Father. Sought as he should be, humbly and importu nately, he will be with us in the hour of temptation, and assist us to avoid that path and those evil practices, which would conduct us to ruin.

It should not be forgotten, that we are in his hands, and at his disposal. We are never safe, in sinning against him. He can bring our crimes to light, by any means, and at any moment he pleases. In the preceding story, the swinging of a door, and the finding of the stopper of a vial, appeared at first, most unimportant. Yet, upon these two trifles hung the developement of a most awful crime, and but for these the vile perpetrators would have escaped till the day of judgment. Let us, therefore, take heed how we sin; lest, left in righteous judgment by God, he suffer us to work out our own destruction.

The Headless Nail.

THERE lived in England, some years since, a clergyman by the name of Dr. Donne. In the earlier part of his ministerial life, he administered to a congregation out of London. One day, while taking a walk around his parish, he entered the churchyard, where he found the grave digger employed in digging a grave. Advancing to the spot, he stood and watched, for a time, the movements of the man, at the same time holding such conversation with him, as would be likely to arise from the gloomy nature of the grave digger's employment. In the midst of the work and the conversation, the latter came upon a skull which he threw out.

The Dr., observing it, picked it up for the purpose of examing it; in doing which, what was his surprise to notice a nail without a head, sticking in the bone of the temple. He said nothing to the grave digger about the discovery, but drawing out the nail, he concealed it in the corner of his handkerchief. Having done this, without apparent design, he demanded of the man whether he knew whose skull that was.

The grave digger replied that he believed he did. "In this spot," said he, "several years ago, there was buried

a man who kept a brandy shop, at no great distance from this."

"And what character did he sustain ?" inquired the doctor.

"Oh," said the grave digger, "he was an honest man, for all that I know; but, then, he would drink too much, and one morning, after a night of intoxication, he was found dead in his bed.”

"Had he a wife?" asked the doctor.

"Yes."

"And what sort of a woman was she?"

"Quite a clever woman," said the grave digger; "only the neighbors used to reflect on her, because she married another man the day after her husband was buried." "Is she still living ?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," said the grave digger," she and her husband occupy the house which you observe yonder, down the hill."

The conversation here terminated, and the doctor continued his walk. There must have been, thought he to himself, as he left the church yard, some foul work by which this man came to his death. After some reflection he determined to proceed to the house, and make such inquiries as circumstances might seem to justify.

On reaching the place, he introduced himself to the woman, with whom he entered into a conversation; and, among other topics, alluded to her bereavement of a former husband. The woman was by no means backward to converse upon the subject, but affected great sorrow at her former loss. For a time, the doctor listened to her with apparent sympathy; but, at length, suddenly opening his handkerchief, he demanded in a stern manner, "Woman do you know this nail ?"

Struck with horror, she instantly confessed her guilt. Now, we ask, was all this accidental? On the contrary, who can doubt that the providence of God was concerned in the disclosure. And from facts like these we may learn, that important results are often connected with apparently trifling circumstances, and that what God designs to disclose, no human foresight or cunning, is able to conceal. The art of this woman had led her to make use of a nail without a head, by which to murder her hus

band, in order to marry another man: but even that was insufficient to prevent her detection, because God had purposed that her guilt should be disclosed.

Effect of Faithful Preaching.

." I

I was once applied to by a stranger, in a place where I was laboring for a few Sabbaths only, says Rev. Thomas English, for a sight of a letter which I had received calumniating his character. I looked at the man, and pitied him, and coolly replied: "It would be a breach of the common principles of society, to show confidential letters, written to us, for the purpose of our doing people good." He retorted in an angry tone-"I demand a sight of it, sir, as an act of Justice due to an injured man." replied, "How did you know that I had received a letter concerning you?" "Know," said he; "it was impossible not to know it, your language and manner were so pointed, that it was impossible I should be deceived." rejoined: "Do not be too positive; you have been deceived before now, I suppose; you may be so again." "It is not possible;" said he, "you described the sin of which I am accused, in the clearest language; and looking me in the face, and pointing towards me, you said, 'Sinner, be sure your sins will find you out;' I therefore expect from you, sir, as a gentleman, and a Christian minister, that you will give me a sight of the letter, that I may know its contents and repel its charges!" I observed, "I do not know your name; to my knowledge I never saw you before; and as you have not told me in what part of the sermon it was I was so pointed, if I show you any letter, I may show the wrong one: I shall, therefore certainly not exhibit any of my letters to you, nor satisfy you whether I have received any one about you, till you describe the case alluded to." He hesitated; but afterwards described the sin of which he was accused. When he had finished, looking him full in the eyes, assuming a solemn attitude, and using a grave and serious tone of voice, I said: "Can you look me full in the face, as you must your Judge at the great day of God, and declare that you are innocent of the sin laid to your charge?" He

