gospel light and liberty? wast thou not often told of this day? and did not conscience warn thee that for all thy sins God would bring thee into judgment? Was there nothing due to me for my goodness? Did I not love, did I not die for thee? Was I not, for thy sake, scourged, mocked, and crucified? Did I not, for thy sake, exchange a throne in heaven for a manger on earth, and the praises of angels for the blasphemies of men? Why then hast thou despised my name, and cast my laws behind thy back? And what answer, O sinner, are you prepared to make to questions like these. Will you dare offer to your Judge those vain and frivolous excuses with which you now quiet your conscience and deceive yourself? Will you dare come to the bar of God, and tell him that he was a hard master; that his law was too severe, that his word was unintelligible, that you could not learn your duty, that you were unable to repent and believe? Consider, oh consider well what answer you are prepared to give, and see that it be such an one as you dare rest your hopes upon, and defend at the bar of a heart-searching Judge. Consider all these things, ye who are now forgetting God, lest he tear you in pieces as a lion, and there be none to deliver; and let this consideration rouse you from your lethargy to lay hold on the hope set before you. Do not stand lingering and delaying as did Lot in Sodom, but suffer me to hasten you as the angels did him; for the wrath of God is upon the state in which you now are, and the fiery storm of Divine vengeance is ready every moment to burst upon your heads. Oh then fly, fly quickly, fly immediately; escape for your lives; look not behind you, but hasten to the mountains pointed out, even to Christ, the eternal Rock of ages, lest ye die. As sure, O sinner, as thy soul liveth, as sure as God lives, there is but a step between thee and death. But flee now unto Christ, and your soul shall live.

Here, my friends, I had intended to have done; but I know not how to leave you; I know not how to desist. Who can behold his fellow creatures, fellow immortals, running headlong the broad road to destruction-eternal, irretrievable destruction, without endeavouring to arrest their progress, and pluck them as brands out of the burnings? If you be not firmly resolved to perish, if you be not bent on death, if you be not in love with hell; I entreat, I beseech, I implore you, for the sake of your own

immortal souls, and by all your hopes of future happiness, to hear me. And yet, what more shall I, what more indeed can I say? If the joys of heaven cannot allure, nor the torments of hell terrify you; if the dying love of the Lord Jesus will not melt, nor the dread of his anger subdue your hearts; how can we hope that any other motives will be more successful? Yet hopeless as is the attempt, fain would I bring some new argument, some more powerful consideration to lead you to prepare for what is before you. Knowing the terrors of the Lord, fain would I persuade you to escape their pains; fain would I urge you, not utterly to destroy yourselves, not to plunge yourselves into remediless ruin, wretchedness, and despair; wretchedness which will be dreadfully aggravated by the reflection that you were warned of its approach, and might once have avoided it. Whatever you may now think, it is not a light thing to dwell with devouring flames; it is no trifle to inhabit everlasting burnings; it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. Oh that you were wise, that you understood this, that you would consider your latter end! But enough; words are vain, and vain are all human efforts. We cannot force you to be wise, we cannot compel you. But I call heaven and earth to witness this day against you, that life and death have been now set before you; that you have been warned of your danger and the remedy; and if you perish, your blood must be upon your own heads.

And now, my friends, what are your resolutions, what answer will you return to him that sent me? Some of you will perhaps adopt the language of the rebellious Jews, and say, As to the word which thou hast spoken unto us this day, we will not regard it; but will certainly do whatsoever goeth out of our mouths. If this be your determination, we may pity you, we may weep for you, we may pray for you, but we cannot help you. You must do

as you please. But if there be any of a different purpose, any who tremble at the word of the Lord, let them retire from the house of God to their closets, and there throwing themselves at the feet of the compassionate Jesus, let them confess their sins, and implore that that blood, which cleanseth from all sin, may be applied to their souls; and they shall, most assuredly, find mercy.

THE FIRST DEBT.

PART II.

IN a pretty village more than two days journey from the great metropolis, that is, before railways brought the world into communicable compass, there dwelt in the second best house, the family of a country surgeon. The vicarage was the best house, with its ivied walls and sheltered garden, and in some quarrelsome little towns the second best frequently falls to the lot of the lawyer; but here, in quiet, peaceable little St. C, the white curtained windows, the respectable door, with the great lion-faced knocker, the straight short gravel walk and little green gate, belonged to the doctor.

