considerations should be a forcible motive with us to withdraw our affections from the world, and to seek a preparation for eternity; remembering that the end of all things is at hand,' and that there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither we are all hastening! TO THE WINDS. Ye can rend like straws asunder, Winds of heaven! shall we cower, Winds of heaven! the mighty God, O. M. TWO VISITS AND A JUDGMENT. IT is the fierce noon-tide heat, and Abram is sitting at the entrance of his tent, beneath the shade of a large tree, enjoying the comparative freshness of the open air. Nearly fifteen years have passed away since the rescue of Lot from the Assyrians; and during that time, several important events in the patriarch's life have taken place. He has had two more visitations from the Lord, both of a very gracious and consolatory nature. The first contained a promise and a covenant. The Almighty assured him, that a son of his own bowels should be his heir; and in token thereof, a solemn agreement was entered into, ratified by sacrifice and fire. At the second interview, this covenant was renewed, his name changed to Abraham, and that of his wife to Sarah, and the rite of circumcision instituted. Between the two visits, the patriarch, at the suggestion of his wife, took a secondary wife,Hagar, the handmaid of Sarai, who bore him a son. For many years this son, Ishmael, was considered by his parent as 'the heir of the promise;' but on the latter occasion, God dissipated that idea, and intimated the birth of Isaac, whose mother Sarah should be. Three months had elapsed since this promise had been made, and, doubtless, Abraham had ruminated frequently upon it. He was now ninety-nine years of age, and his wife only ten years younger; and a man of less faith might well question the probability of such an unusual occurrence. But Abraham's mind would in all likelihood dwell substantially on the idea, 'Is any thing too hard for the Lord?' Perhaps, at this very time, while sitting at his tent door, he might be meditating on his past eventful history, and picturing to himself the glorious realization of those sublime promises which had been made to him. As his eye swept over the spacious plain spread out before him, would he not anticipate the time, when its solitude would give place to a teeming population, all his own children-when the silent mountain sides should be covered with tents and flocks, and the hum of a happy people render them vocal with melody. Nay, looking further into the future, would he not contemplate that distant era, when in him all the families of the earth should be blessed; when, instead of sin and suffering, there should be purity and peace, a sanctified people, a regenerated world. Methinks, these visions of the future, breaking brightly in on that old man's vision, must have had great influence in bracing him up to those high resolves, especially to that unparalleled act of faith, which he afterwards exhibited. From these glowing scenes of happiness and peace, could he not extract ample supplies of hope and resolution, to fit him for overcoming all difficulties, and sustaining all trials, which might lie between the present and that glorious time to come? While thus musing, the patriarch lifted up his eyes, and beheld three strangers approaching his tent. According to the hospitable pastoral custom, he rose up and ran eagerly to meet them, to proffer refreshments. When near, he perceived that all the three were dignified and important personages; but one in particular appeared a great and superior individual. Something in his mien and bearing pointed him out as one far above the others, and to him particularly Abraham addressed himself. Bowing reverently to the ground, under the feelings which his appearance inspired, Abraham cordially invited him and his followers to rest themselves beneath the shade of his terebinth-tree, and permit victuals to be prepared for them, and water brought to wash and cool their feet. The leader of the company graciously accepted the cordial and hospitable invitation. The three travellers seated themselves beneath the grateful shade, and the patriarch hastened into the tent to request his wife to prepare the repast. A rich and plenteous banquet of desert, or pastoral food, was soon placed before the guests, of which they partook; while, according to another Oriental cnstom, the host stood beside them. As yet Abraham seemed to have no idea who the strangers were. How startled, therefore, and surprised must he have been when the leader turned and said to him, 'Where is Sarah, thy wife?' It is an established rule in Eastern countries, that visitors do not make any allusion to the female members of the household, neither do these appear before them. How, then, should this unknown one ask for his wife; and, above all, ask for her by her so recently imposed name? Astonished beyond measure, the host could only utter, 'Behold, in the tent,' and gaze with wondering eyes on the inquirer. The latter immediately replied, "I will certainly return unto thee according to the time of life; and, lo, Sarah thy wife shall have a son. At the sound of these words and that familiar voice, a light broke in upon the listener's mind. It was the Lord before whom he stood. The God of heaven, who had already appeared to him so frequently before, now came in human form, attended by two angels, to visit him at his tent, and renew His promise. What gratitude, what joy, yet what reverence and awe, must the discovery have produced! We will not imagine the condition or actions of the patriarch, when the revelation was made. The position in which he was placed, was one so strange and overwhelming to us, that we cannot possibly conceive its effect upon the human mind. To stand face to face with the great everlasting God, the uncaused Cause of all things, the Preserver of the Universe, the 'I AM THAT I AM,'-is a position so utterly incomprehensible, that only Abraham, Moses, and those few who have experienced it, can form any