W SMUGGLED RELATIONS. HEN I was a child, I remember to have had my ears boxed for informing a lady-visitor who made a morning call at our house, that a certain ornamental object on the table, which was covered with marbled paper, "wasn't marble." Years of reflection upon this injury have fully satisfied me that the honest object in question never imposed upon any body; further, that my honored parents, though both of a sanguine temperament, never can have conceived it possible that it might, could, should, would, or did impose upon any body. Yet I have no doubt that I had my ears boxed for violating a tacit compact in the family and among the family visitors, to blink the stubborn fact of the marbled paper, and agree upon a fiction of real marble. Long after this, when my ears had been past boxing for a quarter of a century, I knew a man with a cork leg. That he had a cork leg-or, at all events, that he was at immense pains to take about with him a leg which was not his own leg, or a real leg-was so plain and obvious a circumstance, that the whole universe might have made affidavit of it. Still it was always understood that this cork leg was to be regarded as a leg of flesh and blood, and even that the very subject of cork in the abstract was to be avoided in the wearer's society. I have had my share of going about the world; wherever I have been, I have found the marbled paper and the cork leg. I have found them in many forms; but, of all their Protean shapes, at once the commonest and strangest has beenSmuggled Relations. I was on intimate terms for many, many years, with my late lamented friend, Cogsford, of the great Greek house of Cogsford Brothers and Cogsford. I was his executor. I believe he had no secrets from me but one- -his mother. That the agreeable old lady who kept his house for him was his mother, must be his mother, couldn't possibly be any body but his mother, was evident: not to me alone, but to every body who knew him. She was not a refugee, she was not proscribed, she was not in hiding, there was no price put upon her venerable head; she was invariably liked and respected as a good-humored, sensible, cheerful old soul. Then why did Cogsford smuggle his mother all the days of his life? I have not the slightest idea why. I can not so much as say whether she had ever contracted a second marriage, and her name was really Mrs. Bean: or whether that name was bestowed upon her as a part of the smuggling transaction. I only know that there she used to sit at one end of the hospitable table, the living image in a cap of Cogsford at the other end, and that Cogsford knew that I knew who she was. Yet, if I had been a custom-house officer at Folkestone, and Mrs. Bean a French clock that Cogsford was furtively bringing from Paris in a hat-box, he could not have made her the subject of a more determined and deliberate pretense. It was prolonged for years upon years. It survived the good old lady herself. One day I received an agitated note from Cogsford, entreating me to go to him immediately; I went, and found him weeping, and in the greatest affliction. "My dear friend," said he, pressing my hand, "I have lost Mrs. Bean. She is no more." I went to the funeral with him. He was in the deepest grief. He spoke of Mrs. Bean, on the way back, as the best of women. But even then he never hinted that Mrs. Bean was his mother; and the first and last acknowledgment of the fact that I ever had from him was in his last will, wherein he entreated "his said dear friend and executor" to observe that he requested to be buried beside his mother-whom he didn't even name, he was so perfectly confident that I had detected Mrs. Bean. I was once acquainted with another man who smuggled a brother. This contraband relative made mysterious appearances and disappearances, and knew strange things. He was called Johnsimply John. I have got into a habit of believing that he must have been under a penalty to forfeit some weekly allowance if he ever claimed a surname. He came to light in this way: I wanted some information respecting the remotest of the Himalaya range of mountains, and I applied to my friend Benting-a member of the Geographical Society, and learned on such points-to advise me. After some consideration, Benting said, in a half-reluctant and constrained way, very unlike his usual frank manner, that he "thought he knew a man" who could tell me, of his own experience what I wanted to learn. An appointment was made for a certain evening at Benting's house. I arrived first, and had not observed for more than five minutes that Benting was under a curious cloud, when his servant announced-in a hushed, and, I may say, unearthly manner-"Mr. John." A rather stiff and shabby person appeared, who called Benting by no name whatever-a singularity that I always observed whenever I saw them together afterward-and whose manner was curiously divided between familiarity and distance. I found this man to have been all over the Indies, and to possess an extraordinary fund of traveler's ex-petually discoursing of it. "My poor, dear, darperience. It came from him dryly at first; but ling Emmy," he said to me within these six he warmed, and it flowed freely till he happened months, "she is gone-I have