Erskine on the Freeness of the Gospel.-The Old Sea-Port. panorama, to see which alone, it is not too much to say, that a journey of 1700 miles is not too great a sacrifice."-vol. i. pp. 444-447. Extract from the Eclectic Review. ERSKINE ON THE UNCONDITIONAL FREENESS OF THE GOSPEL. As a specimen of the striking passages with which the volume abounds, and of the fervent piety which glows in every page, we shall conclude this article with the following excellent remarks on the study of the Scriptures. "The world hath not known thee, but I have known thee.' Oh, infinite knowledge, the knowledge of the Father by the Son! But we may have our share in this wondrous knowledge. No man knoweth the Son but the Father, neither knoweth any man the Father save the Son, and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal him.' And the Son of God has declared his Father's name, and will declare it; he is standing and knocking at the door; we have not to ascend into the heaven, nor to descend into the deep to find him; he is very nigh thee, and he longs to reveal the Father to thee, and to give thee that knowledge which is life eternal. that "And it is through the Bible read in the spirit of prayer, that he chiefly communicates this knowledge. Thy word is truth.' This is our Urim and Thummim, which will tell us what is the mind of God in all things. We need not be ignorant of God's will or counsel, whilst we have a Bible to consult. We often place much importance on having the advice of particular persons in whose judgment and friendship we have confidence, and we have great pleasure in asking and hearing their opinions. Alas! what can they tell us? What can they do for us? Why should we not go to God, and consult him rather? Reader, do you believe that the Bible is the word of God? and that God spoke it for this very purpose, by it he might direct, and support, and comfort man in his journey through time to eternity? And do you not need direction, or support, or comfort? And if you do, will you not go to the Bible to seek it? Where else can you expect it? We are so accustomed to the sight of a Bible, that it ceases to be a miracle to us. It is printed just like other books, and so we forget that it is not just like other books. But there is nothing in the world like it, or comparable to it. The sun in the firmament is nothing to it, if it be really-what it assumes to be an actual direct communication from God to man. Take up your Bible with this idea, and look at it, and wonder at it. It is a treasure of unspeakable value to you, for it contains a special message of love and tender mercy from God to your soul. Do you wish to converse with God? Open it and read. And, at the same time, look to him who speaks to you in it, and ask him to give you an understanding heart, that you may not read in vain, but that the word may be in you, as good seed in good ground bringing forth fruit unto eternal life. Only take care not to separate God 437 from the Bible. Read it in the secret of God's presence, and receive it from his lips, and feed upon it, and it will be to you as it was to Jeremiah, the joy and rejoicing of your heart. The best advice which any one friend can give to another, is to advise him to consult God; and the best turn that any book can do to its reader, is to refer him to the Bible. but, in doing so, let us remember, that how"Let us seek to know more of the Bible; ever much we may add by study to our knowledge of the book, we have just so much true knowledge of God as we have love of him, and no more. Our continual prayer ought to be, that our true notions may become true feelings, and that our orthodoxy and theology may become holy love and holy obedience. This is the religion of eternity; and the religion of eternity is the only religion for us,-for yet a few days, and we shall be in eternity."-p. 222 -225. "Reader, farewell-I believe that what I have written is according to the word of God; and as far as it is so, I may look up to him for a blessing on it. It would be an unspeakable joy to me, to have any reason to think that it has been really honoured by him to be the bearer of a message to your soul. At all events, I trust it may not do you the injury of exciting the spirit of controversy in you. If you don't agree with it, lay it down and go to the Bible; and if you do agree with it, in like manner lay it down and go to the Bible; and go in the spirit of prayer to him whose word the Bible is, and ask of him, and he will lead you into all truth-he will give you living water."