the better part of his days; let him then run his length on the gay dreams of youth.

But he may be musical; and his fanciful reveries on humanity may be musical too. The halfpenny whistle, the penny trumpet, and the sixpenny drum of childhood, have given way to the fife, the flute, the flageolet, and the violin. He

studies the gamut, plays solos when alone, duets when with a friend, and talks about Wragge, and Nicholson, and Cramer. On he goes, afflicting the neighbourhood with the dissonance of his unmastered instruments, till he really becomes a decent performer. He now plays a Nicholson flute, and a Cremona violin, besides which he has made some progress on the violoncello, and can blow a clear and sonorous blast or two on the keyed bugle.

But is he satisfied? No; there is no point of satisfaction in music, more than in other things. Could he pour forth the full diapason of the pealing organ; were the harmonious crash of the whole orchestra under his control, he would not, he could not, rest satisfied; he must blow his bubble; he would compose like Handel, play like Purkiss, and outrival the wondrous performance of Paganini.

This is the beginning, or rather the noon-day, of his dreamy delight. But what is its end? He joins some musical society, is led into company, neglects his business, spends more than he gets, sinks into poverty, and in his old age is found playing a fiddle to the drunkards in a pot-house, for what pence he can obtain, or spending his breath on a cracked clarionet, a mendicant performer in the public streets.

Or, suppose him to have read the adventures of Robinson Crusoe, with the voyages of Captain

Cook, and to have fallen in love with the sea. He has met a jack tar in his holiday clothes, and gazed with admiration on his long-quartered shoes, blue jacket, and snow-white trowsers. He has seen him pull out of his pocket, carelessly, a handful of copper, silver, gold, and pigtail tobacco. "Oh, it is a fine thing to be a sailor!" thinks he, to wear clean clothes, to play the fiddle, to dance on the deck, and to have plenty of grog and prize money! Nothing in the word like being a sailor!"

66

And now comes thronging in his midnight dream a ship's crew of light-hearted seamen, a jovial band of jack tars. He hears their songs, he sees them in their well-rigged ship, ploughing through the foaming waves, with dolphins, and porpoises, and flying-fish around them, and a clear blue sky above their heads.

He goes on blowing his bubbles till he has had enough of stormy petrels, glittering icebergs, sharks and shore-crabs, whales and walruses; sea-weed, sword-fish, and coral rocks; and then wrecks himself on an uninhabited island, that he may give, on his return home, a wonderful account of his dangers and his toils.

If he were the king of mighty Babylon departed, surrounded with his wise men, Chaldeans, soothsayers, and astrologers, they would give him, no doubt, a goodly interpretation of his dreams; but being only a poor friendless lad, he cannot hope for that advantage. No matter when twenty summers and winters have rolled over him, he finds himself as far as ever from the ocean, retailing snuff and tabacco in a country village.

I

Such are the gay dreams of youth, and most of us have indulged in one or other of them. know one who has indulged in them all! nay more than all and what was the end of his sunny

visions? What has become of the gleams of glory that dazzled his youthful fancy in by-gone days? Let the tear that has fallen on the paper on which I note down these observations be his reply. The bubbles of his childhood are burst; the fond dreams of his youth and his manhood are passed away; he has seen the hollowness of them all, and has been made willing to exchange the empty dreams of time for the realities of eternity.

If he knows anything of his own heart, there is nothing in the honours, the riches, and the wisdom of this world, that for one moment he would put in comparsion with the well-grounded hope of everlasting life. Put together all the renown that mankind has to bestow; pile up the crowns and sceptres of the earth; heap high its gold, its costly gems, and glittering diadems, and they will be as dust in the balance, if weighed against the hope of eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord.-From "Old Humphrey's Pithy Papers."

LIFE A VAPOUR.

"What is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."-JAMES iv. 14.

OUR Sabbath school is very young,
'Tis scarcely one year old;
And yet since teaching we begun,
Death's been within our fold.

Two from the school He took away,
With little warning given;

And just as little we can say
About their way to heaven.

We have some hope they entered there
Through Jesus' precious blood,
And now a palm of victory bear
Among the saints of God.

Although through Adam's fall they died,
And, like him, sank by sin,

God's Word, when by Himself applied,
Creates new life within.

We cannot speak of how or when
They were of grace possessed,
But know, if they renewed had been,
Their souls are now at rest.

Dear little Cherry, I've been told,
Not many times had been
Seated amid this little fold

Ere she no more was seen.

Four summers scarce had.crossed her brow
Before in death she slept;
And now deep in the grave below

Her dust is safely képt.

Next, dear Eliza, lovely girl,

Oh! sad it is to tell;

Death suddenly at her did hurl
The dart by which she fell.

'Twas on the sacred Day of Rest,
When we to school had come;
Although Eliza rose and drest,
She did not leave her home.

The thread of life was quickly broke:
A vessel broke upon the brain;
But once she to her sister spoke,
Then never spoke again:

We all were very glad to find

She treasured up that Word
Which was impressed on Samuel's mind
When spoken by the Lord.

But more I cannot tell you now
Of dear Eliza's death;

Ere fourteen years had crossed her brow
She yielded up her breath.

And now, dear children, think if you
Were called so soon to die,

Whether you have been born anew,

And fitted for the sky.

E. COBB.

(Mount Zion Sabbath School, Clerkenwell.)

WELLINGTON AND THE OFFICER. "He that heareth reproof getteth understanding."PROVERBS xv. 32.

IN the early part of the Duke of Wellington's career, when as Sir Arthur Wellesley, in India, an officer dining at the mess where he presided was sporting his infidel sentiments. Sir Arthur, wishing to put down such conversation, said, " S——, did you ever read Paley's 'Evidences?"" The reply was in the negative. "Well, then," said Sir Arthur, “you had better read that book before you talk in the way you are doing.” The occurrence passed away, and the conversation was soon forgotten; but the reference to Paley's work led Colonel S- to inquire after it, and having obtained a copy, he read it with the most serious attention. He rose from the perusal of it with the fullest conviction of the falsehood of