lost her." Never to meet Benting's eye. Then he subsided again, till that moment had Tom breathed one syllable and—it appeared to me-felt himself, for some to me of the existence of any Emmy whomsounknown reason, in danger of losing that weekly ever on the face of this earth, in whom he had allowance. This happened a dozen of times in the smallest interest. He had scarcely allowed a couple of hours, and not the least curious part me to understand, very distinctly and generally, of the matter was, that Benting himself was that he had some relations-"my people," he always as much disconcerted as the other man. called them-down in Yorkshire. "My own It did not occur to me that night, that this was dear, darling Emmy," says Tom, notwithstandBenting's brother, for I had known him very ing, "she has left me for a better world." (Tom well indeed for years, and had always understood must have left her for his own world, at least fifhim to have none. Neither can I now recall, teen years.) I repeated, feeling my way, "Emmy, nor, if I could, would it matter, by what degrees Tom?" "My favorite niece," said Tom, in a and stages I arrived at the knowledge. However reproachful tone, "Emmy, you know. I was her this may be, I knew it, and Benting knew that I godfather, you remember. Darling, fair-haired knew it. But we always preserved the fiction that Emmy! Precious, blue-eyed child!" Tom burst I could have no suspicion that there was any sort into tears, and we both understood that henceof kindred or affinity between them. He went forth the fiction was established between us that to Mexico, this John-and he went to Australia- I had been quite familiar with Emmy by reputaand he went to China-and he died somewhere tion, through a series of years. in Persia and one day, when we went down to Occasionally smuggled relations are discovered. dinner at Benting's, I would find him in the by accident: just as those kegs may be, to which dining-room, already seated-as if he had just I have referred. My other half-I mean, of been counting the allowance on the table-cloth-course, my wife-once discovered a large cargo and another day I would hear of him as being among scarlet parrots in the tropics; but I never knew whether he had ever done any thing wrong, or whether he had ever done any thing right, or why he went about the world, or how. As I have already signified, I got into habits of believing; and I have got into a habit of believing that Mr. John had something to do with the dip of the magnetic needle-he is all vague and shadowy to me, however, and I only know him for certain to have been a smuggled relation. Other people again put these contraband commodities entirely away from the light, as smugglers of wine and brandy bury kegs. I have heard of a man who never imparted, to his most intimate friend, the terrific secret that he had a relation in the world, except when he lost one by death; and then he would be weighed down by the greatness of the calamity, and would refer to his bereavement as if he had lost the very shadow of himself, from whom he had never been separated since the days of infancy. Within my own experience, I have observed smuggled relations to possess a wonderful quality of coming out when they die. My own dear Tom, who married my fourth sister, and who is a great smuggler, never fails to speak to me of one of his relations newly deceased, as though, instead of never having in the remotest way alluded to that relative's existence before, he had been per in this way, which had been long concealed. In the next street to us lived an acquaintance of ours, who was a commissioner of something or other, and kept a handsome establishment. We used to exchange dinners, and I have frequently heard him at his own table mention his father as a "poor, dear, good old boy," who had been dead for any indefinite period. He was rather fond of telling anecdotes of his very early days, and from them it appeared that he had been an only child. One summer afternoon, my other half, walking in our immediate neighborhood, happened to perceive Mrs. Commissioner's last year's bonnetto every inch of which, it is necessary to add, she could have sworn-going along before her on some body else's head. Having heard generally of the swell mob, my good lady's first impression was, that the wearer of this bonnet belonged to that fraternity, had just abstracted the bonnet from its place of repose, was in every sense of the term walking off with it, and ought to be given into the custody of the nearest policeman. Fortunately, however, my Susannah, who is not distinguished by closeness of reasoning or presence of mind, reflected as it were by a flash of inspiration, that the bonnet might have been given away. Curious to see to whom, she quickened her steps, and descried beneath it, an ancient lady of an iron-bound presence, in whom-for my Susannah has an eye-she instantly recog nized the lineaments of the Commissioner! Eagerly pursuing this discovery, she, that very afternoon, tracked down an ancient gentleman in one of the Commissioner's hats. Next day she came upon the trail of four stony maidens, decorated with artificial flowers out of the Commissioner's epergne; and thus we dug up the Commissioner's father and