He was made out of "the dust of the ground." His fabric is composed of the same dust as the grovelling worm. God put honour upon man when he "breathed" into him, and made him "a living soul," and this should have caused man to live that he might praise God's goodness; but instead of doing so, man made himself vile and loathsome in God's sight.

Poor, proud man, remember thou art but " dust." Thou scornest to touch that of which thou art made. Thou thinkest thyself to be great and noble, and forgettest that thou art daily treading on the material out of which thou at first wast fashioned. Consider, poor proud man, how frail thou art. Thy life is but of short duration, and thou hast no power over thine own spirit. Thou art, poor, foolish man, spending thy life only to increase thy sin and misery all the time thou remainest a rejector of Christ. Thou art unspeakably vile by reason of thy sin against God. Thy sins have set thee at the utmost distance from the glory of God, and completely soil and spoil everything that is in thee which of itself is worthy of consideration.

"WHAT IS MAN?" A creature of the dust; a frail mortal; a vile sinner; a poor, undeserving wretch; a speck of sinful "dust and ashes" in the sight of a holy God. Everything in man, and everything belonging to man, should tend to humble him. Alive to-day, he is dead to-morrow; if he is quiet one moment, he is troubled the next; he is constantly fearing, caring, causelessly rejoicing, always sinning, and at his best estate, is "altogether vanity."

The nature of man is totally and wholly corrupted. No man has anything good within him naturally. Man is a creature "dead in trespasses and sins," and unless "quickened" by the Holy Spirit, is incapable of performing a single action pleasing in the sight of God. Man never will be made good until he first sees himself to be wholly bad. The first work of God's Spirit is to convince man of sin. Man never will do anything acceptable to God, until he first sees he can do nothing.

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"WHAT IS MAN?" Man, when united to the Lord Jesus Christ by faith, is the noblest of all God's creatures. Viewed in himself, he is altogether worthless, abominable, and corrupt, but viewed in Christ, he is a new creature." No longer an enemy, he is now a "friend of God." No longer an alien, he is now a "child of God." No longer a lost sinner, he is now a redeemed saint. No longer covered with the "filthy rags" of his own righteousness, he is now clothed upon with "the righteousness of God." No longer a bond-slave to the devil, he is now "an heir of God," a "joint-heir with Christ."

Dear Reader, if thou wouldst have a glorious and dignified manhood, go to Jesus, and trust in him for salvation; for he saveth sinners.

"FAITH WITHOUT WORKS IS DEAD.”

BY REV. W. FRITH, NEW BEXLEY.

FAITH is a principle in every Christian. It is, too, a heavenly principle, and, as such, must have a corresponding out-growth. Every heavenly principle in the Christian must be operative and influential for good. It is allied to his spiritual life, and, as such, must have a development. It is mentioned by Paul as one of the "fruits of the Spirit" (Gal. v. 22). And if it is so, however mysterious it may be in its nature, it is a real spiritual principle, and, as such, it must have some visible manifestation in "works of faith, and labours of love." Life in the root will give buds in the branch, sap, and life, and vigour, and strength in the tree, and blossom and fruit "in due season." So, if we have that faith which "is of the operation of God," we shall see those who have it "revive as the corn, and grow as the vine, and put forth their roots like Lebanon." If it is not so, we have a right to infer that "it is dead, being alone." Alas! in how many is this the case! How many "barren fig trees" there are in the vineyard! How often there is "only a name to live! Should not these solemn facts arouse us to a close, personal examination as to whether "

we are

in the faith or not"; or, as to whether we have only faith in name, and not in principle? A dead, lifeless, and fruitless faith, is like dead seed which has lost its vitality; or, like sowing pebble stones, and looking for " green blades." There is no life, power, virtue. But if our faith is of the right kind, it will have its “fruit unto holiness, and its end everlasting life." While "faith without works" is like dead trees in the orchard, which, though they have the vernal shower, the summer dew, and the fructifying sun, and the constant culture of the husbandman, never yield a leaf, a blossom, nor a fig; so, "faith which is of the operation of God," increased by prayer, (Luke xvii. 5), and devolved and rendered fruitful by exercise, "grows like a cedar on Lebanon," and still brings forth fruit in old age, and "flourishes in the courts of our God." It is the evidence of our new life; the proof of regeneration; the guarantee that we are "Israelites indeed"; the consequence of the Spirit's work, and prelude to glory -"receiving the bud of green faith, even the salvation of your souls." The possession of this will make us "work out our own salvation with fear and trembling"; sow beside all waters," and "occupy till he come "; knowing that "they that be wise shall shine as the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever and ever." Faith, if it be in the soul, will, and must work. It will delight to work. Its language is,-"I will run in the way of thy commandments, when thou hast enlarged my heart." It looks to Christ for its strength; it clings to him as its support; it listens to him as its teacher; and receives with meekness the engrafted word, which is able to save the soul.