idea of it; and they, we fear, would find the description of it impossible. But it was not wholly to visit Abraham, that the Almighty and His angelic attendants had left the heavenly world. Another object they had in view, and they must now depart to perform it. As they rose up to resume their journey, a stern and dark expression passed over the face of the Lord, and He said to the angels, 'Shall I hide from Abraham that thing which I do? Then turning to Abraham, He said, 'Because the cry of Sodom and Gomorrah is great, and because their sin is very grievous, I will go down now, and see whether they have done altogether according to the cry of it, which is come unto me; and if not, I will know.' In these words, spoken after the manner of men, Abraham heard the doom of Sodom and its neighbouring cities. He knew, alas! too well, that the cry which had gone up was not an exaggerated report, but that the wickedness was as enormous as it had been represented, and he trembled for the result. Uneasy on account of his kinsman Lot, and eager to do what he could to avert the judgment which he saw impending, he proceeded some distance with the visitors on the way to Sodom. The two angels finally left, and proceeded in the direction of the doomed cities; but Abraham still stood before the Lord. Then he began to plead for the Cities of the Plain. He prayed that if fifty righteous persons were found in Sodom, that the city might be spared for their sakes. His prayer was granted, but still his heart felt a foreboding. He knew the character of the place, and dreaded that even that small number of good ones could not be found within its walls. Gradually he lessened the number to ten; and afraid of further importunity, desisted with the assurance received from the Lord, that He would not destroy it for ten's sake. Then 'the Lord went His way, and Abraham returned unto his own place.' The scene now changes from Mamre to Sodom. The sun is about to sink beneath the western wave of the distant Mediterranean. The glare and heat have declined; a fresh cooling breeze is sweeping over the land, reviving the herbs and grass which the rays of the sun had scorched. At the gate of the city of Sodom sat Lot; and like Abraham, at mid-day, he no sooner saw the strangers than he rose up, greeted them, and requested them to turn in, and tarry all night in his house. Though he had now relinquished tent life, and adopted city habits, that spirit of hospitality, which he had imbibed in the desert, still clung to him: hence his alacrity in proffering food and shelter to the two strangers. His invitation was, however, at first declined; but after 'he pressed upon them greatly,' 'they turned in unto him, and entered into his house and he made them a feast, and did bake unleavened bread, and they did eat.' : But the two strangers did not pass into him joking or mad, and laughed at his advice; so he returned to his house again. Morning at length came, and the angels hastened the departure of Lot, with his wife, and those two unmarried daughters who abode with him. He still yearned for the safety of his other relations, and lingered; but his visitors, with a firm kindness, seized his hand, and forcibly led them forth beyond the gate of the city, urging him to flee to the mountains at the verge of the vale. It was a long journey, and the aged man shrunk from travelling so far; he therefore requested permission to make the small town of Bela, or Zoar, his place of refuge. This town was one of the five marked out for destruction; but for Lot's sake it was saved, and he was allowed to direct his steps thither. "Escape for thy life; look not behind thee,' was the injunction the party received. 'Haste thee, escape thither (to Zoar); for we cannot do any thing till thou be come thither.' Lot's house without being perceived. Some of the inhabitants witnessed the meeting, probably heard the invitation, at least saw the men follow Lot into his habitation, and these informed others. The news soon spread, and before the hour of rest had arrived, a great multitude of the town's people surrounded the house, -compassed it round, as it is said, 'both old and young, all the people from every quarter. The loathsome object they had in view, testifies only too strongly to the terrible depravity of the place; and the open united manner in which they acted, clearly shows that they had reached a point in wickedness, when regeneration is all but impossible. At such a stage as this, corruption reproduces itself with such fearful rapidity and virulence, that cherishing an expectation of checking its progress, and turning its course backward, seems but a hoping against hope. | The ideas even of common depravity are shocked and outraged by wickedness like this; and those who are by no means the deadly enemies of sin, are yet content to see the destruction of those who prac-hour of dread and danger, woman's curiotise it. We need not dwell on the character of the demand made by the men of Sodom on Lot, nor the revolting proposition which he made in the extremity, to which he was apparently reduced. It serves, however, to show the inviolability of the rules of hospitality in that country, and the costly sacrifice which a host is willing to make, in order that these rules be maintained. But Lot was not in such a strait as he imagined. While practising the good, brotherly part of entertaining strangers, he had been 'entertaining angels unawares,' and now he had his reward. As the brutal mob pressed sore upon the old man, while standing outside the house, striving to turn them from their purpose, the celestial guests opened the door, drew him into the house, closed it again, and smote the inhuman multitude without with blindness; or, rather, their vision was rendered so distorted, that they sought the door in a wrong direction. That same act of power which blinded the eyes of the Sodomites, opened those of Lot, and he now perceived that his guests were angelic visitors. Their mission was also unfolded to him, and he was