strong for me, I cannot subdue it, or free myself from it. Never did the Publican's prayer suit any one better than it does me at this moment, "God be merciful to me a sinner." Some sins I always hate, and all sin in others, but there are some sins to which I feel my heart secretly inclining. My whole soul is not set against all sin in myself, at least not at all times; and, in consequence of this, I often doubt, fear, and give way to unbelief. Oh, how painful the suspicion which now arises in my heart, "If I should find out at last that after all my profession, after all my religious enjoyments, and after I have preached to others, that I am not born again, and therefore am a castaway." The supposition is dreadful, the doubt seems to pierce one's very vitals. O Jesus, thou searchest the reins and the heart; thou knowest, oh, let me know, if I am born again!

Those who are born again, pray without ceasing. They have such a feeling sense of their necessities, such a view of the Redeemer's fulness, and feel a principle working within them, which urges them to approach the throne of grace. How is it with me? I cannot live without prayer. I pray at set times, and I pray in almost all places, and at almost all times. But my prayers are often so short, so lifeless, so powerless, that though I use no form, they appear to be no better than form. Pray I must, but I am often impelled by fear, led by a sense of duty, and go to it in a mere customary manner. It is often a task, a burden, and sometimes it is even wearisome. Can I be born again ? But if I cannot, should I pray at all? At least, would it seem to be natural to me to pray? Should I approach the Lord, as I often do, without ceremony, and commence telling him my tale of woe, and asking his blessing and interference, without any introduction? Do the unconverted do this? Where the life of God is not in the soul, is this, can this be the case? Holy and everblessed Spirit, thou knowest my real case, my true condition, discover it to me. If I am regenerate, banish my doubts, disperse my fears, inspire me with confidence, and bear thy own witness with my heart, "that I am born of God."

Those who are born again love the saints, all the saints; and the loving John has written, "We know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren." Well, I do love many of the saints, but do I love all that I know? I love those who are with me, and are kind to me; but do I love those who differ from me, and who treat me unkindly? Do I love a saint in rags? Do I love a believer in sickness and destitution? Do I love the poor, illiterate, uncultivated, more repulsive of the people of God? Do I love saints because they are saints, and just in proportion to their resemblance to the Lord Jesus Christ? Alas, I sometimes fear that I love something in them besides the image of Christ, and love them for something, also, besides their saintship. How difficult I find it to love some of them at all. How I can dwell upon their faults, and speak

of their failings. I feel jealous of some, and I envy others. Would this be the case if my heart was sound in God's statutes? Then I am so changeable towards them, sometimes I love them so warmly, and feel as if nothing was too good to give them, or too arduous to undertake for them; but at another time I have nothing to bestow, nor any inclination to serve them. Oh, thou heart-searching God, examine me, pray thee, and let me know, am I, or am I not, born

again?

Those who are born again love the Saviour. This is often my brightest evidence. I do find Jesus precious. There is music in his name. There is adaptation in his mercy, merit, and word, to my circumstances. I love to hear him exalted, and to exalt him myself. I never feel as if I could think highly enough of him, or speak of him so as to shew forth half his excellencies. But, then, do I love him for what he is in himself, and for what he has done for others? or is mine only selfish love, arising from a persuasion that I am a favourite, that he has saved me from hell, and will bring me to heaven? Besides which, my love is so fluctuating, at times I seem to love many inferior things more than him, my heart is hard as a stone, my affections are cold as winter, and I can perceive little if any difference between myself and the worldling, or those who are clearly only mere professors. Though at other times I find my heart warm at the mention of his name, and glow when his praises are sung. Oh, that the love of Jesus did so fill my heart, inflame my affections, regulate my actions, and consecrate my life, that it would be impossible for me to doubt whether I loved him sincerely, constantly, and consistently, or no! I sometimes think that if I have not loved Jesus I never have loved any one; if I do not love him now I love no one. But I want certainty. Eternity is so solemn. Hell is so dreadful. Heaven is so glorious. Death is so near. Delusions are so powerful. Mistakes are so common. Therefore I want the indubitable proof, the unquestionable evidence, the living, abiding witness within and without me, that I am born of God. Oh, holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity, three persons in One God, I beseech thee to decide for me, and register that decision by the finger of the Holy Spirit upon my conscience, am I born again ?

Reader, I have opened my heart to you. I have told you my case. I have unfolded my concern. I have shewed you my desire. I have confessed my imperfections. I have made known my anxieties. How is it with you? Do you ever feel thus? Have you any sympathy with me in my hopes and fears, my desires and doubtings, my pains and pleasures? It is a solemn, most solemn subject, for if we are not born again, we cannot be saved. Heaven will be barred against us. Hope will fly from us. Despair will brood over us. The burning lake will receive us. Indescribable torments will be awarded to us. Devils and lost souls will be our miserable companions. God will be

our enemy, our irreconcilable enemy for ever and ever. Oh, let us, then, while we have the opportunity, search our own hearts, cry to the Lord for mercy, nor rest satisfied until we can say, "We are born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth for ever."