-pp. 239, 240. From Blackwood's Magazine. THE OLD SEA-PORT. WHEN winds were wailing round me, A place more wild and lonely The caverned sea-rocks beetled o'er High 'mid the lowering waste of sky, In twilight's shadowy scowling, And, though the abode of human things, Of lifeless solitude it spake, I thought of venerable men, Whose dust lies in their graves; Who left that now deserted port, To breast the trampling waves; How in their shallops picturesque, Unawed, they drifted forth; Directed by the one bright star, That points the stormy North. And how when swept the tempest-blast, Would cower beside the hearth, Such wondrous tales they told, 'Mid melancholy fancies, My spirit loved to stray Back through the mists of hooded Eld, Yes! through Tradition's twilight, When Canmore, or when Kenneth, dree'd 'Mid which gleam'd Cunning's scapulaire, And, in their rusty hauberks, Throng'd past the plaided bands; And, in the moorlands dreary, Remain'd the old dim sea-port, From the New Monthly Magazine. SONG TO A SERENADER IN FEBRU- Air-"Why hast thon taught me to love thee?" DEAR Minstrel, the dangers are not to be told me, A victim to pity, to love, and to cold, I'll be dead by the time thou hast won me! Oh! think for a moment-whoever thou art, How keenly around me the night breezes How sweetly thy parting note lingers,— stow A share of its warmth to my fingers! But though she who would watch while the nightingales sing Should scorn to let cold overcome her,Though, like other sweet birds, you begin in the Spring, I can't fall in love till the Summer! From Blackwood's Magazine. THE TWO EMILIES. "WELL! this is sufficiently tantalizing," exclaimed young Harry Ponsonby, as he sat at his solitary breakfast, sipping a cup of very indifferent tea, and perusing a letter which had just been brought him. "Now, here have I been for this month past, thinking, dreaming, and talking of nothing else than my expected meeting with my dear little Emily; and at the very moment I am going to set off post on this delightful errand, comes this confounded letter, to quash all my hopes!-Deuce take me if I go at all," said the impatient youth, tossing the unwelcome epistle from him to the furthest corner of the room. The letter which called forth this burst of impatience from the youthful lover, was from his guardian, Mr. Devereux, and we shall give its purport in his own words, as follows-"Dear Mark'd where their souls shriek'd forth in Harry, we are rejoiced to hear of your success blood, On Battle's iron day. Waned all these tranced visions; But, on my pensive sight, at Cambridge, and at the near prospect of seeing you here. Had your little mistress been with us at present, we should no doubt have had mighty preparations for your reception at Stokely, and you might have had the satisfaction of throwing yourself and your laurels at the young lady's feet in the true heroic style. But joking apart, my dear Harry, though sorry for your disappointment, I think it may be just as well that my ward and you should not be thrown together until the childish impressions received when you were last here shall have undergone the test of time, and till the influence of society, and the attractions of others may have had free scope to act upon the unfettered hearts of both. "You no doubt thought me a surly fellow, when I forbade all childish promises; but you may live to thank me for my obduracy, and mean time you must console yourself as best you can, or if much at a loss, may practise pretty speeches at the expense of my Emily, who, though not perhaps so gay as her lively cousin, is very much what her father could wish her to be; and who, together with Mrs. Betty and myself, will be delighted to see you at Stokely Priory," &c. &c. "Well! perhaps Mr. Devereux was right, and I was wrong after all," said Ponsonby, as after another perusal, he crumpled the letter into his pocket, and threw himself into the carriage which had been in waiting for some time." But unfortunately the promise was given before I was aware of his intentions, or at least before I had done more than half suspect them. And now, what if Emily should have grown up coarse-but surely that is impossible; she was so pretty and so playful.-Let me see, it is just five years since I saw her last -she was then but thirteen; and now she is eighteen-what a charming age!"-and in contemplation of that golden age, and on the change which five years must have made upon his Emily, the hours rolled on, and so did the carriage until he arrived at Stokely Priory. It was a bitter sharp evening in the end of February; the ground was covered with snow, and the sound of the carriage wheels was scarcely to be heard as it swept round the circle, and stopped at the door of his guardian's mansion. Ponsonby was one of those youths who delight in surprises, and who love to throw the whole precise arrangements of a quiet family into confusion. He congratulated himself, therefore, that no one appeared at the door to receive him, except the old butler, a favourite domestic of the family, and was still better pleased, when old John assured him, that he might, if desirous of so doing, steal upon the family quite unawares; "for," added he, "master always makes Miss Emily sing to him after dinner until the candles come, while he sits listening with his eyes shut in one arm-chair, and Mrs. Betty is sleeping in t'other; so if you go in by the anteroom, sir, you may hear Miss Emily sing, and she be never the wiser; but you know, sir, it's not your Miss-I mean, sir, that it's t'other Miss Emily, master's daughter, that's at home now."-"I know, I know, John; I shall be very happy to see Miss Devereux, and to make acquaintance with her."-So saying, Harry stept lightly up the staircase, and softly opened the door of the apartment which led to the drawing-room, he stopped for a moment, lest the noise of his footsteps should arrest the sweet sounds which met his ear from thence. Oh, what a voice was that! so soft, so full, so sweet!