whatever joys or sorrows she may have in life. May she, every day, do some little deed of noble, generous sympathy and love, that shall lighten somewhat the heavy load of trouble, misfortune, and misery that afflicts humanity! Every such act shall be a new star set to gleam in life's dark firmament; a new spark to kindle fires in its chilly and cheerless waste; a new beacon to light others to generous deeds. She did not dream that any one would think of it-perhaps has already forgotten it herself. Yet that little act has

a better memorial than I can give it. I shall see her no more; but I will think of that act.

Who knows but some day to come my boy may be far from home, in a great city, and penniless? Who knows? Would I not bless and pray for the one who should give him but a farthing, that he might return to my embrace, so that I might kiss him when he went to sleep, as I used to do, and he not be exposed to stay all night in the streets, or, what is worse, perhaps, be seduced to the abodes of death?

Do deeds of generous love, reader. They may be small. Never mind that. They cannot be so small but that they shall call forth thanksgiving from some heart,-but that they shall be seen of Him who numbers your hairs, and notices a sparrow's fall!

"HE WAS MY DEAR SON." So said a mother to me, not many weeks since, when weeping with overwhelming grief for the death of her eldest son. I have seldom seen deeper anguish; and perhaps few parents are ever called to part with just such a son. Though but a youth, his manners were those of a gentleman; his judgment sound; his conscience tender; his reverence for the truth profound; his respect for the gospel and its ordinances uniform; his obedience to his parents habitual, prompt, and cheerful; his affection for the younger members of the family pure and abiding; he was not simply a son and brother, but already the companion, counsellor, and friend, of father, mother, brothers, and sisters. His mind, too, was of a fine order, and well cultivated for his age; the promise of his future was most encouraging. But with all this, Death marked him for his prey. During the Christmas recess from school, and while on a visit to the family of a friend, he contracted a severe cold. Bronchial consumption followed, and laid him, in a few months, in the silent grave.

His sick chamber exhibited much of meekness, patience, and cheerfulness. Though without an external stain upon his character, a sense of sin, of ill desert in the sight of God, troubled him; he sought relief in the peace-speaking blood of the Lamb; he found it, not suddenly, but by slow degrees; he read, he prayed, he loved to have his pastor, his friends, the elders of the church, pray with him. At first he spoke tremb

lingly, but when Jordan rolled at his feet, and the murky shades of its deep valley gathered about him, he knew no fear. "Father," said he, "I am now about to die; but I feel that Jesus is carrying me over the dark valley. Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus !" This his weeping mother heard; but she was badly prepared to part with her boy. "Oh, mother," said he, "do not weep so; I am happy, and will soon be with the Saviour!"

Sad, yet precious comfort, these words of her dying boy! Life and death here meet. Life in death, death out of life. His sight fails-his hearing also-his lips cease to speak-and-now-a few long, slow heavings, and all is quiet-all is over-he is gone.

The death chamber was filled with wailing; and when the voice of the pastor would speak peace and calmness to that griefstricken mother, this was her answer: "He was my dear son; he was my dear son; I could not give him up, for I expected him to preach the gospel."

Surely, the death of a son, and such a son, is cause of grief. We admit it; but should it be hopeless, despairing, unsubmissive grief? Has not God taken him? and had not God a right to take him-a better right than a mother to retain him? Will he not take better care of him, and exalt him to higher degrees, both of service and joy, than could be conferred upon him here?

Weeping mother, have you really lost your son? Is he not still your son? Is he not your son in heaven? God lost not his dear Son when he gave him up for us all he gave him up that he might receive him for ever. So your jewel has been taken but to be purified, and brightened, and reset in your crown, never more to be removed. Is that a cause of grief? He is now in God's family in heaven. Would you call him thence? Do you grieve that he is happy? Oh, let it not be. What sweet comfort was afforded in his death! And what an honour to have a son in the court of heaven! He was your dear son, true; but God loved him also, and has provided for him better than you can. Is your best earthly treasure too valuable to be given cheerfully to the Saviour when he asks it? What has he not done for you? Dry, then, your tears. Look up, and say, and feel, "Even so, Father; not my will, but thine be done." You may yet rejoice with your

son among the glorified at God's right hand. Will you weep then? Weep not now. Mothers, weep not; grieve not for your children, even for a dear son dead in the Lord.

THE SOLDIER AND HIS BIBLE.
A STORY FOR TEACHERS.

In the county of Kent lives, or lived, a clergyman and his lady who took a very active part in the Sunday school connected with his church. They had in the school a boy, the only son of a widow, who was notoriously wicked, despising all the earnest prayers and admonitions of the clergyman, who, out of pity for his poor widowed mother, kept him in the school eighteen months; at length he found it absolutely necessary to dismiss the lad as a warning to others. He soon after enlisted as a soldier in a regiment that was soon ordered to America, it being during the last American war. Some time after, the poor widow called upon the clergyman to beg a Bible of the smallest size. Surprised at such a request from an individual who was on the verge of eternity, and who he knew had one or two Bibles of large print, which she had long used to good purpose, he enquired what she wanted it for. She answered, "A regiment is going out to America, and I want to send it to my poor boy; and, oh, sir, who knows what it may do ?"