Narratives, Anecdotes, &c.

ASHAMED OF JESUS.

Passing through the streets of a pretty village in Essex a few months ago, my attention was arrested by a melancholy company wending to the grave. It was evidently the funeral of youth, for white mingled with the black as if a deeper mourning should not mark the scene. Perhaps, thought I, some infant spirit has been taken to the skies, and why this wasteful sorrow on so blessed an account? But approaching nearer to the solemn crowd, their age and numbers quickly testified that death had now selected a far nobler prey. He who was thus removed had at least left a place; and, like a mighty war-ship sinking in a fleet, contiguous vessels are drawn by sympathy to the abyss, and, till the whirlpool has subsided, eddy round the spot.

James F―, the young man whose unhappy fate is still hopelessly deplored, was the eldest son of a poor but pious minister in one of the Eastern counties. Denied the meaner gifts of fortune, he possessed the best-a bright intelligence beaming from his eyes. And though destitute, alas, of spiritual wisdom, for lack of which nothing can atone, it was easy to perceive that by native ability and force he would infallibly win his way to distinction or to power. From the earliest dawn of reason his father watched with delight the quick expansion of his mind; and resolved, at any labour or expense, to fit him for an honourable station in life. Fondly did he hope that talents so freely bestowed would be consecrated to the Lord, and, sanctified by heavenly grace, become a blessing to the world. Than this noblest privilege and bliss, the paternal heart, when most bursting with emotion, asked no more.

Years rolled on, and as James began to emerge from boyhood into youth, it seemed necessary to decide the question, "What shall he do?" A distant relative in the profession of law offered to train him for the bar, and his own ambitious disposition strongly seconded the scheme. Nevertheless, to the far-seeing eye of parental anxiety and care, there were difficulties, if not dangers, crowding in the path. Removed from the pious influences of home, without any fixed principles of virtue or decision of soul for God, what might not possibly be feared of ruin or of guilt? And at once immersed in the gay metropolis he had yet scarcely seen, how likely that he would be fascinated by its follies, and taken in its toils. All these dark perplexities and doubts, mingled with sympathy for the advancement of his hopes, and struggling with uncertain issue, caused many a painful struggle in the agitated breast. At length, after days of consultation

and debate, and nights of weary tossing on a sleepless bed, it was finally decided that to the lawyer he should go. It is thus, when duty and interest are opposed, in short, in every struggle between right and wrong, to hesitate is to fall, to linger is to yield.

A man's true character generally waits for circumstances, to be entirely revealed. Often have we observed hidden depravity or worth called into swift and vivid display by some incident, varying, though slightly, the ordinary routine. The seed of good or evil has apparently lain deep, till by a combination of influences, new and old, it begins to vegetate and shoot. Just so in the history we proceed to narrate. James could not leave the habitation of his happiest years, and the keen sensibilities of nature remain unmoved. Among strangers in an unsocial city he felt peculiarly forlorn, and it was then that the lessons, long learned, of piety and truth, became the solace of his mind. Early religious impressions powerfully revived, and in thoughtful solitude and sadness were nurtured and matured. His letters all breathed the same spirit of enquiry after God, and bore pleasing testimony to that enlightened ardour in pursuit, which is not far from the kingdom of heaven.

Hardly had this interesting youth been six months in his new abode, before his affable and engaging manners drew around him a wide circle of friends. He was now no longer obliged to spend his leisure in meditation or with books; on the contrary, his company was eagerly sought whenever business could be laid aside. True, his associates were not all such as better judgment cordially approved, yet exactly those he was most anxious to shun, were men whose wealth, or gaiety, or wit, had the strongest influence over his heart. Others there were whose acquaintance was considered an honour, and their notice praise; but who, nevertheless, only took him by the hand to make him as themselves. Enjoying their favour, he must entertain their views, or at least subordinate and conceal his own. Alas, too truly has it been remarked, "the world is watching for the young;" thousands will proudly stoop to their stature, if they may secure their souls.

The situation of the unhappy subject of our sketch soon became melancholy in the extreme. Often did he return at midnight from the theatre or the dance, to weep when he could not pray. Still more frequently would he cry in anguish to a Saviour whom an hour before he had insulted and despised. Can we wonder that so strange a contrast was not found to last; and that rather he went on to sin, but left off to mourn?

One thing, however, is certain, that his present course was only bitterness and gall. The trifling gratifications which are the bliss of myriads, had no joy for him; and though laughter hung upon his lip, peace was banished from his heart. Vainly did he strive to relish the cup of mirth, while conscious in the act of drinking there was poison