urged to gather together his family, and depart from the city, for it was about to be destroyed. Lot here made no effort to save the place. More correctly informed of its character than Abraham, he pleaded not for its preservation, but instantly sought the abodes of his married daughters, and implored their husbands to leave the city, for its doom was at hand. His entreaties, however, were in vain. They either considered Away, then, did the family hasten over the plain, in the cold gray of the morning, full of awe and anxiety; yet, even in that sity triumphed over fear, and the wife of Lot turned back to glance at the city they had left. Fatal act! Scarcely was her head turned, when a glazed film passed over her eyes, a freezing coldness seized every limb, and she was left standing immovable by the way-side, a shapeless block of hard white salt. Onward, however, sped the husband and daughters, whether conscious or not of the terrible judgment that had fallen upon the wife and mother, we cannot say. The light of day waxed stronger at every step they took; the town to which they hurried now appeared at a very short distance; and the near presence of the place of refuge infused new vigour into their weary, fainting limbs. They press on, panting and trembling; the city is reached, its gate is before them, and they rush in at the moment that the sun bursts forth above the eastern horizon. Then did the awful work of judgment begin. A fire from the Lord out of heaven' descended on Sodom. The combustible bituminous substance on which it was built instantly ignited, and suddenly the vale of Siddim was wrapt in flames, and molten as in a furnace. The houses, glowing red, tottered and fell; the miserable inhabitants rushed frantically hither and thither, screaming in despair, till, with a shriek more wild and piteous than the rest, they fall into the burning embrace of death. Some few who rushed into the open plain, found that there the avenger had preceded, and was awaiting them. The exposed slime pits had exploded, and enveloped the country in a sheet of fire. Wave followed wave in dire relentless succession, and the molten sea swept forward to meet them. Hopeless is their case. With a blazing city behind, and that ruthless swelling ocean of flame before, escape was impossible. Hell from beneath was indeed moved to meet them at their coming, as if eager to lap them round and round with its agonies. Behind, before, they were beset with the destroying element, and for a moment they gazed at each other in the red lurid light. Men read in the countenances of their fellows the reflection of their own despair; but it was only for an instant. The molten surges, impatient of their prey, now leapt upon them, and licked with tongues of flame their already scalded bodies. Fear, remorse, and acute bodily pain, blended into a terrible agony, wrought dreadfully upon all. At length the last remaining few were tossing and struggling on the glowing billows, their lacerated arms raised wildly to heaven, and their hands clenched in agony. It was a fearful, harrowing sight even to the angels who were the ministers of vengeance; and we can suppose that they experienced a feeling of relief, when the last groan ascended on the burdened air, when the last sigh of anguish was heaved, and the last spirit departed to the God who gave it. As the surface of the plain consumed away, it gradually became depressed, and the waters of the neighbouring lake rushed from their beds into the hollow which the fire was forming. There, for a time, they seethed and boiled, and sent forth volumes of vapour, which hid the close of the scene from view. Far off on the heights that border the valley of Mamre, stood Abraham, gazing towards the plain, and he saw the smoke going up like the smoke of a furnace. When the waters had cooled the ashes, the vapour gradually rose, and revealed that thick fetid lake which has ever since rolled silent and gloomy over the once smiling vale of Siddim-now the Sea of Death. Deep down in its recesses lie the ruins of those doomed cities, whose wicked inhabitants are set forth as an example for all time, 'suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.' The dark story of their wickedness and overthrow has travelled over many countries, and filled all who have heard it with horror. Each traveller to the Holy Land has been drawn, as if by fascination, to the spot, and stood with awe and fear by the shores of the sombre lake, listening to the wild traditionary lore of the Arabs concerning it. Imagination has added to the sufficiently terrible Scripture account of the catastrophe, and the truly desolate appearance of its neighbourhood, and invested it with all that is mysterious and appalling. Bold Or this great duty I observe, in the first place, that it is quite natural. Good affections, when strong, as all the pious affections ought to be, have a tendency to express themselves externally: where this does not appear, there is reason to apprehend, that the affections are weak or wanting. If a man is grateful to his benefactor, he will tell him so; if no acknowledgments are made, and no outward signs of gratitude manifest themselves, he will be chargeable with ingratitude. When we admire the wisdom, and love the goodness of a fellowcreature, we naturally show him respect, and wish to comply with his will, and recommend ourselves to his favour; and we speak of him and to him in terms of esteem and gratitude: and the greater his wisdom and goodness, the more we are inclined to do all this. Now, God's wisdom and goodness are infinite and perfect, and if we venerate these attributes as we ought to do, it will be neither natural nor easy for us so to conceal that veneration, as to prevent its discovering itself externally. It is true, that the omniscient Being knows all our thoughts, whether we give them utterance or not. But if the expressing of them from time to time, in words, is by Him required of us as a duty; if it is beneficial to ourselves, and if, as an example, it