mother and four sisters, who had been for some years secreted in lodgings round the corner, and never entered the Commissioner's house save in the dawn of morning and the shades of evening. From that time forth, whenever my Susannah made a call at the Commissioner's she always listened on the doorstep for any slight preliminary scuffling in the hall, and hearing it, was delighted to remark, "The family are here, and they are hiding them!" I once lodged in the house of a genteel lady claiming to be a widow, who had four pretty children, and might be occasionally overheard coercing an obscure man in a sleeved waistcoat, who appeared to be confined in some pit below the foundations of the house, where he was condemned to be always cleaning knives. One day the smallest of the children crept into my room and said, pointing downward with a little chubby finger, "Don't tell! It's pa!" and vanished on tiptoe! One other branch of the smuggling trade demands a word of mention before I conclude. My friend of friends in my bachelor days, became the friend of the house when I got married. He is our Amelia's godfather; Amelia being the eldest of our cherubs. Through upward of ten years he was backward and forward at our house three or four times a week, and always found his knife and fork ready for him. What was my astonishment on coming home one day to find Susannah sunk upon the oil-cloth in the hall, holding her brow with both hands, and meeting my gaze, when I admitted myself with my latch-key, in a distracted manner! "Susannah!" I exclaimed, "what has happened?" She merely ejaculated, "Larver"-that being the name of the friend in question. "Susannah!" said I, "what of Larver? Speak! Has he met with any accident? Is he ill?" Susannah replied faintly, "Married-married before we were:" and would have gone into hysterics but that I make a rule of never permitting that disorder under my roof. For upward of ten years my bosom friend Larver, in close communication with me every day, had smuggled a wife! He had at the last confided the truth to Susannah, and had presented Mrs. Larver. There was no kind of rea son for this, that we could ever find out. Even Susannah had not a doubt of things being all correct. He had "run" Mrs. Larver into a little cottage in Hertfordshire, and nobody ever knew why, or ever will know. In fact, I believe there was no why in it. ELEMENTS OF A HIGH STANDARD OF PIETY IN THE CHRISTIAN PROFESSION. G BY THE EDITOR. ROWTH, enlargement is one of the striking laws of physical, intellectual, and spiritual being. The little rivulet, trickling down through pebbles and moss, and overhung with spreading branches, gradually enlarges into a stream, which in turn becomes swollen into a mighty river, rolling on its ceaseless tide of waters to the everlasting ocean. Such should be the ever-enlarging, ever-expanding stream of Christian love. The little twig that writhes and bends before the slightest gust of wind, gradually rises, till its mighty trunk towers toward the heavens and its arms spread abroad, defying alike the stormy blast and the freezing cold. Such is the development of the Christian's spiritual characteronce a frail and feeble twig, now a mighty oak. The intellect of childhood, how feeble! It stumbles at the least difficulty; it is bewildered by the slightest mysteries; its simplicity, its little wonderments, its childish feebleness awaken our sympathy and almost excite our pity. But to that intellect-so feeble in its beginning-the law of development is applied. It acquires new energy, develops new power, rises in might and majesty, till, with Newton, it fathoms the profoundest mysteries of the universe, with Herschell it walks among the constellations of heaven, and with Locke analyzes the profoundest mysteries of thought. Similar to this is the law of spiritual development. It contemplates an unceasing approximation toward the great source of purity and of love. Christian development-the attainment of a high standard of piety-is the law of our spiritual life. This is one of the primary ends of the Gospel. The spiritual and moral elevation of our nature is the crowning glory of our salvation. It is the element of selectness that makes desirable the exalted society of heaven. But men are so prone to mistake the true nature of a high standard of piety, that we propose to indicate a few of its elements. In a character answering to this description we apprehend there must be a combination of Christian graces, harmonizing with each other, full in their development, firm in their action, and beautiful in their combination. John Angel James has well said that "real personal godliness consists of the union of Scriptural opinions, spiritual affections, a tender conscience, good morals, and Christian love." A high standard of piety implies the development of these traits in a high degree. In such a person there will be a constant, earnest, and successful warring against the motions of sin. There will be a constant and successful effort "to strive against sin," "to mortify the deeds of the body," "to crucify the flesh with the affections and lusts thereof," and "to cleanse himself from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit, perfecting holiness in the fear