trembled, turned pale, and his voice faltered; guilt and anger struggling in his breast, like the fire in the bowels of mount Etna, and summoning up his courage, he said: "I am not bound to make any man my confessor; and if I were guilty, no man has a right to hold me up to public observation, as you have done?" I assumed a benignity of countenance, and softened my tones saying: "Do you believe the passage I cited-'Be sure your sins will find you out'-is the word of God?" He said, "It may be." "Surely it is," said I; "He that made the ear, shall he not hear? He that made the eye, shall he not see? Can He have any difficulty in bringing your sin to light? Now, I will tell you honestly, I never received any letter or information about you whatever; but I am persuaded your sin has found you out; the preaching of the word is one method, by which God makes men's sins find them out. Let me entreat you seriously to consider your state and character; who can tell, God may have intended this sermon for your good; he may mean to have mercy upon you; this may be the means of saving your neck from the gallows, and your soul from hell; but let me remind you, you are not there yet, there still is hope." He held down his head, clenched his hands one into the other, and bursting into tears, said: "I never met with any thing like this. I am certainly obliged to you for your friendship. I am guilty, and hope this conversation will be of essential advantage to me."

My Fruit Tree.

(Written by Doctor Watts to a lady, on the death of several young children.)

I HAVE a comely fruit-tree in the summer season, with the branches of it promising plenteous fruit; the stock was surrounded with seven or eight little shorts of different sizes, that grew up from the root at a small distance, and seemed to compose a beautiful defence and ornament for the mother tree. But the gardener, who espied their growth, knew the danger; he cut down those tender suckers one after another, and laid them in the dust. I pitied them in my heart, and said "How pretty were these young standards! How much like the parent! How elegantly clothed with the raiment of summer!

And each of them might have grown to a fruitful tree!" But they stood so near as to endanger the stock; they drew away the sap, the heart and strength of it, so far as to injure the fruit, and darken the hopeful prospects of autumn. The pruning knife appeared unkind indeed, but the gardener was wise; for the tree flourished more sensibly, the fruit quickly grew fair and large, and the ingathering at last was plenteous and joyful.

Will you give me leave, Velina, to persuade you int this parable? Shall I compare you to this tree in the garden of God? You have had many of these young suckers springing up around you; they stood a while your sweet ornaments and your joy, and each of them might have grown up to a perfection of likeness, and each might have become a parent tree. But say, did they never draw your heart off from God? Did you never feel them stealing any of those seasons of devotion, or those warm affections that were first and supremely due to him that made you? And when they had been cut off successively, and laid one after another in the dust, have you not found your heart running out more towards God, and living more perpetually upon him? Are you not now devoting yourself more entirely to God every day, since the latter was taken away? Are you not aiming at some greater fruitfulness and service than in times past? If so, then repine not at the pruning knife; but adore the conduct of the heavenly husbandman, and say, "all his ways are wisdom and mercy."

But I have not yet done with my parable.

When the granary was well stored with excellent fruit, and before winter came upon the tree, the gardener took it up by the roots, and it appeared as dead. But his design was not to destroy it utterly; for he removed it far away from the spot of earth where it had stood, and planted it on a hill of richer mould, which was sufficient to nourish it with all its attendants. The spring appeared, the tree budded into life again, and all those fair little standards that had been cut off, broke out of the ground afresh, and stood up around it (a sweet young grove) flourishing in beauty and immortal vigor.

You know not where you are, Velina, and that I have carried you to the hill of Paradise, to the blessed hour of