do we think any labour great, or any way long, to hear a greater than Solomon? How justly shall the queen of the south rise up in judgment, and condemn us who may hear Wisdom crying in our streets, and neglect her.

Finding herself unsatisfied, she betakes herself to this oracle of God. It is a good thing to doubt, but it is better to be resolved; the mind that never doubts shall learn nothing; the mind that ever doubts shall never profit by learning. Our doubts only serve to stir us up to seek truth; our resolutions settle us in the truth we have found. It is not safe to suffer doubts to dwell too long on the heart: there may be good use of them as passengers, they are dangerous as inmates: happy are we, if we can find a Solomon to remove them.

Fame, as it is always a blab, so ofttimes a liar. This great queen comes in person to examine the truth of foreign relations. How much more unsafe is it, in the most important business of our souls, to trust the opinions and reports of others! Those ears and eyes are ill bestowed that do not serve to choose and judge for their owners.

When we come to a rich treasure, we need not be bidden to carry away what we are able. She knew that she could not every day meet with a Solomon; and therefore she makes her best use of so learned a master. It is not good to neglect the opportunities of furnishing our souls with profitable, with saving knowledge. What use do we make of Solomon's Teacher, if, sitting at the feet of Christ, we leave our hearts either ignorant or perplexed? She confessed both her unjust unbelief, in not believing the report of his wisdom, and the injury of report in underrating it. That is not worth the name of wisdom, which may be heard only, and not seen. Good discourse is but the froth of wisdom; the pure and solid substance of it is in well-framed actions; "If we know these things, happy are we if we do them."

And if this great person admired the wisdom, the buildings, the domestic order of Solomon, and chiefly his stately ascent into the house of the Lord, how should our souls be taken up with wonder at thee, O thou true Son of David, and Prince of everlasting Peace, who receivedst the Spirit not by measure! who hast built this glorious house, not made with hands, even the heaven of heavens! whose

infinite providence hath sweetly disposed of all the family of thy creatures, both in heaven and earth! and who, lastly, didst ascend up on high, and leddest captivity captive, and gavest gifts for men!"

It is not easy to conceive, how great a blessing it is, to live under those lips, which do both preserve knowledge, and utter it. O God, how much hast thou loved thine Israel for ever, in that thou hast set over it that righteous Branch of Jesse, whose name is, "Wonderful, Counsellor, the Mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace, in whose days Judah shall be saved, and Israel shall dwell safely!"

The queen of Sheba did not bring her gold and precious stones to look on, or to carry home again, but to give to a wealthier than herself: she gives therefore to Solomon a hundred and twenty talents of gold, besides costly stones and odours. He, that made silver in Jerusalem as stones, yet has rich presents from all hands. The rivers still run into the sea; to him that hath shall be given. How should we bring unto thee, O thou King of heaven, the purest gold of thine own graces, the sweetest odours of our obediences! Was not this withal a type of that homage which should be done unto thee, O Saviour, by the heads of the nations? "The kings of Tarshish and of the isles shall bring presents; the kings of Sheba and Seba shall offer gifts; yea, all kings shall fall down before thee; all nations shall serve thee." They cannot enrich themselves, but by giving unto

thee.

Solomon returns to her according to the liberality of a king. We shall be sure to be gainers by whatsoever we give unto thee, O thou God of wisdom and peace! Oh that we could come from the remote regions of our unbelief and ' worldliness, to learn wisdom of thee, who both teachest and givest it abundantly, without upbraiding, without grudging; and could bring with us the poor presents of our faithful desires and sincere services! how wouldst thou receive us with a gracious acceptation, and send us away laden with present comfort, with eternal glory! From Bp. Hall.

SECOND CHILDHOOD.

THE meek old man sat in the great arm chair by the fire,

surrounded by a group of light-hearted young people, his grandchildren; his hair was as white as flax, and hung on each side his faded face.

Near fourscore winters had furrowed his brow. For many years he had sojourned in a foreign clime. He had now returned over the wide world of waters to lay his bones in the land of his fathers, but the remembrance of the past had well nigh escaped from his memory. His eye was glazed, his strength decayed, his memory fitful; he was in his second childhood.

He sat leaning forward, bending his filmy eye on vacancy, and striking his thigh with his right hand without intermission. He talked, but in an unconnected way, of the raging billows of the gulph of Mexico, which some time ago he had passed, and then with a querulous voice, he chaunted a verse of a hymn or psalm.

I had known him in the pride of manhood, when his strength and intellect were in full vigour.