-but it was not his Emily who sang, and a pang of disappointment thrilled through his breast. Harry was passionately fond of music, and he stood chained to the spot, drinking in the rich melody which seemed formed to penetrate his soul. The air was one he well knew,-it was a beautiful French air from the opera of Joconde -"Dans un delire extreme." There was something in the tenderness with which the words "Et l'on revient toujours, toujours, A ses premieres amours!" were breathed, which thrilled through his heart. Had it been his Emily who sung, what a moment of delight would this have been! But he had no time to sigh or to think about the matter, for old John entered the room with candles, and at this moment an exclamation of surprise, and, as Harry fancied, of pleasure, escaped the lips of the lovely songstress-for lovely she indeed appeared, as she started from the instrument, her cheek suffused with the brightest blushes, while she hastily extended, and as hastily drew back, the prettiest little hand in the world. "Papa, it is Mr. Ponsonby," said Emily," and I have almost introduced myself to him." Mr. Devereux rose to welcome Harry, and complete the introduction, while Mrs. Betty rubbed her eyes, and, putting on her spectacles, exclaimed, “Bless me! Master Harry-it surely can't be ;-why, he is a finer man than his father was, and that I thought hardly possible."-"Do spare my blushes, dear Mrs. Elizabeth," said Ponsonby, grasping the old lady's hand with much kindness; "you know I was always a modest youth, and I would not have my fair cousin think me otherwise now, although I have been so bold as to steal upon you unannounced,—but the temptation old John held out was not to be resisted, and the sounds I have heard not easily to be forgotten."-" What, Mr. Ponsonby, and you have been a listener," said the blushing Emily; "well, my cousin Emily told me many of your faults, but she did not give me reason to believe you were so very unprincipled."-" Did Emily speak of me to you?" inquired Harry with eagerness; "and what did she say?-You must tell me what faults she said I had, that I may set about reforming them."-" Come, come,' said Mr. Devereux," we shall not enter upon so ample a field at present; see, the urn is smoking on the table, and no tea in it yet. Why, Emily, you are getting as giddy as your cousin; and I have been telling Harry here, that you are a paragon of steadiness and regularity." An arch smile played for a moment around the rosy lips of Emily, as, without farther reply, she rose and began to busy herself in the duties of the tea-table. Harry and his guardian talked about his Cambridge studies and future views; and thus, between the grave and gay, the evening quickly passed in plea sant conversation. When Ponsonby had retired at night to his old quarters in the blue room, he cast around him a glance of cheerful recognition upon every familiar thing, grown dear from the recollections and associations of childhood. "Well," said he mentally, "were my little Emily but here, I should feel just as I used to do, and we might be as happy as possible." But Harry was at that moment aware that in truth he did not just feel as he used, or as he ought to have done. The beauty and attractions of the present Emily had filled his heart with a troubled delight, and he felt the necessity of wishing for the presence of the absent Emily, to protect his plighted faith." Then this Emily is so like her cousin," reasoned he with his own conscience, " that I almost forget myself in her presence; and yet she is different too-more grave, more thoughtful. My Emily's face was ever speaking, even when her tongue was silent." Thus making out a catalogue of his little Emily's charms, and confusing them gradually with those of her lovely cousin, the bewildered Ponsonby fell asleep. A week had passed away, and Ponsonby was forced to acknowledge that his uncle's acquaintance with the human heart was greater than his own, and that it would have been far better for himself, had he submitted to be governed by it. But the fault of Harry Ponsonby had ever been impetuosity, and it required all the generosity of his disposition, and all his high sense of honour, to atone for the imprudences which he too often committed. Little Emily, as she had always been called, to distinguish her from her cousin, who was a few months older, and formed upon a larger scale, was the orphan daughter of a younger brother of Mr. Devereux. He had filled a high situation in India, and upon the death of his wife, sent home his only child to be educated with her cousin. His own death quickly followed, and Emily's recollections of her parents and of India, were but as a dream, while all the bright realities of youth were connected with Stokely Priory, and the kind friends she had found there. Mr. Devereux was a widower, but the two Emilies passed their earlier years under the tuition of an excellent governess, between whose attentive solicitude, and the caresses of good aunt Betty, the loss of a mother was never felt. Mrs. Elizabeth Deveroux was an unmarried sister of Mr. Devereux's father, and consequently grand-aunt to the children. She was the kindest of women, and the sweetest