of the Lord." The heart of such a man is the temple of the living God, and he knows that him who defiles God's temple will God destroy. No one who would attain eminent piety can be released from this warfare. It will mark every stage of his upward progress, and every conflict with his stubborn foe. In the heart of such a person there will also be a strong and earnest love of evangelical truth. Is a man wedded to the cultivation of some one of the sciences? How deep will be his interest in the fundamental and established truths of that science! their very enunciation will thrill upon his soul; and the presentation of its problems will arouse him to intense yet delightful mental activity. The Christian-such as we have described-is wedded to the science of salvation. How will the great mystery of godliness thrill upon his heart! How will his heart cling, especially to that great truth which lies at the foundation of all faith and hope in Christ! Another trait will be an exquisite tenderness of conscience. Such a conscience will be strong and clear in its monitions as well as sensitive in its susceptibility of impression. Like the telescope, it will sweep over the field of vision, descrying objects not discernible to the common eye. Delicate as "the apple of the eye," it is sensitive to the slightest touch. And yet so deep is the soul's hatred of sin, that it delights in that exquisite pain of conscience which warns it of sin's approach. Closely connected with this will be spiritualmindedness, or an habitual relish for the things of God and religion. This is having fellowship with the Father and the Son; it is living by faith; walking with God; being dead to the world; setting our affections on things above. It implies a love for religious meditation, a delight in prayer, a fondness for the Scriptures, a disposition to retire from company to hold communion with God, a love and relish for the ordinances of religion, the enjoyment of that peace that passeth understanding, and a frequent experience of the joy that is unspeakable and full of glory. This is eminent religion. (Christian Professor.) Resulting from this inward work will flow consistency of Christian life. A holy life is one of the beautiful fruits of Christianity. It was said of Homer that he made his gods live like men-subjecting them to the same vices, passions, and infirmities. But Christianity teaches men to live like gods. It implants in the soul a principle-divine in its origin and divine in its tendency-ever bearing us upward. It presents not mere dry formula for the regulation of the life, but it gives a new impulse and direction to character. The outward development of a holy life is only the manifestation of a change wrought within. But the one is indispensable to the other. "Show me thy faith without works, and I will show thee my faith by my works." A scrupulous integrity of Christian character and purity of life are the inseparable concomitants of high spiritual attainments in religion. If the tree does not bear this fruit, its planting is not of God. Another characteristic of high attainment in religion, is the predominance of Christian love, which will reign supreme in the soul. This will not only predominate over every other affection, but it will so blend with those natural affections which have been implanted by God, as to purify them, harmonize them, and direct them to holy and beneficent ends. Here is the fulfilling of the divine command to love the Lord with all the heart, soul, might, mind, and strength. The very element in which such a soul lives is heavenly love; this is the main-spring of its action, the bond of sympathy that unites it at once to the world and to heaven. He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in Christ, and Christ in him. Love is the all-pervading element of Christian pietyan element that robes it with the beauty, loveliness, and purity of heaven itself. Such are some of the Christian graces, whose combination and development constitute a high standard of piety. If a part only of these graces be possessed, the Christian character will lack symmetry and completeness. So also if they are disproportioned in their development. It is only when all these virtues, vigorous in their growth, proportionate in their development, center in the same individual, that we can point to such a one as a practical exemplification of what is intended by "a high standard of piety in the Christian profession." EDITOR'S REPOSITORY. Scripture Cabinet. GO WORK TO-DAY IN MY VINEYARD.—“Son, go work to- | enmity, their blind prejudices, the selfish and worldly day in my vineyard."