INFIDELITY TESTED BY FACT.

BY THE REV. SAMUEL MANNING, OF FROME. No. 6,

FLUCTUATIONS.

A sceptical reader of our two last papers would probably reply to them by pointing out the fluctuations to which the christian church has been liable. "See," he would say, "the steady and unchanging course of nature, the ever varying course of man. Does not the history of the church partake of the latter rather than the former? Do we not find that in some nations and some ages the gospel has seemed to lose all power over men? Where, then, is that universal and perpetual adaptation you speak of ?" From this very objection our argument may be strengthened and sustained.

Let it be remarked, in the first place, that abstract essential truth is one thing, and that human conceptions and applications of that truth are another. The creeds and organizations in which men express their belief, and endeavour to extend it, may be, and often are, misrepresentations of the truth in its primitive simplicity. The failures of such a creed and organization to win credence, are chargeable, not upon the truth, but upon its misrepresentations. In the second place, it is for the gospel, not for the church, that we claim divine authority and infallible truth. The divinity of the gospel, and the fallibility of human nature, meet in the church. Its fluctuations and aberrations are due, we affirm, to the element we admit to be human, not to that which we claim to be divine. This may be illustrated by a supposed analogy drawn from nature. It is quite conceivable that God might have created the sun, with adaptations to pursue its present regular course, and thus to light, warm, and fertilize the world, at the same time committing its regulation and control to men. Now, it is evident that the selfishness, the pride, the ignorance, and the mutual jealousies of mankind, would cause the sun constantly to wander from, and fluctuate in, its course. The atheist might point to these aberrations as proof that the whole was a mere human contrivance of some bye-gone age; but if the deist could prove, that always when the sun was let alone to pursue its

own course, and obey its own laws, all went on well, but that any interference, even by the wisest of men, always produced disturbance and injury, the argument would be as strong against the atheist as at first sight it appeared in his favour, and would suggest a very strong probability that superhuman wisdom launched it on its course "to give light by day." Just this evidence have we of the divine truth, wisdom, and adaptation of the gospel. Men, unable to appreciate its absolute perfection, its infinite excellence, have endeavoured to amend it by additions and curtailments. Every such alteration has been invariably attended by a corresponding loss of power and efficiency. They have attempted to adapt it to the ignorance or the philosophy of the age, but a widespread infidelity has been the result of their endeavours. Wherever and whenever we find that the gospel has lost its hold upon the hearts, and its influence over the lives of men, we also find, too, that this has been preceded by human additions to, or abstractions from, its simplicity and integrity; and, on the other hand, wherever we see a revival of religious faith and feeling, it has been as invariably preceded by a recurrence to the simplicity of the gospel. The ecclesiastical history of every age of the christian church, and the aspect of every region of christendom at the present day, afford illustrations and confirmations of this truth. Given the amount of infidelity in any country or any age, you may know the amount of the previous infringements upon the gospel. Given the amount of infringements upon the authority of gospel, you may know the amount of the consequent infidelity.

We are thus met by this extraordinary fact, that, in every age, the doctrines first promulgated by Galileans long before, have more influence over the mind of that age, than any which it can produce for itself,that any attempt to alter, and amend, and modernize these doctrines, is always attended with a diminution of their power, that a return to these doctrines in their primitive simplicity, is always attended with a correspondent increase of their power. What are the almost inevitable inferences from this? We can scarcely avoid the two following: 1st, That the fluctuations in the history of the church, arise either from

human depravity which hates, or human fallibility which distrusts, the power of the simple gospel, and which have led the church to make innovations upon that simplicity and integrity; and, 2nd, That a doctrine which has proved itself to be so entirely adapted to the conditions of every age, that every change has but diminished that adaptation, and every return to its simplicity has but increased it, that such a doctrine must be divine.

There are two considerations connected with the subject of this paper, a full discussion of which would have extended it to too

great length; we merely allude to them therefore, leaving the reader to expand and develope them for himself. 1st, Is not the inherent vitality, the essential truth, of the christian religion proved by its power of resuscitation? Can we conceive of an obsolete fiction which has fallen into contempt and rejection, again reviving, in the progress of civilization, so as again to become a living principle in the minds of men? 2nd, Can we otherwise account for the progressive and expansive power which christianity manifests at the present day, otherwise than by admitting that it possesses a principle of life and truth ?

ALLY FISHER.

BY FANNY FORRESTER.

Study, study, study!
Trudge, trudge, trudge!
Sew, sew, sew!

Oh, what a humdrum life was that of little Ally Fisher! Day in, day out, late and early, from week's end to week's end, it was all the same. Oh, how Ally's feet and head and hands ached! and sometimes her heart ached, too,-poor child!