of old maids. She did not attempt, with her old-fashioned habits and ideas, to reform the ways and manners of the young; but she entered into their tastes, and made allowance for their feelings and their manners, for which she was repaid by the tenderest affection and the most watchful care. As the cousins grew out of childhood, Mr. Devereux found it necessary to alter his plan of educating them together. Their governess had accepted an advantageous offer of superintending a limited establishment for young ladies; and the increasing infirmities of his aunt, made Mr. Devereux unwilling to deprive her of the society of both the little girls at once. A plan was therefore arranged, that the cousins should each alternately be for a year with their former governess, Mrs. Hartley, and with their grand-aunt at Stokely, until their education should be completed. Thus it happened, that during the twelve months which Harry had passed with his guardian, previous to his quit ting, him for college, the younger Emily had been his only companion, and the natural consequence of their being thus thrown together, was a growing affection for each other. Ponsonby then thought that his love for Emily was the sweetest, and would be the most enduring, feeling of his existence; he had cherished it during five long years of absence, and had been proud to feel that it never was stronger than at the moment when he expect ed to be restored to her. All this was trueand even now he felt that sweet and young af fection warm at his heart!-ah no!-how dif ferent from this was the wild tumultuous feeling which now swelled his breast, and beat in every pulse, as woman, lovely, full-grown woman, asserted her sway, and burst upon him in all her charms! But not unchecked did young Ponsonby permit himself to indulge in this sweet intoxica tion; severely did he take himself to task, and yet he scarce could say whence the blame had arisen. He had come prepared to love his own long-cherished mistress, yet ere one wandering thought had sprung within his breast, he had listened to that voice which could never be forgotten, and gazed on those bewitching eyes which still would follow him wherever he went. Yet was it long before the youth would admit the painful, humiliating truth, that his first love was extinguished, or had never deserved the name of that omnipotent passion. His upright honourable heart turned with pain from the possibility of such unfaithfulness, and he shut his eyes to the danger, and resolved to struggle with it, if it indeed existed. Thus passed the time away, and Ponsonby felt his task becoming more difficult every hour, nor did Emily appear to aid him in it. It was true, she rather encouraged than checked him in any allusion to his youthful attachment; nay, she dwelt with emphasis upon the minutest circumstances regarding it, which had been confided to her by her artless cousin, and Harry thought she almost took a malicious pleasure in attaching importance to them, at the very time when he was wincing under the recollection of his fetters. Yet it was difficult to reconcile this mischievous triumph with the deep blush of pleasure which would suffuse her cheek, when she herself was the exclusive ob ject of his attention. Thus, as the conduct of Emily became every day a greater enigma to Ponsonby, and consequently fixed more of his observation, his heart became more and more filled with her image. He tried to satisfy himself as to the state of her feelings, but his ef forts were vain. Her character was much too open, and her disposition too generous to admit the imputation of coquetry, and yet at times her conduct was inconsistent-almost capricious. Puzzled with Emily, and dissatis fied with himself, Ponsonby resolved to turn from the dangerous contemplation. He would busy himself with books-he would only make his appearance when the assembled family party would render the meeting less dangerous to him. It was after having thus absented himself for some days, that he chanced to meet with Emily on her return from an early walk, and though he had resolved on striking into an op posite path, such is the weakness of a lover's mission of this nature, to the cottage of an old forbearance, that his resolution failed him at Scotchwoman, a pensioner of Mrs. Betty's, the moment, and he could not resist joining that Emily and Ponsonby had been induced to the enchantress. He even induced her to pro- prolong their walk. The evening was sultry, long her walk, by observing that the day was almost to breathlessness; and as Emily leant on too inviting to allow of her returning to the the arm of her companion, slowly pursuing house, and requested permission to accompany their way, a more than usual constraint seemher. But no sooner had he made the requested to weigh on the spirits of both. Few words than he repented of it, for it seemed as if the had been uttered by either, until they reached lady was more disposed to resent his unlooked blind Margaret's door, and they felt it a relief for attention than to accept of it. "6 Pray, Mr. when the old woman appeared, seated in her Ponsonby," said the provoking girl," to what usual sunny corner at the end of the house. am I indebted for this unusual piece of gallant- She