would have replied, "To Mr. Perkins, the grocer, in West street," when he would have been corrected also.

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Joseph," cries out the attorney, "take this paper to Mr. Reynolds, and tell him, with my compliments, that I cannot call upon him this afternoon." Joseph is no sooner gone, than the attorney calls out, “Thomas, let Mr. Stubbs have this packet, and tell him that I will be with him at four o'clock."

At four o'clock the attorney goes to Mr. Stubbs, and is surprised to find that he is not at home. When he returns home at night, he hears that Mr. Stubbs has called on him, and receives an angry note from Mr. Reynolds, to say that he has remained at home all the afternoon, expecting him to keep his appointment. It then turns out, that Joseph, instead of telling Mr. Reynolds that his master could not call upon him, told him that he would call; and that Thomas, instead of telling Mr. Stubbs that his master would be with him at four o'clock, told him that he must please to be with his master at that hour.

Now, in this case, the fault is that of the servants; but how easily would it have been avoided by putting the question, "What are you going for?" Joseph would have replied, "To deliver this paper to Mr. Reynolds, and to say that you

would call on him in the afternoon : and Thomas would have answered, "To give this packet to Mr. Stubbs, and to say that he must be with you by four o'clock;" when both these errors would have been amended, and no evil consequences would have ensued.

These examples certainly render it clear, that though sometimes the master may be in fault, and sometimes the servant, yet in both cases the questions, "Where are you going?" and "What are you going for?" are equally useful.

If the practice were generally adopted of putting these questions, the amount of anger, disappointment, and confusion, which would thereby be prevented, would be great, and a corresponding degree of peace, satisfaction, and order, attained.

But though this may be made very clear on paper, and the judgment of the reader may be convinced of the evil to be avoided, and the good to be obtained, no advantage will result from these remarks, unless the plan recommended is adopted. If you, whose eyes may be cast over these remarks, have ever found inconvenience and disquietude from having your errands improperly delivered, and, after reading these comments should neglect to put in practice the plan here presented to you, then blame yourselves whenever a future cause of disquietude shall occur. The plan is simple and

practicable; and, it may be added, praiseworthy; because it will not only afford you comfort, but also preserve others from blame.

Remember then the very first time you send a messenger on an errand, that you propose to him the questions, "Where are you going?" and, "What are you going for?

Now, it does appear to me, that I have been unusually clear in this matter, and that if no good should be done, the fault must be laid at your door-but one word at parting. Let me ask you a pithy question as to your eternal destination.

Where others go may well be worth your knowing,
But think, O reader, which way thou art going.

I ask then, in my plain, homely way, "Where are you going?" and "What are you going for?" Are you going along the broad road that leads to destruction, or along the narrow way that leads to eternal life? Are you going to hear the joyous welcome, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord?" Matt. xxv. 21. Or the fearful denunciation, “Cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness?" Matt. xxv. 30.

OLD HUMPHREY REPROVED.

It is possible that you may sometimes think me more fond of reproving others than I ought to be, but let me tell you that, now and then, I am brought to book pretty sharply myself. My old friend, Gideon Hawkes-with whom I have entered into a friendly compact that we should faithfully and freely make known our faults to each other— my old friend Gideon occasionally hits me some very hard raps on the knuckles.

It was but the other day that we had a sharp tustle on the subject of a Christian man standing forward in a prominent situation. Gideon is a Boanerges in his way, and if God's grace had not greatly subdued his natural infirmities, he would have been as proud as Lucifer, and as overbearing and oppressive as Pharaoh was to the children of Israel in captivity. As it is, he is a zealous servant of Christ, expecting every Christian and friend to be as warm-hearted as himself. He must be " up and be doing;" he must come "to the help of the Lord against the mighty;" he can

not be content to remain quiet in his tent, he must join the camp, and blow the trumpet, and cry aloud.

I hope that I have not sketched the character of my old friend too roughly, for I love him with true affection. I hardly know whether he has most zeal or kindness in his bosom: ardent and hasty, and almost turbulent as he is, yet when his heart has been melted, I have known him weep with all the tenderness of a child. Perhaps he comes nearer to the glowing zeal and ardent affection of the apostle Peter than any man that I know.

Well, my friend Gideon did not spare me, but, on the contrary, gave me as sharp a lecture with his tongue, as I have ever given with my pen. The nature of his observations you will easily gather from the following remarks, which form part of a letter that I sent him the day after.

"You seem to be in earnest, Gideon, when you reprove me for my levity, telling me that we are in a dying world, and that a man is not acting wisely in playing the part of a jester on his way to the grave. Your words are sharp on this head when you say, a Christian man never looks well in a harlequin's jacket.

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Now, though I more than half agree with your opinions, yet I cannot but think that allow