Her

Ally was not an interesting little girl; she had no time to be interesting. voice, true, was very sweet, but so plaintive! Beside, you seldom heard it; for little Ally Fisher's thoughts were so constantly occupied, that it was seldom they found time to come up to her lips. No, Ally was not interesting. She had never given out the silvery, care-free, heart laugh, which we love so to hear from children: she could not laugh; for, though sent to earth, a disguised ministering angel, vice had arisen between her and all life's brightness, and clouded in her sun. And how can anything be interesting on which the shadow of vice rests ? Instead of mirth, Ally had given her young spirit to sorrow; instead of the bright flowers springing up in the pathway of blissful childhood, the swelling, bursting buds of Hope that make our spring-days so gay, Ally looked out upon a desert with but one oasis. Oh, how dear was that bright spot, with its flowers all fadeless, its waters sparkling, never failing, living, its harps, its crowns, its sainted ones, its white-winged throng, its King. The King of heaven!

-that kind Saviour who loved her, who watched over her in her helplessness, who counted all her tears, lightened all her burdens, and was waiting to take her in his arms and shelter her for ever in his bosom. Little Ally Fisher had indeed one pure, precious source of happiness; and that was why the grave did not open beneath her childish feet, and she go down into it for rest, worn out by her burden of sorrow, want, and misery. Yet Ally was not interesting. When other children were out playing among the quivering, joyful summer shadows, she sat away behind her desk in the school-room, sew, sew, sewing, till her eyes ached away back into her head, and her little arm felt as though it must drop from the thin shoulder. "Odd ways these for a child! How disagreeably mature! It is a very unpleasant thing to see children make old women of themselves!" Ah, then, woe to the sin-woe to the sinner who cheats a young heart of its spring!

Neither was Ally beautiful;-her face was so thin and want - pinched, and her great eyes looked so wobegone! How could Ally be beautiful, with such a load of care upon her, crushing beneath its iron weight the rich jewels which God had lavished upon her spirit? It is the inner beauty that shines upon the face,-and all the flowers of her young heart had been blasted. Her curls were glossy enough, but you could not help believing, when you looked upon them, that misery nestled in their deep shadows; her eyes were of the softest, meekest brown, fringed with rich sable, but

to full of misery! Her complexion was transparently fair, with a tinge of blue, instead of the warm, generous heart-tide which belongs to childhood and youth; all her features were pinched and attenuated; her hands were small, and thin, and blue; and her little figure, in its scanty, homely clothing, looked very much like a weed which has stood too long in the autumn time. So frail! so delicate! so desolate !

And did anybody love little Ally Fisher? the busy bee-the humdrum worker-the forlorn child who was neither interesting nor beautiful? Was there anybody to love her? No one but her mother-a poor, sadlooking woman, who wore a faded green bonnet and a patched chintz frock, and never stopped to smile or shake hands with anybody, when she walked out of the village church. This desolate, sad-hearted woman, with her bony figure and sharpened facethis Dame Fisher, whom the boys called a scare-crow, and the girls used to imitate in tableaux-this strange woman, seeming in her visible wretchedness, scarce to belong to this bright, beautiful world, bore a measureless, exhaustless fountain of love behind the faded garments and the ugly person; and she lavished all its holy wealth on poor little Ally. Ally had a father, too; but he did not love her. He loved nothing but the vile grog-shop at the corner of the street, and the brown earthen jug which he yet had humanity or shame enough to hide away in the loft. Ah, now you see why Ally Fisher was unhappy! Now you see the vice in whose shadow the stricken child matured so rapidly! Now you are ready to exclaim with me, "Poor, poor Ally Fisher! God help her!"

"Ay, God help her!"

Ally tried very hard to help herself; but her mother was always very feeble, and there were several little ones younger than herself. What could poor Ally do? She went to school-that she would do, because she never could accomplish anything at home in that small, crowded room, with all those thin-faced, miserable little creatures about her; but she took her sewing with her, and every moment that she could steal from her books was devoted to earning bread.

