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fort, for when the heaven above our heads is dark, the earth under our feet is sure to be darker.

When we start back with unusual surprise at the wickedness of others, may it not be a proof that we are not sufficiently acquainted with our own hearts?

If death be solemn with the hope of eternal joy, how terrible must it be with the fear of eternal woe!

The friend that lightly flatters thee is an enemy; the enemy that justly reproves thee is a friend.

As the lark sings at the dawn of day, and the nightingale at even, so should we show forth the loving-kindness of the Lord every morning, and his faithfulness every night.

He who neglects religion, prepares for himself a bitter draught, and a meal of wormwood; a nightcap of thorns, and a bed of briers; a life of vexation, and a death of sorrow.

Pride is an unchristian quality, yet how many who call themselves Christians are proud! Humility is a Christian grace, yet how few who call themselves Christians are truly humble!

If you meet with one, very vain or very ambitious, do not envy him, but think thus to yourself: "My fine fellow! the grave will soon be your

bedchamber; the earth your pillow; corruption your father; and the worm your mother and your sister."

If you want to get a spiritual appetite, walk often in the green pastures, and by the still waters of God's promises to his people.

If the world knew what passes in my heart, what would it think of me? I do know it, what then do I think of myself?

The most unreasonable, the most ungrateful, and the most deceitful of all things, is the human heart.

THE WILD CONVOLVULUS.

It is a rare thing for Old Humphrey to find himself in a situation where he can derive no pleasure from surrounding objects. In the crowded city, and the solitary common, he is, perhaps, equally at home; for if there be interesting characters in the one, there are both flowers, and blossoming furze bushes, in the other.

It did, however, happen the other day, that I found myself in a very unpromising place. I looked about me, but the road was even and straight. There were no green trees towering in the air; no neat-looking cottages by the wayside; and not even a shaggy donkey browzing on a thistle, or whisking away the flies with his tail.

By the side of my path lay a muddy, slimy ditch; one of those disagreeable ditches which are always to be seen in the neighbourhood of a town, where you are sure to be annoyed with an unpleasant smell, and equally sure to see, at full length, a dead cat, and an old tin kettle.

I walked quickly along by the side of the filth

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