All day long she listened with bursting heart to ravings about balls, and ball dresses, and festoons, and flowers, and supper tables, and almost everything connected with the entertainment that was to have been. We have said before that Clara had a very tender conscience; and a strange thought was now harassing her mind, and forming a ground of self-accusation. She had prayed that a way might be opened, by which she and her sisters might escape the threatened danger of being entangled in worldly pleasure; was this an answer to her prayer, intended to show her that it was the prayer of presumption and self-will? and was she thus indirectly, and oh! how undesignedly, the cause of her mother's illness; perhaps of her death? It was a strange thought, yet not, perhaps, unnatural for so young and inexperienced a disciple, and it took her yet oftener and more fervently to prayer.

And thus she lived a life of alternate labour and prayer, while for many, many days, her mother's life hung in the balance. Fanny had come to press her services on her; but no, if there was danger, no one should meet it but herself. Jessie had encountered the pain and fatigue of a drive of several miles to see her, and offer to stay in the house, that she might not feel herself alone; and she had hung for a few minutes on her beloved teacher's bosom, pouring out the overflowing of her heart, and then she had with tears besought her to go; she was 'not alone,' she said, with a faint smile, and the dread of other's danger would make her very miserable; and so the time passed on, until Dr. Bates was able to say, Better to-day;' the next day it was, Decidedly better;' and in a day or two, Out of danger.' Clara wept with gratitude.

6

And now came that part of the sick chamber trials most difficult to be borne by the nurse; now came the querulousness, and the jealousies, and the exactions, and the fretfulness, and the weariness, and all to be visited upon the nurse. Clara bore them wonderfully, and seemed to have nothing else to think of but her mother's wants. From the hothouses and greenhouses at Arden Hill she could still obtain flowers, which she would lay on the bed, that their delicate fragrance might greet the senses of the poor invalid, and charm away, even for a moment, discontent and impatience. At length she could sit up a little; but that only seemed to make matters worse. To sit up, and not to be able to go about; to sit up, and to be entirely dependent on others; to sit up, and have nothing to do but to watch the weary hours, and mark their creeping pace by remembering when the next of the innumerable meals would arrive, and when the doctor would come, and when it would be time to go to bed again; oh! it was a miserable life. Bring me a book, Clara,' she said at last one day; 'I can't stand this life any longer. Bring me any of those books on the drawing-room table,' she added impatiently, seeing that Clara hesitated what book to bring.

No wonder she should hesitate; she knew there were no books in the place her mother indicated but scrap books, and odd volumes of parlour libraries, and railway literature, and books of a similar cha

racter. She was too ignorant of them herself to know which was the least objectionable, so she had to take a volume at random. She might as well have left it where she found it. Mrs. Barton glanced her eye over it, and declared she believed Clara had chosen the most stupid book in the whole collection. Clara could have assured her she had made no choice whatever, but she heard the remark in silence, and only went for another book. The second was declared to be a hundred degrees more stupid than the first, and both were flung indignantly on the ground, from whence Clara meekly picked them up, and went for a third; that shared the same fate; and at last Mrs. Barton said there was no use in trying any farther, for that Clara was too stupid herself to know a good book from a bad one. She leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes as if to sleep; but sleep would not come, and she became restless. 'Dear mamma, shall I read for you?' gently inquired Clara. Her mother glanced at the Bible which lay at her daughter's side, and answered shortly, No; she wanted to go to sleep she said. Then there was a silence for about a quarter of an hour, when she said, but without looking towards Clara, Perhaps it would be as well for you to read a little; your voice may lull me to sleep. I don't mind what you read if it does that.' Clara lifted up her heart in prayer, and opened her Bible.

She began the fourteenth chapter of Mark's Gospel, and as she proceeded she observed that her mother's restlessness passed off; she glanced at her, and saw that she was leaning back quietly with closed eyes. For awhile, she believed that sleep had really come, and she could not help being sorry; but she went on reading. She came to that most touching scene in the garden, and again she glanced at the supposed sleeper. Could it be possible? Oh! it was true; tears were pressing themselves through the closed eyelids, and chasing one another down the cheeks. Clara's voice faltered, and she was compelled to pause. Go on,' was said in an accent so soft, so unlike what she had listened to for many days, so unlike what she had ever been accustomed to listen to from the same lips, that she was completely overcome. Throwing herself at her mother's knees, and clasping her hands, she exclaimed, Oh! mamma, He suffered it all for you-won't you love him?'