Dame Fisher had looked earnestly forward to the time when Ally would be old enough and learned enough to vary the monotonous character of her employment, and preside in the capacity of teacher over

the little school just over the hill. These mothers are so dotingly hopeful! How could she think of it, and Ally the child of a drunkard? To be sure, this was the only vice of which Billy Fisher had ever been guilty. He had never defrauded his neighbour; he had never, in better days, when some who now despised him were in his power, been oppressive to the poor; he had harmed no one, nor wished harm to any; he had only degraded his own nature almost to a bestial level, and poured out a vessel of shame upon his family. Enough, to be sure; but then Ally-she had always been a gentle, patient, toiling, faultless child, and why must she suffer for her father's sin? What! the daughter of the drunken vagabond, Billy Fisher, a teacher of their children! What a presuming minx she must be! The idea was preposterous! She must find other means of supplying herself with the finery she was prinking in of late; let her go into the kitchen where she belonged! Poor Ally! she had wrought till midnight for a fortnight, to prepare herself for presentation to these same fault-finders; and if she had not, they would have called her ragamuffin. Where shall we look for a reasonable man ?

Ally was much distressed. To be sure, it was the breaking up of a long-cherished dream, and the severer that this had been the only dream she had ever dared to cherish; but the poor girl had a holy resource, and she did not repine. She went from the door where the one hope of her life had been cruelly crushed, with a swelling heart and faltering step. Over the stile across the way, the little blue eyes of the springviolets were looking up lovingly from beds of moss; the freed streams were dancing gaily, flashing and sparkling in the sunlight; and on a brown maple bough, where leafbuds were swelling ready to burst with life, a little bird, the first spring-bird, carolled as blithely as though it might thus bring Eden to a desolate, disappointed, sorrowing heart. Ally Fisher heard it, and the tears broke over their fringed boundaries and fell in a sparkling shower upon her bodice. Then she crossed the stile, and the stream, and passed the trees, till she found a solitary nook away in the heart of the wood; and there she knelt and prayed. How strong was Ally Fisher when she left her retreat! The arm of Him who is almighty was about her.

Ally Fisher passed with quite as light a foot as usual over the dried leaves through

which the tender spring-blades were peeping, and beyond the border of the wood, till she came within sight of one of our beautiful central lakes on the border of which the young green was striving with the pallid spoils of last year's frost. Ally Fisher was not very observing-she was too thoughtful to be observing; but as she emerged from the wood she saw a person, probably a nurse, walking near the lake with a little girl, who danced, and prattled, and clapped her tiny hands, now bounding from the path, now half-hiding her little head in the woman's dress, and then running forward with all the guileless glee of a bird or butterfly. Ally looked at her, and felt the warm tears creeping to her eyes. Why had she never been thus happy? And why should that terrible shadow which had rested on her cradle, darken at this point, so full of strange, wondrous interest, now when she

was

"Standing with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet;
Gazing, with a timid glance,

On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse."

The tears crept to Ally's eyes; but they had no time to fall. She heard a shriek, and saw the woman cowering over the verge of the lake, her hands clasped as though in an ecstasy of agonized fear.

"The child!" thought Ally, as she sprang forward, new life in every limb and lighting up her eye. She was right. The little one was just rising to the surface after her first terrible plunge; Ally caught a glimpse of a pale, agonized face, then a fold of scarlet; and then all disappeared except the successive rings formed by the rippling water. "It is not deep, not very deep," she said half to herself, half to the careless nurse, "if I were only taller!" She stepped into the water carefully, as though to insure in the outset a firm footing. Another step, and the water grew deeper-anotheranother-the water had arisen above her waist, and her slight figure seemed swayed by its undulations. Dare she go farther? Oh, the lake was so still-only a ripple on its surface; and a life-a life at stake! Again on, one more step-the little scarlet dress appeared just before her. But one short step more!-she falters, reels-ah, she grasps it! now Ally! see, she pauses deliberately to steady herself! Her presence of mind, even in the moment of triumph,

has not forsaken her, and her foot is still firm. She returns slowly, safely, to the shore; and sinks, with her recovered human treasure, at the feet of the terrified nurse.

Ally Fisher opened her large, wondering eyes upon a strange scene. Her head lay upon a pillow of rich purple velvet; and, she turned from her singular couch to magnificent folds of drapery; heavy golden cords half hidden in their soft shadows; rich, massive furniture, the use of which she did not understand-all wonders of this magic palace-quite unheeding a kind face which bent anxiously over her.

Oh, I was so careless and you so good!" was the first exclamation she heard; and then from a sofa at the other side of the room came a pale, beautiful lady, and whispered, "Dear child! God bless her!" in low, tremulous tones, as though the terror had not yet gone from her heart.

"Does she recover ?" enquired another voice. It was that of a man; and, though strong, there was now a subdued tremor in it, which gave evidence that the string on which it vibrated had been lately jarred by fear and sorrow. "Does she recover? This noble deed has made her ours as Marcia is. She shall never go back to that poor hovel again."

