the evil day, when, confirmed by indulgence, and fortified by habit, it would bid defiance to our efforts, and laugh at the withering of our hopes. Let us put forth stedfastness, fortitude, and the perseverance of invincible affection. It may plead with us for tolerance towards all but wilful obduracy, when we think how ruthless is that domination which, by contact with ourselves, has enthralled, and manacled, and threatens to destroy. What might excite to anger, may thus awake to pity; and we may gather lessons of forbearance, even from the provocations which would inflame resentment, or harden in despair. Actuated by these convictions, let us undisguisedly announce them. Let it be known to our children, that we have penetrated the secrets of their history, and are acquainted, better than themselves, with the operations they inwardly experience; that our end and aim is, the detection first, and the expulsion afterwards, of a malignant power, which, while they feel in action, they know not how to overcome; and that, struggle as they will against us, we will never be repelled or vanquished, till, by the aid of Almighty grace, we witness their deliverance. But above all, let us abound in the exercise of fervent and believing prayer. Let aspirations mingle with our instructions; and acts of secret intercession with every chastisement and reproof. Let us lay fast hold of those securities which seal to the children, even through successive generations, the blessing of the God of their fathers. Let our urgency of supplication be such as to forbid denial, and to make the Divine veracity an inviolable guarantee for our success.

I have spoken of believing prayer. It is this we chiefly need; on this we must chiefly rely. The lack of faith it is, that entails upon us every other deficiency. We do not honour the Divine fidelity and our punishment is an universal penury of spiritual good. Oh that we could overcome that almost only obstacle! and that parents who may have tried in vain a hundred other expedients, and are now ready to give up their last hope, retiring this night from the sanctuary, humbly resolved and confident, would strive and wrestle even with Omnipotence, importuning with a father's earnestness, at the feet of the almighty Father! Árise, Chris

a river; give thyself no rest; let not the apple of thine eyes cease; arise, cry out in the night. In the beginning of the watches pour out thine heart, like water before the face of the Lord: lift up thine hands towards him for the life of thy young children," Lam. ii. 18, 19. Emboldened, not by despair, but by an affection stronger than death, resolve-"I will not let thee go, except thou bless me." And, remember, it is the last triumph of mercy yielding to the force it has itself administered, to utter the animating declaration: "Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel; for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed," Gen. xxxii. 26. 28.

If we reflect upon those instances, supplied so strikingly in Scripture, of the efficacy of unwearied and persevering prayer, we shall find several, even of the most affecting of them all, such as bear directly on our subject. For whom was it that the Syrophenician endured the bitterest humiliations, and the most disheartening delays, until at length her faith and fervour called forth so signally the testimony of the Saviour's approbation? Was it not for a daughter, bound and oppressed by Satan? Mark vii. 25, etc. What was the unconquerable impulse which sustained that Jewish ruler, when, in spite of its apparent hopelessness, he came and worshipped him, and preferred not in vain this singular petition: "My daughter is even now dead; but come, and lay thy hand upon her, and she shall live ?" Matt. ix. 18, etc. It is needless to multiply examples; but there is one so singularly applicable, and which may seem to touch the case of parents agitated by an almost hopeless solicitude for the spiritual welfare of their children in so many separate points, and in a manner of such striking adaptation, that I cannot pass it unnoticed. I refer to that urgent, and, as it seemed, remediless extremity, wherein our Lord, descending from the mountain of transfiguration, found his disciples surrounded by the cavilling scribes and an incredulous multitude, in the midst of which there stood a suppliant and half-desponding parent, with his demoniac son. How great was that parent's disquietude! how heartsickening his affliction! A fury, altogether uncontrollable, maddened the spirit, over which he had watched and wept

the whining beggar, defended by his matches from the interference of the policeman; the fish woman at Billingsgate; the merchant on 'Change; and the Lord Mayor in his state carriage-all call forth the speculations of Old Humphrey.

I like to look in the shop windows; for many of them supply food for profitable speculation. I like to pause as the plumed hearse and mourning coaches, drawn by black horses arching their proud necks and lifting their feet high, slowly move among the crowded and busy streets, emphatically proclaiming to the passersby, "Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not," Job xiv. 1, 2.

I like to look on etchings, drawings, engravings, and pictures, and am oftentimes spell-bound by their influence, feeling regret that I cannot thank those who have so much contributed to my gratification. I like to glance, if it be only at the title page, on the works of authors that are in heaven, claiming kindred with them even there, knowing them, loving them, and longing to be like them. How many a kindred spirit has by its works made my heart beat and my pulse play, and called forth my admiration, joy, and thankfulness, hundreds of years after its translation to glory!

Í like to linger at the well-supplied book stalls of those who sell second-hand books, and to turn over the leaves of the volumes exposed for sale, from the twopenny box of all sorts, at the door, to the shelf of folios inside the shop. I like to glide slowly with the living stream along Cheapside, noting the passers-by, and reading their history in their eyes, faces, and appearance. Twenty men did I meet there last week, every one bearing a broad, heavy board on his shoulder, placarded with the name of a London journal. Oh what a tale did their haggard cheeks, their sickly frames, and their ragged raiment make known! Thoughtlessness, indiscretion, crime, and poverty had doubtless a hand in making most of them what they were.