has good effects upon our fellow-creatures, no argument can be necessary to prove the propriety of the practice. Let it therefore be considered, that worship, properly conducted, tends greatly to our improvement in every part of virtue. To indulge a pious emotion, to keep it in our mind, to meditate on its object, and with reverence, and in due season, to give it vocal expression, cannot fail to strengthen it: whereas, by restraining the outward expression, and thinking of the emotion and its object seldom and slightly, we make it weaker, and may, in time, destroy it. Besides, the more we contemplate the prefections of God, the more we must admire, love, and adore them; and the more sensible we must be of our own degeneracy, and of the need we have of pardon and assistance. And the wishes we express for that pardon and assistance, if they be frequent and sincere, will incline us to be attentive to our conduct, and solicitous to avoid what may offend Him. These considerations alone would recommend external worship; as a most excellent means of improving our moral nature. But Christians know further, that this duty is expressly commanded, and that particular blessings are promised to the devout performance of it. In us, therefore, the neglect of it must be inexcusable and highly criminal. worse, if it were not for this institution; the wisdom and humanity of which can never be sufficiently admired, and which, if it were as strictly observed as it is positively commanded, would operate with singular efficacy in advancing public prosperity, as well as private virtue.-Beattie REFLECTIONS SUGGESTED BY THE CASE OF CRANMER. HISTORY is conversant with other ages and different countries. It brings in review the men of former generations, whom it exhibits as passing successively before us. It shows them acting their several parts in the great drama of life; acquaints us with their respective characters, and diversified experiences; tells of the influences in operation, the policies pursued, the events that transpired,-how that led to victory and honour, or this issued in defeat and shame. It has a voice, which it were equally foolish and criminal to disregard. At all times, its utterances merit an attentive audience: on particular occasions, it speaks in tones of deeper pathos, or with peculiar emphasis. Many of its lessons possess a value, which it were difficult to over-estimate, and that ought to be carefully remembered and seriously pondered; while its warnings and admonitions, not unfrequently, are of much practical utility. 'Whoso is wise, and will observe these things, even they shall understand the loving-kindness of the Lord.' It being of so great importance, we ought not only to practise this duty ourselves, but also, by precept and example, avoiding, however, all ostentation, to encourage others to do the same. Hence, one obligation to the duty of social and public worship. But there are many others. One arises from the nature and influence of sympathy, by which all our good affections may be strengthened. To join with others in devotion, tends to make us devout, and should be done for that reason. Besides, public worship, by exhibiting a number of persons engaged, notwithstanding their different conditions, in addressing the great Father of all, and imploring His mercy and protection, must have a powerful tendency to cherish in us social virtue, as well as piety. The inequalities of rank and fortune, which take place in society, render it highly expedient, and even necessary, that there should be such a memorial to enforce on the minds of men, that they are all originally equal, all placed | in the same state of trial, all liable to the same wants and frailties, and all equally related, as His accountable creatures, to the Supreme Governor of the universe. Hence, let the mean learn contentment, Connected with the teachings of History, and the great humility; and hence let all too, is one advantage of no little importance learn charity, meekness, and mutual for--that they are conveyed in a manner, and bearance. By associating together, men are much improved both in temper and understanding. Where they live separate, they are generally sullen and selfish, as well as ignorant: where they meet frequently, they become acquainted with one another's character and circumstances, and take an interest in them; acquire more extensive notions, and learn to correct their opinions, and get the better of their prejudices. They become, in short, more humane, more generous, and more intelligent. Were it not for that rest, which is appointed on the first day of the week, and the solemn meetings which then take place, for the purposes of social worship and religious instruction, the labours of the common people, that is, of the greatest part of mankind, would be insupportable: most of them would live and die in utter ignorance; and those, who are remote from neighbours, would degenerate into barbarians. Bad as the world is, there is reason to think it would be a thousand times enforced with an energy, excellently adapted to impress and benefit. Of it may be asserted, with equal truth, though in a very subordinate sense, what is affirmed of Holy Scripture: It is 'profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness.' The nature and working of principles, salutary or baneful, it presents in their appropriate fruits; and illustrates, by the consequences actually produced, the influence and tendency of courses of conduct. It proposes models for imitation, and examples for avoidance; sets up guides to direct, and beacons to deter. It is a good teacher, a wise counsellor, a safe monitor. Like the inspired Oracle, it addresses all indiscriminately. High and low, saint and sinner, are interested in its deliverances: and 'he that hath ears, let him hear what it saith.' Among the portions of History that deserve studious perusal, especially by the people of these realms, is that of the period which embraced the reign of the Eighth Henry and of his two successors |