arose, and spreading down her apron, seemry? I rather think the sun has shone quite as ed prepared to welcome them long before the brightly for this week past, but neither it nor silent pair believed it possible for her to be any thing else has been able to draw you from aware of their approach. "Well, Margaret, your room. I hope my absent cousin has had and how are you to-night?" said Emily admore of your thoughts of late than we of your vancing; "I have brought a friend with me to company, or I fear she may have reason to re- see you, and you must tell who it is before he pent of her early preference. Does Mr. Pon- speaks. You know I always said you was a sonby avoid thinking of the absent, as studi- witch, Margaret, and now I am sure of it, for ously as he does talking of them?"-"What you rose to-night to receive us before even can you mean, Emily? Surely I have never Fine Ear,' in the fairy tale, could have told avoided talking of your cousin when an oppor- we were coming." tunity has offered."" But you have avoided the opportunity," said the saucy girl, "which comes to the same thing-Poor little Emily! I fear she runs much risk of being forgotten altogether; and yet it's no fault of mine, for I am sure when we were together, I reminded you of her daily, hourly-did I not, Harry?"'Oh, Emily!" exclaimed the agitated Ponsonby, grasping her hand, "you do indeed remind me of her, and that so powerfully, that at times I scarce know which Emily I am thinking of or speaking to. I look on you as I should look on her! I think of you when I should think of her, and wish, and wish—what is impossible that there was but one Emily in the world for me, and she was-." "Oh, do not say it, Harry!" exclaimed the now trembling girl, placing her hand upon his lips, as if to stop the words she dared not hear. "Come, come, I must not listen to this nonsense.-I shall go to Mrs. Hartley's and send Emily to you, and then you will have your wish, and I shall have mine; for believe me, dear Harry, there is nothing I desire so earnestly as that you should continue true to your first affection." With these words Emily returned to the house, leaving Ponsonby more bewildered than ever. "Nothing that she desires so much as that I should be true to my first affection!" repeated Harry.-"Strange, unaccountable girl!-But be it so-The task becomes easier, now that I know that she does not love me. And now I have but to school my own heart, and avoid the dangerous pleasure of being alone with this bewitching creature while she remains here." But this schooling of the heart, Ponsonby found no easy task. Every member of the family appeared to have a plot to bring this unfortunate couple together. Even good Mrs. Elizabeth innocently lent her aid, she could not make out her evening walk unless supported by an arm of each; and when she had reached her accustomed distance, she would urge Harry and Emily to continue their way a little farther, giving them frequently some commission of benevolence to perform, which she herself was unable to accomplish. It was while proceeding one afternoon, on a "Na, na, Miss Emily, I'm no a witch, nor as little a fairy," said the old woman; "the gifts which witches and fairies possessed are no bestowed on mortals now-a-days; yet God has given a sense to the blind which amaist maks up for that which he has seen fit to deprive them of, and I dinna think it needed ony witchcraft to tell that it was Maister Harry, coming up the loan, switching the thistles and nettles wi' his cane, as he used to do when he was a laddie, and little Miss Emily would aye be trotting after him. His step is no sae light tonight as it used to be in ither days, and yet I would hae kent it amang a thousand!" "Thank you, Margaret, for your kind remembrance of me and my boyish tricks," said Harry, kindly shaking hands with the old woman. "I was not aware that I was disciplining the thistles to-night. I think I might have been cured of that bad habit ere now."-" And I thought sae too, Maister Harry, for ye may mind weel it cost you a sair heart when you was younger than you are the day, and you nearly whipped out little Miss Emily's een, driving about you with your switch-ay, I mind weel how you brought the dear bairn in to me, and I couldna mak out which of you had got the hurt, for you was crying and she was comforting you-till the sweet bairn said, 'Never mind, Harry, for if I am blind, you will lead me about, and promise never to leave me; and I shall be far happier than poor old Margaret, for she has nobody to be kind to her-And then you promised""Oh, Margaret, you must not be remembering all the foolish things I said and promised when I was a boy," said Ponsonby, colouring deeply; "one gets wiser as they get older."-"Aweel, aweel, see that it be sae, my young gentleman; but remember it's ae thing whiles to be wise, and anither to be honest, and I never saw muckle good come of the wisdom that made folk no like to hear of their youthful promises. -But winna ye step into the house, Miss Emily, as ye used to do, for I feel an unco weight in the air, and I'm thinking we'll no be lang without a shower?"" Indeed," said Ponsonby, looking at the sky, "it is darkening all round us; Emily, we must hurry homeward." |
