there are many things in his family that do not please him; and he may be taken away suddenly. But why does he not set about a reform, and lace things in such a state as to remove all occaions of disquiet? Why, he is engaged in an extensive business, that requires his undivided attention. Often he is kept awake whole nights by anxiety on account of it; and though he loves his children dearly, he sees them daily acquiring evil habits, and yet does not see how he can do any thing more for them than he has done. He has sent them to the best schools in the land; furnished them with books, clothes, privileges of every kind; and "certainly," he says, "if they don't turn out well it must be their own fault."

And thus days pass away, and weeks, and months, and years, the father having always such a press of business on hand, that he has no time to attend to the improvement or happiness of his family. The 5000 dollar note at the bank must be met; and as to the children, "why Mrs. must attend to them."

Now what is the influence of the man who passes through life thus ? Is he the light of the world? Are all constrained to recognize in him, by his consistent, well-balanced character and habits of life, a friend of Jesus, a pilgrim and a stranger on the earth? What is his daily influence? This is what stamps the man ; it is not how much he gives to this object or that, but what is his temper and spirit every day and hour?

be cultivated at sphere of every No pressure of

This temper and spirit must home; and thus home is the man's first and highest duties. worldly business is sufficient to excuse any one

conceive any influences, independently of those principles of religion which make us new creatures in Christ Jesus, calculated to produce so powerful an impression in preserving from sin, and in guiding to purity and peace.

It is the want of this taste for the pleasures of home, which is the fruitful source of insensibility of heart, and the incentive to every crime. Look at Napoleon, heading the armies of Europe, gigantic in intellect, impetuous in passion, yet a man without a heart and without a home. The two go together. A cheerful home might have given him a warm heart,-a warm heart would certainly have led him to sigh for a cheerful home.

Look at the homeless and heartless Byron. His imagination would bear him upon a wing, which, at times, seemed as tireless as an angel's. He was formed with capacities to drink in unbounded delight, from all the poetry with which creation is filled. He might have made his home one of the happiest and brightest that ever bloomed on earth-but in his early years he had a disgusting home. He became dissatisfied with domestic scenes he sought pleasure in excitement-he plunged into vice-he now is known, but to be detested-he has gone through the world, leaving behind him the desolation of the whirlwind-the distress and corruption of the plague.

The weather-beaten sailor-the child of danger, nursling of the storm, is almost proverbially dissolute. And why?-Because he has no home. He is surrounded by no influences to foster virtue, to elicit pure affection. When he returns,

tempest-tossed, from his weary voyage, no confiding wife bids him welcome-no rejoicing children gather around him. There is no meeting with friends, the anticipation of which causes his heart to throb with joy. The friendless-homeless man, is cut off from those restraints which preserve others from the vice into which he so recklessly plunges.

But home is also the scene of the purest enjoyment that can be found on earth. When "Winter comes to rule the varied year, sullen and sad, with all his rising train, vapours, and clouds, and storms," oh, where can we find richer enjoyment than in the united family, sheltered from the driving storm, in their own peaceful home! The tempest rages without, "wrapt in black gloom;" the wind whistles around the dwelling, and, oh, how sublime is the mournful melody of its song! The snow beats fiercely against the windows, magnifying the warmth and the comfort within, by contrast with the desolations of the storms raging without. The fire burns brightly, sending its cheerful light around. Ah, who has not been constrained, in scenes like these, to say, "There is no paradise like home, sweet home?" How heartless, in comparison, are the joys of him, who in illumined halls of gaiety, or amid the festivities of the midnight club, endeavours to escape thought, and, by transient excitement, to satisfy the desires of an immortal mind! Such an one may have the semblance of happiness, but not the reality. The momentary gleam passes like the lightning in the cloud, leaving blackness and darkness behind. It is not all gold that glitters. It is not every smile that proclaims joy of the heart.

"If happiness have not her seat
And centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest."

It may by some be considered an unfortunate reference to point the attention to Cowper, as an example of the enjoyment which domestic life affords. All will admit that no one could have written "The Task," whose heart was not warm with the relish of domestic joys. The delicacy of mind, the fervour of feeling, the expansion of benevolence, which characterise that most interesting poem, could only have been cherished under the influence of fire-side scenes. A ruder contact with the world, immersion in its pleasures or ambitions, would inevitably have blunted those fine sensibilities.

But it is said that Cowper was, to a very unusual degree, a man of despondency and sorrow. His private history is but a mournful relation of mental sufferings of the most acute nature. This is true every fibre of the poet's soul seemed to shrink instinctively from contact with the world. He was constitutionally sad; and it was the fireside which afforded the only retreat he could find, to soothe the nervous excitement of his feelings. The constitutional despondency of his mind could find no allayment but in the peaceful routine of domestic life: and there he did find comfort.

The tinge of melancholy which suffused his mind, deepened into the gloom of the most deplorable delirium, as soon as he was exposed to the excitements of bustling life. The delicate feelings of his soul could not endure the contact with earth's cold blasts; and, had it not been for the