The young people were trying to amuse him: he talked with them, and laughed with them like a child. At one time, he put his hand on the head of a grandson, saying, "My pretty fellow;" at another, on the brow of a granddaughter, repeating the words, "Bless you." But his mind sadly wandered.

A cup of toast and water stood beside him, for he was feverish; he drank it up, but so defective was his memory, that the empty cup was taken up again twenty times over to drink. I had known, as I said before, the meek old man in his prime of manhood, when his strength and intellect were in full vigour, and now that the faculties of his body and mind were enfeebled, I regarded him with a mournful, yet affectionate interest.

All at once he grasped his hands firmly together, and, raising his eyes, in a manner strikingly reverential, began to repeat the words, "Our Father which art in heaven." Without a single mistake, he went through the whole of the Lord's prayer, though on common subjects he could not have repeated three connected sentences.

As I gazed upon him, it forcibly occurred to my mind, that a very few revolving years, if I were permitted to live so long, would rob me of the faculties I possessed, and that, sitting, like the meek white haired servant of God before

me, I might perhaps be seen talking with children in a state of second childhood.

It may be that you, my reader, have seen the feeble frame and decayed faculties of an aged man drawing near the borders of the grave. It is an humbling sight for a proud man to gaze upon, or for one who boasts of the powers of human reason, and trusts therein. The thin gray hair, the dim eye, the faltering step, the failing memory, and the wandering mind proclaim, as with an audible voice, that the time is come when man is about to go to his long home: when "the dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it."

The spectacle of decaying nature is fearful to all who look not beyond the grave. The strong, the wise, the rich, and the great, may well tremble at the wasted limb and disordered intellect of second childhood, for strength and worldly wisdom, and riches, and greatness, are annihilated by death. The Christian alone can regard the bodily tenement of man tottering to its fall, with composure and even with joy, and exclaim, with holy confidence in the promises of the gospel, "I know that my Redeemer liveth," and, "though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God."

NOT YET.

A SHORT and true history will explain the reason for adopting this title. A tradesman actively engaged in the pursuits of this world, had met with great success in his various undertakings. His business flourished, and he was enabled to support a large family in comfort. This thriving man was, on one occasion, led to hear a faithful minister of the gospel, and under his sermon he was greatly alarmed. He felt that the gospel was true; his conscience told him that he was unprepared for death; the preacher affectionately reminded his hearers of the danger of delay, and pointed them to Jesus Christ as the only and almighty Saviour. This man was in a state of great anxiety; death and judgment, heaven and hell, time and eternity were all before his mind. What do you suppose was his language! strange to say, it was, "Not yet." He wished a little more time for sin and the world. On leaving God's house,

He

he could not forget the sermon: it tingled in his ears. met his family, and endeavoured to check his fears and to forget the admonition he had received. The next morning he arose from his bed, and was soon busy in the world, but he could not forget the sermon: it seemed to say, "Now is the accepted time;" but his wicked heart said, "Not yet." A day or two after the sabbath the preacher called on his hearer; his very presence revived the impressions of the sermon. The man looked at his business, and it said, "Not yet;" he looked at his family, and they said, "Not yet;" he looked at his friends, and they said, "Not yet." But why did they say so; oh! it was because the sinner was unwilling to give up the profits of a sinful occupation, and he fancied that the duty he owed to his family justified his continuing in sin, and in this course his worldly friends supported him. This poor convinced, but unchanged man, still went on in the course that he knew to be wrong. What has been the result? The writer cannot say; he must leave that point; he fears that thousands find out when it is too late, that the greatest folly is for an immortal soul to exclaim, "Not yet," when all things seem to cry out, "We know not what a day may bring forth."

Reader, has this little tale led you to look at yourself? Has it reminded you of the manner in which you have trifled with God's truth, with your own soul, with eternity? Are you young? you have heard the kind invitation, My son, give me thine heart." What was your reply? I am young but will think of eternal things hereafter, "Not yet," was your language. Perhaps it has pleased God to knock again and again at the door of your heart, by bodily affliction, the death of a parent, the loss of a sister or a brother; and when your heart appeared to be softened, the merciful Saviour said to you, My son, wilt thou not from this time cry unto me, My father, thou art the guide of my youth?" What has been your reply? "Not yet." Take care lest you should utter these words once too often, and find out, when it is too late, that your eternal state is fixed for ever in woe. Your language will not then be, "Not yet," but, "How have I hated instruction, and my heart despised reproof," Prov. v. 12.

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Is the reader an aged person? What has your language been through a long life? Have you also said, "Not yet,"