She sent the Bible which the clergyman gave her by a pious soldier, who, upon his arrival at their destination, found the widow's son the very ringleader of the regiment in every description of vice. After the soldier had made himself known, he said, "James, your mother has sent you her last present."

"Ah," he replied in a careless manner, "is she gone at last? I hope she sent me some cash."

The pious soldier told him he believed the poor widow was dead; "but," said he, "she has sent you something of more value than gold or silver (presenting him the

Bible), and, James, it was her dying request that you would read one verse, at least, of this book every day; and can you refuse her dying charge ?"

"Well," said James, "it is not too much to ask (opening the Bible), so here goes."

He opened the Bible at the words," Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

"Well," said he, "this is very odd. I have opened to the only verse in the Bible that I could ever learn by heart when I was in the Sunday school; I never, could for the life of me commit another. It is very strange! but who is this 'me' that is mentioned in the verse ?"

The pious soldier asked if he did not know.

He replied that he did not.

The good man then explained it to him; spoke to him of Jesus, and exhibited the truths and invitations of the gospel. They walked to the house of the chaplain, where they had further conversation; the result was, that from that hour he became a changed man, and was as noted for exemplary conduct as before he had been for his wickedness.

Some time after this conversation, the regiment in which he was, engaged the enemy; at the close of which, the pious soldier, in walking through the field of blood, beheld, under a large spreading oak, the dead body of James, his head reclining on his Bible, which was opened at the passage, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Poor James had gone to his eternal rest.

The gentleman who told this tale, said he had frequently held the Bible in his hand; there were no less than fifty pages stained with the blood of poor James.

Teachers, does not this story encourage you? Will you not resolve to pursue your work this new year with greater earnestness than ever before? May God help you to do so, and give you the success which will be your sweetest reward!

ON TEACHING YOUNG CHILDREN

PRAYRES.

To the Editors of "The Church." Dear Sirs,

My attention has been arrested by a letter in your excellent magazine for Novem

ber," On teaching young children prayers," and (with your permission) I am anxious to say a few words in reply.

Your correspondent supposes in starting, that "If the readers of The Church' were asked, At what age would you com

mence the religious instruction of children? when teach them their first prayer? the probability is, that a large majority of the most pious would reply, 'With their earliest years, so soon as they can'speak."" This certainly would be my reply, and as one of your numerous readers, I adopt it now.

"C. C. P." refers to Messrs. Müller and Craik, of Bristol, as authorities against this practice. To these dear brethren I would on many points defer most gladly; but the Redeemer's example and teachings upon this subject are so plain, that the necessity of secondary appeal is obviated. My rule is the well known text, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." It will be observed that the children here spoken of were just such as " C. C. P." objects to, in the matter of religious instruction. They were "little children," proved not only by the language which describes them, but also by the fact that "Jesus took them up in his arms;" and then, as if to make their age and size important particulars, he said, “Suffer the little children." I need not stay to remark upon the character of the reproof administered by the gentle, child-loving Jesus, to those disciples who rebuked the anxious parents for bringing their infants to receive the Divine benediction; its severity and the lessons taught by it are rendered sufficiently clear and impressive by the sentence, "When Jesus saw it, he was much displeased." Coming to Christ, on the part of an adult, is synonymous with believing in him, learning of him, and acknowledging him as Lord, Redeemer, Friend, all. In what spirit does Christ direct us all to come to him? Is it not in the spirit of a little child, with simplicity, humility, and unreserved confidence? If, therefore, the "Great Teacher" illustrated great fundamental truths for the instruction of adults, by the condition and characteristics of little children, is it too much to infer that little children have a claim upon pious parents and guardians, to direct their minds in the very dawn of life to Him who took so much and such tender notice of them, when those who ought to have known better would have kept them from him?

I gather from "C. C. P.'s" letter, that he is opposed to any religious instruction for children under the age of nine or ten, but that he particularly objects to their being taught to pray. In support of this he defines