I like to stand opposite Christ's Hospital, and look through the double row of iron palisades at the boys when they are at play in the court-yard. If it were possible to make a good-looking boy appear ugly, by dressing him up in uncouth clothing, the blue gown, yellow petticoat and stockings, and buckle-garter-like

girdle of the Christ's Hospital costume would undoubtedly do it; but, in spite of their dress, the light-hearted, merrymaking young rogues find their way into my heart. I remember that I once was a boy, and when they knuckle down at ring-taw, leap the skipping-rope, trundle the hoop, and race after one another, I feel that I could join them at their sport. It was but yesterday that I stood looking at them for ten minutes, afterwards giving them in silence my parting blessing.

I like, when I feel strong enough, but it is an arduous undertaking for an old man, to ascend to the golden gallery of St. Paul's Cathedral, and to look upon London below. The incessant rumble of busy life reaches me as an echo of things remote, and my brother emmets beneath me, by their diminished stature, make me feel little in my own eyes. London, the treasure-house of the earth for wealth and power, as the queen of nations, stretches the sceptre of her influence over the east and the west, the north and the south. She is, as it were, the big heart of the breathing world, animating through the peopled avenues of society the industry, the knowledge, and the piety of the uttermost parts of the earth.

I like, now and then, to visit a Christian friend, walking abroad betimes, and breakfasting with him in his quiet and retired habitation in the suburbs of the city. The early hour, and the walk, and the fresh air, give me an appetite, and the frizzled ham or bacon that forms a part of the hospitable meal relishes all the better for the free and cheerful converse that prevails. I like to hear him, with a soft musical voice, read the Holy Scriptures, expound with faithfulness, knowledge, and simplicity, the word of the Most High, and engage in supplication and thanksgivings to the Giver of all our mercies. I like to walk abroad with him in the fields or retired lanes, discoursing freely, as the case may be, of the heavens, the earth, and the varied objects of creation, indulging in literary projects, and fixing, perhaps, the subject for the next paper of Old Humphrey.

I like to pass along the street when a throng of poor women, girls, and boys, stand with their jugs and cups, their basins and platters, opposite to an eating-house, waiting with their twopences to receive the broken victuals of the establishment. It would do you good, if you have never seen this daily

exhibition, to gaze upon it; and if you have a kind heart, and twopence in your pocket, I feel quite sure, that some poor widow, or pale-faced girl with her crockery in her hand will soon have your money. What a comfortable thing it is that one can buy such a substantial gratification, as that of lighting up the eye and gladdening the heart of the poor, at the low price of two pence!

I like to stand among the gathered group of merchants and foreigners on 'Change, just long enough for the rolling din of mingled voices and varied languages to make one estimate more highly quietude and peace. I like, now and then, to peep at the parks, commenting, not ill-naturedly, on the gay equipages and well-dressed people assembled. I like to lean over London-bridge, gazing on the steam boats as they come and go, and on the forest of masts that rises from the bed of the river. And I like to pause in Smithfield, ere I go by the spot where the martyr has "played the man in the fire." May I never pass the place without more than common thankfulness to the Father of mercies in sparing me the torment that better men have

endured!

I like to visit the cemeteries around the city, and bend over the resting places of the dead. There may the living learn lessons of humility. I like to wander through the Zoological Gardens, and to fancy the different birds, beasts, and reptiles, at liberty in the places they frequented before they were caught and caged: the white bear on his icebergs; the wolf amid the northern snow; the lion in the desert sand; the tiger in the jungle; the orang-outang in the woods; the pelican in the wilderness; the rattlesnake in the thick tangled brushwood; and the crocodile basking on the sedgy banks of the Nile. How infinitely varied are the works of God! How wonderful are the creatures formed by the hand of the Almighty!

to the Elgin marbles, and from the mummies to the manuscripts; to sit in the reading-room with an interesting volume before me, now and then stealing a glance at the authors, artists, and reading world around. I like to visit the India House, and muse on its oriental stores, from the ivory carved hanging gardens, to the skull of the Batta chief; from the hieroglyphic brick of Babylon to the manuscript dreams of Tippoo Saib, though written in language that I cannot understand.

I like to visit the Abbey of Westminster, and to give way to the solemn thoughts the place inspires, without entering into the question of the lawfulness or unlawfulness of erecting in a temple. of Christian worship such gorgeous commemorations of the departed dead; for I am no splitter of hairs, no decider of disputed points, no authority in doubtful doctrines of any kind, but a simple-minded old man, well content to keep to what is plain and practical, and to leave to those who are wiser than myself all things that are too hard for me. I like to muse over the dust of good men, and to ponder, though with diminished interest, over the ashes of the merely great; and if the shrill voices of the youthful choir, and the thrilling swell of the harmonious organ reverberate from the sculptured roof and monumental walls, I am carried in my spirit to a heavenly temple, where angels join in the hallelujahs of pardoned sinners, setting forth the praises of the Redeemer.

To hear

I like to steal into a public meeting called for a Christian or benevolent purpose, ensconcing myself in a back seat, where from my hiding-place I can see and hear all that passes. I like to look right and left on the beaming faces of the assembled multitude. the remarks, the wisdom and experience of age, and to drink in the impassioned appeals and stormy eloquence of more youthful hearts. I like, on such occasions, to feel my bosom beating, and my pulse playing, as though I alone were the spectator, and to indulge in an ejaculation to the Father of mercies that every foot present may be quickened, every

strengthened, and every heart enlarged in promoting the glory of God, and the welfare of mankind.

I like to hear the sound of the "churchgoing bell" on the sabbath morn; to walk in peace to the sanctuary, noticing as I pass along my fellow-pilgrims bound