-Matthew xxi, 28. When Hugo Grotius was treading the dark valley of the shadow of death, such were the abasing views he had of himself, that he expressed a wish that he could change conditions with John Urick, a poor but devout man. His friends, seeking to administer consolation, reminded him of his great industry and learned performances; to which he replied, with a sigh, "Heu! vitam perdidi operose nihil agendo." "Alas! I have squandered my life away laboriously in doing nothing." How many of us have greater cause to prefer this charge at the bar of our conscience! Our solemn vocation, as "followers of Christ," requires vigorous and untiring industry, as well as patient and unwavering confidence. Christianity is not only a system of faith, but of practice. It invites us to rest: it also calls us to labor. It cries in the ears of the perish ing, while it points to the blood-stained standard, "Believe." It adds, in language not less intelligible and forcible, "Faith without works is dead." He who accepts the sacred vocation under the impression that he will have no duties to perform, betrays ignorance of the first principles of the Gospel. The kingdom of God is a vineyard; and there is hedging work, and planting work, and watering work, and pruning work. Or it is a building; and there is a foundation to be laid, walls to be raised, and a top-stone to be brought on. Or it is a sheep-fold; and sheep have to be gathered, and fed, and protected. And various agents and talents are needed for the successful prosecution of the service of the King. He himself said, "I must work the works of Him that sent me, while it is day. The night cometh, when no man can work." And the baptized apostles testify, "We are laborers together with God." For the efficient pros ecution of the high and merciful purposes of the Redeemer, there must not only be vigorous, but combined and systematic action; for "he gave some, apostles; and some, prophets; and some, evangelists; and some, pastors and teachers; for the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ." Combined action is essential to all great undertakings. "Union is strength," not only in science, in politics, in commerce, and in warfare, but also in religion. A celebrated writer on zoology, speaking of the half million of species supposed to exist either in a living or fossil state, says: "At first sight it seems a hopeless task for men to attain to the knowledge of such a multitude. But, though one man could do little of himself, the combined exertions of many laborers at the same time, in various countries, may do much; and, as each generation transmits, by means of books, the knowledge it has acquired, each successive generation starts in its researches from the vantage-ground gained by the labors of its predecessors. And so, looking at the countless myriads of redeemed but unsaved men-their Satanic VOL. XV.--40 influences by which they are spell-bound and hedged up-it seems hopeless to attempt the realization of the sublime purpose of the Lord Jesus Christ, who, seated at the Father's right hand, is expecting "that his enemies be made his footstool;" but the combined efforts of many laborers, in different departments, possessing various talents, all working at the same time, and all influenced by that one Spirit who worketh all in all, can do much. And, as each generation transmits to posterity the fruit of its labors-for "other men labored, and ye are entered into their labors"--each successive generation starts in its toils from the vantage-ground gained by the labor of its predecessors; and we, therefore, exultingly predict the immortal empire of Christ and the subjugation of the world to him. When the first assault was made upon the great citadel of Satan at Jerusalem, on the day of Pentecost, although its foundation had stood for ages, and its walls of more than granite were built according to the strongest principles of resistance known in the council of the Prince of Darkness, those walls were shattered. And, while the foundations themselves gave way, the enemy sur rendered, and three thousand of the most bitter, and prejudiced, and determined foes of Christ were made his willing captives; and thus a pledge was given for the ultimate and universal triumph of the Gospel. This is an age of action. The man who slumbers must submit to be outstripped by his competitors, if he be not trampled under foot by them. This is an age when men are to be found in sufficient number, and with adequate qualifications, for any great enterprise that may be attempted. But the work of God languishes for want of help. All hail to the thousands of willing laborers in our Churches! "Your labor is not in vain in the Lord." "Therefore, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord." But we appeal to you to say, if the labor done in the Church is equal to the demand, Church members, we ask you to leave your mills, your counting houses, your shops, and come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty. You "can not come." Why? Can you find time to be afflicted? or can you find time to die? Perhaps you "feel extremely desirous that Church institutions should be sustained amply and vigorously, and that the aggressive principle should be fully carried out," and "you will freely give your subscription for that purpose; but your services really can not be spared from your business, so numerous are its engagements, so pressing are its claims, and so imperative its demands." But, we ask, of what avail are funds, if you have not agents to work out the plans that funds are intended to sustain? Your ministers can not do it alone. Of what avail would be your admirals and officers without the working men of the fleets? The granite walls of the enemy's forts would show defiance to their courage and their skill. And so ministers, and others engaged in |