Mrs. Barton was too weak to bear any agitation, and for a long time she sobbed hysterically. When she could speak, she said, You must read more of that book for me, Clara; not now; I could not bear it now; but often; and yet I know it's no use; I've been long despising him, and now he despises me; he must despise me. Oh, Clara, that night, that night, that I felt God had smitten me, I kept calling up-I couldn't help it-I kept calling up all I had ever learned about religion; it was not much, for I never was willing to learn; but whatever it was, it was all against me-all against me,' she repeated, and then I tried to drive it away, and to think only of the world, and to fight against God; and so it was, till he took away my senses, and even then I believe I was fighting against him; and now, when he is bringing back my health, see how I am fighting against him, and

trying to please myself with such folly as that,' and she pointed to the volumes she had flung away; and after all this, what use can there be in my trying to obtain his favour; I can bring nothing by which to merit his love.'

'Oh, no; nor any of us, dear mamma. He gives it, for his own mercy sake, through Christ Jesus, and we cannot buy it any more than a poor beggar can buy our alms; but he is ready to give it to all that are willing to come to Christ for pardon, and to give up their hearts to him. Oh, do come to him, mamma; he himself said when he was on earth, "Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out."

6

Oh, I have loved the world so long-so long-and so well and what do I find it now?-nothing but weariness and vexation; and still I have a fear on me that, if my health returns, I may love it just as well as ever again, and may become quite hardened, and be lost for ever. Oh, if I could but cleanse this wicked, wicked heart; but I can't,' she said, despondingly; 'tis no use to try.'

But Jesus can, mamma; and he will, if you will only come to him; and he will take away the love of the world out of your heart, if you will just open your heart to let him in. He says, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him and sup with him, and he with me." The "door" means our hearts, mamma; and Christ is knocking at our hearts, and asking us to let him in; and if once we let him in, the love of the world will go away; he'll take it away himself, and his blood cleanses from all sin.'

Mrs. Barton listened with the deepest attention to the young pleader-an attention not unmixed with astonishment. 'Where did you learn all this, Clara ?' she asked.

'But who taught you to understand the Bible?'

'Jessie first, mamma; and then the Bible seemed to explain itself as I went on reading.

'But you learned so much in so short a time?'

'I think it was just because my heart wanted it, mamma.' 'Oh, then, if that be all,' cried the poor mother, I may learn too, for truly my heart wants it sorely-wants something to satisfy itsomething to make it happy. You will be my teacher, Clara, won't

you ?'

What, now, was all that Clara had suffered during her mother's illness? Nothing in the world, or only a subject for gratitude and joy. Her prayers were answered; and she saw her mother in the spirit of a little child, seeking to enter into the kingdom of heaven. Soon was Jessie a partaker of her joy; and her dear cousin made another effort, and came to mingle her praises and thanksgivings with those, not only of Clara, but of her whom they had increasing reason to hope was born again when she was old.' She brought with her Caroline and Lizzie, who had much to tell of what they had seen, and heard, and felt, and thought, since they had visited

Arden Hill. Caroline had seen Sarah Dartnell often-had seen her die -had heard her last words-had received her dying charge to endure unto the end, that she might be saved-had felt that such a death was worth millions of ages (if such might be had) of worldly pleasure-had thought how wonderful was the love of God, and how unlimited the demand that love made on her affections and her services. She had now given herself to Him with her whole heart, and the beauty of holiness' shone, not only in her life, but in her very countenance. She had learned to fear the Lord.'

And Lizzie had often talked with her dear old friend, Morgan, and received from him much encouragement to keep on in the good old way which the saints in glory had trodden. She had sought the Lord early,' and he had been found of her. She felt that she loved him, and she had daily experience that he loved her. Old Morgan and the Widow Wilkins were still waiting the days of their appointed time, until their change should come.' Kate was growing more odd, the people said; more unlike everybody else. Ah, well! that was a small matter if she was growing more like the happy company she was looking forward to meet, and the Saviour to whom she had given her simple heart.