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Reader, have you this faith? Look, see examine. If thou "art looking unto Jesus," it is so. If thou art saying, "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do? thou hast. O get it nourished and strengthened, to be "faithful unto death."

A SOLEMN FEAST.

BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

On the southern border of France, near the Pyrenean mountains, lay the sunny and romantic kingdom of Navarre. Here, for a long period after the Reformation, the Protestant religion predominated, and found able defenders in the royal family and in the court. Jane, Queen of Navarre, was a most enlightened and pious sovereign. She aimed to extend the kingdom of Christ rather than her own dominion, and to live worthily of an eternal, as well as a temporal diadem. Bishop Burnett well remarks that "she both received the Reformation and brought her subjects to it; " and that "she not only reformed her court, but the whole principality, to such a degree that the Golden Age seemed to have returned under her; or, rather, Christianity appeared again with its primitive purity and luster." She fell a victim to the machinations of the Catholic court of France; for, having been solicited to visit Paris to attend the nuptials of her son and the sister of Charles IX., she was poisoned by perfumes sent to her by an Italian apothecary, at the instance of Catharine de Medicis. History records few deaths so serene and happy. Her mature piety made her reconciled to the allotments of Providence, and the ardency of her faith tinged her heavenly prospects with ineffable brightness. She expatiated most sweetly on spiritual things, and declared that "death was not terrible to her, because it was the way to pass to her eternal rest." She said, "Weep not for me. God by this sickness calls me hence to enjoy a better life; and now I shall enter into the desired haven, toward which this frail vessel of mine has been a long time steering." Her minister asked, "Madam, if it should please God by your sickness to put an end to your pilgrimage, and take you home to himself, as it appears he will, are you willing to go? She replied, with her usual fortitude," With all my heart." Then, madam," continued her adviser, open the eyes of your faith and behold Jesus, your Redeemer, sitting at the right hand of his Father, and reaching out his arms to receive you to himself.

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Are you willing to go to him?" "Yes," was the emphatic answer; “much more willing than to remain in this present world, where I see nothing but vanity." The night before her death she spent with her ministers in holy exercises and frequent devotions. She died in great composure of mind, June 6th. Anno Christi, 1572. On the following August, when the Protestants of France had assembled to celebrate the royal wedding to which we alluded, occurred the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, and in this many of her coadjutors in the work of the Reformation perished. Had the good queen lived, life would have had few attractions for her after the tolling of the bell of St. Germain.

The religious persecutions in France, following the Reformation, led many French Protestants to seek an asylum at Navarre. Among these was James Faber Stapulensis, an eloquent divine, whose erudite writings in defence of the reformed religion had excited the enmity of the court. An ascetic course of living, favourable to longevity, had protracted his life to one hundred and one years; and, although he was a valetudinary, he retained his faculties in a remarkable manner, and could glance back over the vicissitudes of a century with a clear eye and a retentive memory. He came to the principality during the reign of Jane of Navarre. To show her respect for his age, learning and piety, she sent for him to dine with her on a certain day, and invited many illustrious and pious men to be present, in order to enrich the social pleasures of the banquet. The venerable exile sat down to the feast, and seemed lost in contemplation. His dejected countenance gave unmistakeable evidence that unquiet thoughts were occupying his mind. The queen, observing his sadness ⚫ and reticence, asked the cause. To which he replied: "How can I, O queen, be cheerful myself, or contribute to the cheerfulness of others, who am the most wicked creature upon the face of the earth." 'But what," asked the queen, can that wickedness be which you have committed who from your youth have appeared to live a most holy life?" He answered: “I have lived to an hundred and one years pure from every stain of lewdness, and do not recollect any thing particularly on the account of which I should fear leaving life with a troubled conscience, except one, which, however, I hope, may be forgiven." Tears gushed from his eyes and his voice failed, overcome by his emotions. He presently continued: How shall I appear before the high tribunal of God, who have sincerely instructed others in his Holy gospel, and rendered them more brave and constant in its profession than myself, so that not a few among them have courageously endured a thousand tortures, and even death itself; and yet I, their poor, dastardly minister, contrary to the will of the Lord, have by a shameful flight sought to lengthen out that life which will very soon of itself forsake a decrepit old man, to whom nothing more glorious could have happened than that I should have willingly sealed those divine truths whose power I have so often experienced with that residue of blood that is now creeping in my veins."