My mother !" was Ally's answering exclamation. "Oh, she will be so frightened! I must go to my mother now." It was in vain that the lady and her husband, and even the attending physician, insisted on her remaining, at least until she was quite recovered; and offered to send for her mother. Ally arose to her feet and smiled her usual sad smile.

"I am well, quite well. It didn't hurt me any; I was only frightened because I thought the poor little girl was dead. To be sure, I shouldn't fear the dead, but when I had her in my arms- Are you sure she will get well?"

"She will; and it was you who saved her

life."

Ally shuddered. "Oh! her cheek was so cold! just like little Willie's. But you say she will get well, and I am very glad; though sometimes I think it would be a pleasant thing to die and go to heaven where Jesus Christ is.-It is so dreary here!" she added in a pitiful tone and half musingly.

Dame Fisher was surprised to see the family carriage of the Burnells draw up at her humble door, and more still surprised when her own Ally, all in strange garb "a

world too wide," sprang from it, her pale face really brilliant with excitement. Ally's large eyes were larger than ever, and the heart's light was centred beneath their jetty fringes; while her mouth, the lips no longer pale, was wreathed with unusual smiles.

"Oh, mother! I have saved a life! is not God kind to let me do so great a thing!"

Strange that neither Ally nor her mother thought of the lost school that night, heavy as the disappointment was! Nay, is it strange? They thought of it in the morning, however, and then dame Fisher was much sadder than Ally was.

"So you are to sew your life away," she said despondingly; "my poor, poor Ally!" "No, mother; God will take care of me." It was not noon when the family carriage of the Burnells again appeared at the door of Billy Fisher's miserable cottage.

"Mrs. Burnell. It may be, Ally, she will get you the school-these rich people have so much influence."

Mrs. Burnell came to offer Ally, as her husband had promised in his first lively emotion of gratitude, a splendid home.

"You shall share with little Marcia in everything," she said. "You shall even divide our love. More, you are older, and you shall be considered in every thing the elder daughter. Come and live with us, dear; for we should have had no child but for you."

Ally looked at her mother, whose thin face now glowed with gratified ambition; glanced at the broken walls of the miserable hovel she called home; turned from one little half-starved figure to another; and then, approaching the lady, said in a low, firm tone, "You are very kind, and I will pray God to bless you for it; but I must not go away from here!"

"Must not?"

"Must not, Ally!" exclaimed the surprised, disappointed mother.

Ally's voice became choked. "This is a very poor place-I never knew how poor until I went into some of the grand houses; but I have always lived in it, and—”

"But the sewing, and that terrible pain in your side, dear!" interrupted the matron.

"It will be better soon, I think; and may be I shall not have to sew as much now Mary is getting bigger."

"But, Ally-"

"Mother, don't drive me away from home."

"We will give you a home," pleaded the

lady, "the home you saw yesterday. There you shall have everything you can wish; things much more beautiful than you have ever seen in your life; and little Marcia, whose life you saved, will love you, and so will we all."

"Then who will love my poor, poor mother?" And Ally burst into tears.

At the commencement of the conference a head had been raised from a pile of bedcovering in a corner of the room, and a red, bloated face looked out on the group with vague wonder. Soon an expression of intelligence began to lighten up the heavy eyes, and now and then a trace of something like emotion appeared upon the face. At Ally's last words there was for a moment a strange, convulsive working of the features, and the head fell heavily back upon the pillow.

It was in vain that both the lady and dame Fisher pleaded. Ally's firm, modest answer was ever the same. "Oh, it was nothing; I couldn't let the little girl drown, when it was so easy to go into the water. It was nothing; so I do not deserve that beautiful home. I shouldn't be of any use there either, and here I am needed."

"But I will give you five times the money you could earn by sewing," urged the lady, "and you shall bring it all here."

Ally was for a moment staggered.

"So you would help us more by going than by staying," added the dame, quite forgetful of self while so anxious for her child's welfare.

"But mother, who would hold your head when it aches, and bathe your temples, and kiss away the pain, and then sit and watch you while you sleep? And when the trouble comes, who would try to make it light, and help you to find all the happy things to weigh against it? And who would sit with you at evening, when you are so lonely? Who, mother, would read the Bible to you, for you told me but yesterday that your eyes were failing? and who would-would love you, mother? Oh, don't send me away! All those beautiful things would only make me sorry if you could not have them too; and so you must let me stay here in the old house; for it is the only place where I can be happy. God would not love me if I were to leave you with all the children to care for, and none to comfort you when you are sad."

The lady's eyes were quite suffused with the heart's-dew, as, with a mental blessing on the young girl's head, and a silent deter