The doctor had twelve children, and a rambling, laborious, badly paying practice. It was hard work to "provide things honest in the sight of all men," and very plain clothing, and humble fare, contented the doctor's family. But then they were the doctor's family, and their standing was thereby secure among the upper ranks of St. C. Education was difficult, but somehow the boys got the essentials for a struggle in life, and the girls were useful and presentable. Their mother was a lady in the sensible sense of the word, with the mind and hand of a working woman; and as she never wasted time in pining after impossibilities, made herself and her husband as happy as she could with such things as she had.

The good principle and self-control of both were however a little more than commonly tried, when an advantageous offer for one of their great able boys was made through the kind remembrance of a friend in London. How to accomplish the desired and desirable response they knew not, and Ernest was in daily fevers of hope and fear. The expenses attendant were too heavy. The boy proposed walking to London with his knapsack on his back, as many a fortune seeker, and finder too, had done before him; but he had been ill, was only just recovered, and his father dared not permit him to do it.

The good vicar, their firm and sympathizing friend for many a trying year, pondered the matter, and then came to the rescue.

"I am not rich," he said, as you know, and if I could spare twenty pounds, I ought to give it to the destitute of

my parish this hard winter; but I have a little fund laid up for one of my children, and from that I will venture to lend the necessary sum."

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Ernest, "please to excuse me, but I cannot bear to begin the world with a debt of my father's; it would take the edge off all the pleasure; it is against all his and my mother's principles."

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Well, my boy, it is all I can propose; I wish I could help you better. If it happened that your father could not repay it, I should make it up myself in time."

"It isn't all, sir, if I may speak it. Could you, dare you, sir, lend me the money, and believe that I will repay every penny in time. and not hold my father responsible at all ?"

The vicar looked in the bright, sensible face of the boy. "I can, and I dare, and I will, Ernest," said he, presently; "you will if" repay me

"No 'if' at all, sir; I will repay you with all I can save of my earnings after paying what it may cost me to exist." Ernest, you are hasty-do not disregard my 'if'—if it please God to give you life and health, two necessary things to the fulfilment of your promise, and which you cannot command beyond obedience to the precept to live godly, righteously, and soberly in this present life.' I will trust God and you, Ernest, and I shall hope to hear that you do not forget either of your debts."

Ernest understood, for he and the vicar were no strangers to each other.

"Young man," said his employer, at the close of their first interview in London, "take a word of advice now for your own private benefit. Do not incur a debt; what you cannot pay for, do without until you can pay for it. I don't care for a shabby coat if it does but cover an honest heart."

Ernest felt startled and uncomfortable under this admonition. What would his employer think if he knew of his debt to the kind friend at home? And ought he not to know the truth?

The colour rushed over his face, and conscious of the inquiring look it had excited, he replied,

"Sir, you must not be allowed to think better of me than I deserve; I am already in debt. My father could not afford the expense unavoidably incurred to come here. A friend offered to lend the money, and-"

"Then it is not your debt, but your father's," quickly interrupted the gentleman.

"No, sir, it is my debt. I would not allow my father so to be burdened against his principles and practice for life, and our friend trusted me instead. I shall pay it, sir. -God helping me," he softly added.

"I believe you will-this is then your first debt?” "Yes, sir, and I intend it to be my last."

A few weeks after this, the same gentleman, one of the principals in the firm, entered the office under evident marks of sorrow-looking kindly round towards the desks of his younger clerks.

"Young friends," said he, "despatch what business must be done at once; for I wish you to be present at the summing up of evidence against a prisoner to day, and to hear the judge's speech on passing sentence. Let what you may hear and see make solemn impression on your minds, and remember that he who stands at the bar of earthly justice, once, and not very long ago, sat where you sit now, trusted and unsuspected.'

The young men looked meaningly at each other; Ernest did not understand why, but asked no questions, and with the rest found himself by-and-by in a court of justice. Though everything in such a scene was new to him, he found his interest concentrated on the unhappy prisoner. There he stood, a tall, graceful young man, with features that in happier days must have been pleasant to see, but now overclouded with shame and misery.

"Oh," thought Ernest, anxiously, "I hope he has no parents to be broken-hearted for him now!"

It was so; his parents were dead, and he had disregarded "the instruction of his father, and forsaken the law of his mother." He had been taught his duty to God and man, and true faith in the One would have saved him from in

juring the other. "Owe no man anything," was a Divine precept intimately connected with human happiness and respectability, and he had wrecked both by continuous disobedience. Perhaps it would be better to heed first that comprehensive safe command, "Thou shalt not covet," for the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, are enfolded in that snare, and urge the thoughtless on to debt and danger. But the holy self-resignation involved in conscientious obedience there, can only be had at the fountain-head of truth and honour. God in Christ,