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The queen and the guests endeavoured to mitigate his grief by citing texts and examples from Scripture that seemed to justify the course he had pursued. He was greatly comforted; his countenance grew placid, and he said, "Well, then, I see nothing remains but that I should go home to God, having first, if it is agreeable to you, made my will; and I do not choose to defer it, for I perceive the summons from my God is come." Addressing the queen, he said: I appoint you my heir. I bequeath all my books to Mr. Gerard, the minister; and as to my clothes, and all else I have in the world, I give them to the poor. The rest I commit to God." "But in this disposal," said the queen, smiling, "what shall I get by being appointed your heir?" "The care," he replied, "of distributing my effects among the poor." "I accept it," said the queen; "and protest that this heir-ship is more acceptable to me than if my brother had left me the kingdom of France." The old man then signified his desire to take a little sleep; and, taking leave of the guests with a serene and heavenly countenance, he laid down on a couch near at hand. He never rose again;

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but, while the guests were cheerfully conversing, his spirit took its flight to the bosom of his Father.

About a century after the death of Stapulensis, there might have been seen, in a luxurious palace of France, a withered statesman, who had played a conspicuous part in the politics of Europe, a man of measureless ambition, who after many tremendous struggles, had out-distanced all his rivals, and had virtually wielded the sceptre of France. Death confronted him in the zenith of his power. Guenard, his physician, told him he must die. The announcement filled his mind with terror. In a solitary hour he was heard to murmur: "Guenard has said it-Guenard has said it." Dragging his shattered body along the gallery of his palace, and gazing upon the rich paintings that his wealth had collected, he was heard to say:-"Must I quit all these?" Perceiving an attendant near, he continued:- "Look at that Corregio! this Venus, of Titian! that matchless Deluge, of Caracci! Ah, my friend, I must quit them all! Farewell, dear pictures, that I have loved so dearly, and that have cost me so much!" To the queen dowager of France he exclaimed :— "Your favours have ruined me. Were I to live again, I would be a monk rather than a courtier." In this unhappy frame of mind he beheld death waiting at his palace-gates, and stood upon the confines of the unseen world. That man was Cardinal Mazarine. Truly says the proverb::-"The wicked is driven away in his wickedness; but the righteous hath hope in his death."

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GOD'S BITTER CUPS FOR SICK SOULS.

BY REV. THEO. L. CUYLER.

GOD is the wisest and best of physicians. He understands precisely the soul's diseases. He never selects the " wrong bottle," and never gives one drop too much of corrective medicine. My brother, can you not trust your heavenly Father? Do you fear that he will give you poison in his cup of chastisement? Do you try to avoid the draught which he has prepared, and with a wry face push it from you? The cup which your Father gives you, shall you not drink it?"

God often comes to one of his own children, and finds him in sore need of spiritual medication. He has become sick from indulged sin, and eating of forbidden fruit; or else he is utterly debilitated in all his powers and affections. His pulse beats low; his graces are weak. Perhaps this very Christian used to pray for more grace, for more strength, or humility, or patience, or assurance of hope. God takes him at his own word. The Christian asks to be made purer, better, stronger, and more Christ-like. And the very first thing that his heavenly Father does is to mingle for him a cup of bitter disappointments or afflictions. Instead of relieving him, God seems to be smiting him. Instead of increasing his joys and hopes, he seems to be blighting them like Jonah's gourd.