prayer, and then asks how, according to such definition, it can be understood, appreciated, and offered with propriety, by little children. But our friend has more clearly exposed the evils of an injudicious and unseasonable form, than the impropriety of seeking to give a devotional bias to the heart, and a devotional idea to the mind of the child. It is quite true that an infant may not know much, or rather may be entirely ignorant of the nature of God's kingdom, consequently cannot understand a prayer for its extension; but the same infant may have its tender spirit filled with delight at the thought of God's regarding it with a Father's love, and that one impression will necessarily lead to others, which will influence the mind in its simple but real communion with God. The objection of "C. C. P.," "But if the man finds it difficult to realize the majesty and presence of the Great Invisible, and to subdue his mind to becoming reverence, how shall the babe comprehend the Infinite, or its heart be penetrated with fitting awe ?" is I think unfortunate, since neither child nor adult is expected or allowed to "comprehend the Infinite." He is, to all created beings, incomprehensible. But the mind of the child is susceptible of Divine grace, and if instruction in the mode of prayer be accompanied on the parents' part by an earnest and believing appeal to God to sanctify such instruction, the Lord promises, "All things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer believing, ye shall receive " (Matt. xxi. 22). If, on the other hand, this should be in any case (in the language of "C. C. P.") "the seed plot of hypocrisy and formalism," the faithful parent will have done his duty, and be no more chargeable with the production and promotion of these evils, than the apostles of the past, and the ministers of the present day, are to be charged with laying the foundation of similar results in the minds and conduct of their hearers.

To suspect that the impartation of spiritual instruction to a child will lead to evil consequences, appears to me dishonouring to God, since it manifests a lack of confidence in the truth, and in the power of the Spirit of truth to meet every case and every age in the family of man. "They that seek me early shall find me." Every saint must have his start in the divine life, and if he must be first of all a babe, is it not most desirable that the infancy spiritual

should be coeval with the infancy natural? I may also say that it does appear most undeniable that if a child is not to be taught (instrumentally) to pray before the age of nine, he may not upon the same principle be taught then, but should be left until he voluntarily seeks instruction; and the same must I think apply to all religious guidance in reference even to adults themselves, since "neither is he that planteth anything, neither he that watereth, but God who giveth the increase."

Without saying anything here as to the age at which responsibility may commence in a child, it is I think fair to conclude that if a child should die at the age of five, six, or seven, the loving parent would far more gladly give it up, knowing that its infant eye had been directed heavenward, than if no such direction had been given to its enquiring mind. And what pleasure in after days that parent feels, while the little lisping, stammering tongue lies silent in the grave," if he still hears as it were the very sounds of early praise which he was instrumental in teaching.

It was the habit of my sainted mother to take all her chidren to the Lord, and teach them his fear from the beginning. In my boyhood we buried my youngest brother (not quite three years old), and that child spake of "going to Jesus;" and I owe (through the infinite mercy of God) my salvation from the service of Satan, to my pious and devoted mother's instructions, not deferred till I was nine or ten,but commenced as soon as I began to know my parent, and speak the lovely name

mother.

"Train up a child in the way in which he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." So was Samuel trained, and at six years of age ministered to the Lord. So was Timothy trained. So was Doddridge trained. So were many more. But I forbear, fearing I may be too long, offering my christian regards to "C. C. P.," and to yourselves, dear Sirs, and am very respectfully yours,

CHARLES T. KEEN, Jun.

Regent-Street, Lambeth.

To the Editors of "The Church." Dear Sirs,

Permit me to put the following apologue to "C. C. P.," as a reply to his letter.

I have some ground, weeds will spring up spontaneously on it. If it is not tilled, they will cover the whole surface, and spread their roots far, wide, and deep, to the utter ruin of the plot. If I dig, and sow good seed, and check the weeds, it is probable I will have a crop. Frosts may nip, the sun may scorch,-rains may drown it. These accidents it is not in my power to prevent. But it is my duty to sow, watch, and weed, and, beside all, to pray for God's blessing. One part of the work is mine, the other His. Must I murmur if my crop fail? Must I conclude, because I laboured and there was no result last year, there will be no crop to compensate my labour this year? No. Perhaps some part of the work was ill-done, or not done, and it was my fault.

Now, my ground is virgin soil. Is this a reason why it must be uncultivated for ten years? True, weeds may be plucked as soon as grown; yet I do it no good, its nature is not altered. And even if it be kept in the best condition, it is unprofitable tothe master whose steward I am; and, at the end of ten years, my neighbours will laugh at me as foolish, and my lord will be angry, for I might have grown ten crops, and my labour in cleaning it of weeds has been lost.

Is the moral of the above too much under the surface to need putting in words? For some years my mind was misty on the subject of "C. C. P.'s" letter, and reasoning as above ended the conflict.

When is a child of proper age or state of mind to be taught to pray? So soon as he is able to understand that his Father is in heaven, and on earth sees and hears him. We cannot too soon cultivate a love and reverence towards Him, and an affection for all His works. Much depends on the means a parent adopts. It is of no use to tell a child there is a God, and he must love Him. He must be led to think and reason. An intelligent father will discover easily some judicious means to effect this, with regard to things around; and a child is as capable of comprehending simple divine truths as simple natural truths. That it is difficult work I own; that it is impossible I deny. My experience tells me it is possible, and that it is only relatively difficult, that is, it is more difficult than some other duties. What I learn from its difficulty is, the greater necessity for tact and judgment.