Of Clara there is little farther that need be said. She now, indeed, found the ways of religion to be the ways of pleasantness and peace,' and often pondered over Jessie's text-In the fear of the Lord is strong confidence, and his children shall have a place of refuge.'

Literary Lotes.

THERE cannot be a doubt, as we suppose the author of the book before us— The Spirit of the Bible. By EDWARD HIGGINSON. Vol. II. (E. T. Whitfield) -would readily admit, that the most important question one could ask concerning a man's intellectual belief is, What does he think of Jesus Christ? and the next, What does he think of the Records of his life and character? We do not say these are the most important questions that could be asked concerning the man himself, although the creed-men of all ages have decided otherwise. They never considered, or would not consider, that the man is greater than his intellect; and, therefore, that it is of infinitely more moment to know what he is than what he believes. So with the legalists, whose only care is to inquire, What does he do? forgetting that acts may be as hypocritical as professions. As absurd and unphilosophical would it be for the assayer to assert, that a piece of money is silver because it is white-that it is genuine because it is stamped-and that there is no necessity for applying any other tests of its purity than these, as for men to inquire concerning their fellows, What garment of creeds and works does he assume? instead of, What is the quality of his soul? These inquiries may be interesting and necessary, but the answers to them do not

convey the whole truth. When you have got them, you have merely picked the nut and cracked the shell without tasting its fruit.

After bringing before our readers Mr. Higginson's book, therefore, and briefly noticing the opinions of the writer and of the body he may be taken to represent, we do not think that all the truth concerning the Unitarians will have been stated. We doubt, indeed, whether, as a body, they have yet asked themselves the question, What are we? The form of their creed, and their attitude in controversy, have considerably changed, and changed for the better, since the days of Mr. Belsham Are they themselves different? This is a question we have not yet seen proposed, much less answered; but it is one which they would do well to consider.

Mr. Higginson is a favourable representative of modern Unitarianism. His book is the book of a scholar and a gentleman. For fairness of argument, candour of statement, and courtesy of debate, it deserves all praise; and it is deficient in no literary quality that is necessary to command our respect for the abilities and attainments of the writer. We have no fault, therefore, to find with the manner in which his opinions are stated; nor shall we find fault with the opinions themselves: it is our purpose merely to state them for the information of our readers, who by these means may see the exact position occupied by the moderate Unitarians of the present generation. We are afraid they will also see, that however moderate they may be, their position in relation to the cardinal truths of the gospel differs in no essential respect from that occupied by the fathers' of the body.

The object of Mr. Higginson's book is twofold; viz., first, to describe the nature, and secondly, to ascertain the value, of the Scriptures. In the first part the author travels over the ground so ably, and, once for all, effectually broken by Lardner, whose main positions are defended with such modifications as the writings principally of Professors Norton and Palfrey have suggested. Such of our readers as are acquainted with the books of these authors will at once understand the position taken by Mr. Higginson. He repeats the fundamental statement of his first volume, viz., that the Bible is not a revelation, but only the record of a revelation;' and proceeds at once to criticise the several books. These, he holds, are not inspired, certain things in them only being 'inspired.' This distinction has now become so familiar as not to need illustration; but we cannot help quoting with especial approval the following passage bearing on this subject:

'The biographical form in which the Christian religion was given, and has been preserved, is remarkable. Christianity is essentially the record of a life. The religion of Jesus is inseparable from his personal history, and from the picture which that history gives us of his character. Should any one endeavour to tabulate the doctrines of the gospel in systematic order, or to arrange its precepts into a code of morals, apart from the living history of its great Prophet, the result would be but as the dead ashes of a plant in the chemist's crucible, from which all vitality and fragrance were evaporated. The scene, the circumstance, the occasion, at once gives to the doctrine or the precept the special form by which it may seem, at first sight, limited, and also directs us to the principle in which we may find its universality. Jesus Christ is continually, in evident unconsciousness himself, the central figure in our conception of Christian faith and duty. We cannot separate him in our thoughts from what he said and daily realized of a heavenly Father's providence, watchful and kind, and a fatherly bosom open to prayer. We cannot separate him in our thoughts from the precepts of benevolent love and self-sacrifice