Perhaps this is the way, my reader, that God is treating you. A bitter cup of trial has been commended to your lips. But it is your Father's cup: drink it. What does faith in God mean but just this very thing, that you will trust him though he slay? What is faith but the firm and delightful belief that when God goes into the laboratory of his secret purposes, and mingles for you a bitter draught, he knows just what he is doing, and also just what your soul's disease requireth? It may be bitter, but the disease is worse.

I call you to witness that those confiding souls who have taken God's medicines of trial in the right spirit have found their prayers answered in their afflictions. Behold! the very graces they prayed for-the patience, the meekness, the heavenly-mindedness-were in that cup, that bitter cup! If the cup had not been drunk, the sweet, coveted blessings would have all been lost. If God had not dealt with them precisely as he did, the spiritual disease would have raged on and the soul have been sick unto death. Do not then push away that tear-draught of sorrow which your merciful Father is pressing to your

trembling lips. The cup is encircled with this precious inscription: Whom I love I chasten; all things work together for good to them that love me. you refuse to drink it?

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Oh! what blessings are afflictions to those who can bless God for afflictions! "O!" said a bright-hearted young man, who was tortured with a fatal and painful bodily disease; "when I have the most pain in my body, I have the most comfort in my soul. When Christ suffered he had none but enemies about him, and they gave him gall and vinegar to drink. When I thirst, I have beside me the friend that sticketh closer than a brother. The cup that he gives me, shall I not drink it? I do not doubt but that there is love in the bottom of the cup, though it is bitter in the mouth."

There was a Christian philosophy in this last thought of the suffering youth -that at the bottom of the cup lay the precious blessing. He must, therefore, drink the whole bitter draught in order to reach it. Depend upon it, brethren, that many of the purest and grandest displays of Christian grace can only be reached under a régime of severe trial. Faith's anchor is never so fully tested as in a hurricane. Patience never shines so lustrous as in a midnight of black adversity. Courage never shows so grandly as when death on his "pale horse" is careering down upon us over a battle-field strown with defeat and disaster.

There is a patience of hope, à joy under tribulation, and a sense of the immediate support of Jesus that never can be reached by us when we are in a condition of ease and prosperity. These rich graces lie in the bottom of trial's bitter cup. And God esteems these graces of such priceless value, that he mingles for us just such cups of suffering in order to bring out the graces in their beauty and power. God so esteemed faith in Abraham that he proved it with a knife flashing over the throat of his darling son. He so esteemed patience in Job that he stripped him of all his wealth, and left him the richest soul on all the earth. What a cup of compounded trials did He mingle for the heroic apostle! Yet that apostle gratefully acknowledges that "the trial of his faith, being much more precious than of silver and gold, though it be tried in the fire, would be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ."

Be not surprised, my friend, when God mixes for you a bitter cup. He sees that you need it. Disappointment and bereavement do not put sugar into their cups; they are meant to be bitter. So are the best tonic medicines bitter; but they quicken appetite, and invigorate the system. Many a cup of wormwood has braced a Christian's graces. Many a sore loss has proved an everlasting gain. Bereavements are often full-brimming cups of tears, but they have been a medicine to the soul more healing than the sweetest "balm" in Gilead. God never mingles a cup of trial for one of his children without a merciful purpose. He either means to cure a soul's sicknesses, or to save it from eternal death. The cup which our Father gives us, shall we not drink it?

Let us all be careful how we choose a cup for ourselves, and insist on having it. Children choose confectionery always sooner than medicine; one may bring sickness, the other health. God sometimes lets us have our own selfish way. He left rebellious Israel to their own way when they grew tired of Heaven-sent manna, and lusted for the quails. He sent them the food they asked for, and while the "flesh was yet between their teeth," they were smitten with a terrible plague.

So has many a Christian lusted for what has proved a plague to his soul. I have known professed Christians to choose for themselves a cup of great worldly prosperity; and it made them drunk! There was Satan's sorcery in the cup. Their heads grew dizzy, and they were lifted up with pride. They grew greedy for lucre, fond of fashionable follies, self-indulgent, and neglectful of their religious duties. Prosperity spoiled them. It has ruined thousands in our churches. Ah! had all these foreseen what was in that cup of worldly prosperity, they might well have cried out, "Oh! Father, I pray thee, let this cup pass from me!"