thee, nor forsake thee." "Fear the Lord, ye his saints; for there is no want to them that fear him. The young lions do lack and suffer hunger; but they that seek the Lord shall want no good thing.” Jehovah-jireh! the Lord will provide.

My presence shall go with thee to comfort thee, and I will give thee rest from sorrow. However you may be stripped, you shall not be destitute of consolation. Though the figtree shall not blossom, nor fruit be in the vine, you shall rejoice in the Lord, and joy in the God of your salvation. His presence is a substitute for any creature; it can more than repair every loss. Some leave us from want of principle; some from infirmity, rather than depravity. Death abridges our circles. Who can look back over a few years, and not exclaim, "Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintances into darkness ?" Yet if the lamps be extinguished, the sun continues. If the streams fail, we have the fountain. Are the consolations of God small with thee? In the multitudes of thy thoughts within thee, do not his comforts delight thy soul!

But oh! when I shall gather up my feet into the bed, and turn my face to the wall,-then, all creatures withdrawn, and flesh and heart failing,-oh! what can support me in the prospect, and, above all, in the experience of that event? Be of good courage. He who is with thee in the wilderness will be with thee at the swellings of Jordan, and open a way through the flood, and give thee a dry-shod passage over into the land flowing with milk and honey. He who has been with thee in life, will be still more with thee in death. And therefore you may boldly say with one before you, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

From this hour, let me never forget this blessed promise,

"My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest." Let me believe it with a faith unfeigned. Let me ascertain my title to it. Let me plead it before the throne of grace. Let me apply it in my perplexities, my apprehensions, my anxieties, my sorrows. Let me bind it about my neck, and write it upon the table of my heart, that when I go, it may lead me; when I sleep, it may keep me; and when I awake, may talk with me.

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VISITATION OF THE POOR.

WE are told in Scripture, "Blessed is he that considereth the poor." To this truth we can heartily say, Amen, including what doubtless was intended, visiting the poor. This gratification must be experienced before it can be known, but it is one of the highest kind, draws out the best feelings of our nature; and in doing good to others we in fact do good to ourselves. This work is not for the praise of man, and if performed in a right spirit, shall return a hundredfold to him who so follows the path of our beloved Lord and Master. We meet oftentimes amongst the poor such simplicity, natural frankness, warmth of heart, and genuine gratitude, and hear in their touching tale so many instances of God's gracious dealings towards them, that we may well stand amazed to see how wonderfully they are carried on from day to day, and brought through their various distresses. Those lose a great deal, who hold no intercourse with them, though we hardly think a devoted Christian would be wilfully lacking in this particular. This pleasure,

for we must call it one, is more or less in the reach of all. We may not be able to give much of the gold or silver, but we can read and pray; and in extending our sympathy and opening our own hearts, how far may not God open out to us. This is the recompense we look for, and shall obtain; the remembrance of such visits, too, is refreshing. I recall one opportunity some time since. When passing through a lovely part of England, I had to go through a long glen, with rocks covered with wood on either side; a beautiful stream ran along the bottom of this sweet spot, for the distance of two miles; the scene so unexpected reminded me of Switzerland; brilliant was the day, the sun shone forth in all its magnificence, and every thing looked smiling and beauteous around. I felt thankful to be permitted such earthly enjoyment, and my heart went out in praise to the Giver of so many mercies. I thought no human being was nigh, but my eye was speedily attracted by the appearance of three humble, but neat cottages; outside of which were placed benches for the traveller to rest, if weary. I did not, however, avail myself of this comfort, but chose rather to enter one of these simple dwellings. The room was beautifully clean, and all arranged in good and comfortable order. Near the window, where grew the sweet rose and jessamine, sat an aged woman, evidently a widow, who arose and invited me to sit down. I soon entered into conversation with her, and found she had been bereft of her husband two years, who seemed to have departed in the faith, leaving behind, what only he had to give, his blessing; very short had been his illness, and without his daily labour, she had none near to look for help. Her good daughter, however, for she had one, came to her, leaving the place she had filled as a domestic, with much credit to herself, gave all her saved earnings to her widowed mother, and all her affectionate heart. When

the mite was nearly exhausted, God raised up a friend, in a stranger who came into the neighbourhood, and who soon united his lot with the good daughter, cheering his motherin-law's home whenever he could leave his work, which was at some distance, but would on no account remove her dutiful child from her. "See," said the old creature, "how the Lord hath provided for me, now I am deprived of my husband; and now let me show you my little grandchild," who was lying in his cot fast asleep. Here was the earthly loss made up! My aged friend could not read; and, far away from church or chapel, could not have the privilege of hearing, and rarely did a good angel, in the form of a minister, come to speak to her. She joyfully acceded to my request to read a chapter with her; and though she expressed her feelings rudely, yet there appeared a real desire in her heart for the living water. We talked together of the suffering, but now risen and glorious Saviour; of the only hope and strength coming from him; of his love to poor sinners, and willingness to receive all who draw nigh to the foot of the cross. I seem to see the lighting up of that aged face, and the smile that beamed on the wrinkled visage, while the tear started in her yet clear blue eye; a chord had evidently touched her heart, not to be disguised. Ah! thought I, the same wonderful grace, which hath appeared to so many, hath come to this lowly abode. Blessed be God, the Friend of the poor, the widow, and the fatherless! What a sympathy arose in my own heart, as we afterwards knelt down together to give thanks for light given, and to implore for grace and peace to come. When we arose, I said, "You will not forget our meeting to-day ?" "Ah, no;" she replied, "I will never forget you till I die." How grateful and how touching! As I parted from her and pursued my way, I thought who could withhold from visiting the poor, when such a gratifi

cation may be the result; and why may not our hearts be continually refreshed and warmed by such living testimonies amid God's poor and afflicted ones? Hath he not chosen the poor of this world, rather than the rich and mighty; and shall we not search them out? All may not be like this poor widow; but if permitted to speak and visit, we can hardly fail of some good being accomplished. Gentle reader, try and follow this work, in dependance upon Him who once said, "Go thou and do likewise."

THE TIDE OF GRACE.

LET me now urge on you the advantage and duty of improving to the utmost every season of heavenly visitation. There are seasons more favourable and full of grace than others. In this there is nothing surprising, but much that is in harmony with the common dispensations of Providence. Does not the success of the farmer, seamen, merchant-of men in many other circumstances-chiefly depend on their seizing opportunities which come and go like showerswhich flow and ebb like the tides of ocean? The sea is not always full. Twice a-day she deserts her shores, and leaves the vessels high and dry upon the beach; so that they who would sail must wait and watch, and take the tide; and larger ships can only get afloat, or, if afloat, get across the bar and into the harbour, when, through a favourable conjunction of celestial influences, the sea swells in stream or spring-tides beyond her common bounds. The seaman has his spring-tides; the husbandman has his spring-time; and those showers, and soft winds, and sunny hours, on the