neglected, to visit the forsaken, and compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries. His plan is original: it is as full of genius as it is of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery, a circumnavigation of charity. Already the benefit of his labour is felt more or less in every country."

The love to man which Howard so remarkably displayed, arose from love to God. His last illness was caught, as he believed, in attending a young lady suffering from malignant fever, at Cherson in Tartary; and during his short but severe affliction, the sentiments he expressed and recorded, were those which had long influenced his mind. Thus he

wrote on the cover of one of his memorandum books: "Lord, leave me not to my own wisdom, which is folly, nor to my own strength, which is weakness. Help

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me to glorify thee on earth, and finish the work thou givest me to do; and to thy name alone be all the praise.' The last of these devout aspirations is inscribed on the cover of the book, and beneath it, evidently written at a somewhat later period, are two short sentences, bearing his dying testimony to his belief in the doctrines, which had led him to place his firm and sole dependence for salvation, on the Rock of Ages. 'Oh that the Son of God may not die for me in vain. I think I never look into myself but I find some corruption and sin in my heart. O God! do thou sanctify and cleanse the thoughts of my depraved heart." In the middle of a page of another book, still remaining in pencil, he traced in ink the following sentence in his notes of one of Dr. Stennett's sermons, strikingly characteristic

of his feelings at the near approach of his own dissolution:-" It is one of the

noblest expressions of real religion to be cheerfully willing to live or die, as it

may seem meet to God." On the inside of the cover of the book, he has written the following sentence, rendered doubly interesting from its being, in all probability, the last the hand of Howard ever traced:-"Oh that Christ may be magnified in me, either by life or death."

He died on the 20th of January, 1790. A monument to his memory, of which there is an engraving at the head of this paper, appears in St. Paul's cathedral. The statue represents him in a Roman dress, holding in one hand a scroll of plans for the improvement of prisons and hospitals, and in the other a key, while he tramples chains and fetters

under foot.

On page 3 is a bas-relief equally characteristic. The epitaph it bears contains a sketch of his life, concluding with the words: "He trod an open but unfrequented path to immortality, in the ardent and unremitted exercise of Christian charity! May this tribute to his fame excite an emulation of his truly glorious

achievements."

REFLECTIONS ON THE NEW YEAR.

CAN it be that another year has fled? With all its joys and trials, all its sins and duties, all its instructions and privileges-is it fled? Yes, it is gone. It has terminated the lives of millions, and like an irresistible current, has borne them on to the grave and the judgment. It has gone. Like a dream of the night, it has gone!

Amid the rapids of time, there are few objects a man observes with less care and distinctness than himself. To one standing on the shore, the current appears to pass by with inconceivable swiftness; but to one who is himself gliding down the stream, the face of this vast extent of waters is unruffled, and he is not aware how rapidly the current bears him away. It is only by looking towards the shore, by discerning here and there a distant landmark, by casting his eye back upon the scenery that is retiring from his view, that he sees he is going forward. And how fast! The tall pine that stands alone on the mountain's brow, casts its shade far down the valley; while the huge promontory throws its shadow almost immeasurably on the plain below. It is but a few years, and I was greeting life's opening day. But

yesterday, I thought myself approaching its meridian. To-day I look for those meridian splendours, and they are either wholly vanished, or just descending behind the evening cloud. I cannot expect to weather out the storms of this tempestuous clime much longer. A few more billows on these dangerous seas, perhaps a few days of fair weather are the most I can look for, before I am either shipwrecked, or reach my desired haven.

Why fly these years so rapidly ? It is in anticipation rather than retrospect, that men put too high an estimate upon earthly things. I have to-day trodden on the place of my fathers' sepulchres. I have been playing with the willow and the cypress that weep over their dust. The generations of men dwell here. Yes, here they are. Those whom I have loved, and still love, and hope to love, are here. "The fashion of this world passeth away." The fair fabric of earthly good is built upon the sand. It rocks and falls under the first stroke of the tempest. "Man, at his best estate, is altogether vanity.' It is well that it is so. Were it otherwise, we should put far off the evil day, and live as if we flattered ourselves with immortality on the earth. When the Duke of Venice showed Charles the Fifth the treasury of St. Mark, and the glory of his princely palace, instead of admiring them, he remarked, "These are the things that make men so loth to die."

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On what rapid wings has this last year sped its course! How sure and certain an approximation to the close of this earthly existence! Every year adds to what is past, and leaves less to come. "What is your life? It is even vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." What is it when compared with the amount of labour to be accomplished, and the magnitude of the interests at stake? What is it compared with the facility with which it may be interrupted, and the ten thousand causes of decay and dissolution it is destined to encounter? What is it, compared with the ever-enduring existence to which it is an introduction ? How fugitive! how frail! Hardly has the weary traveller laid himself down to rest, when he is summoned away to pursue his journey, or called to his everlasting home. "We spend our years as a tale that is told." The flying cloud, the evanescent vapour, the arrow just pro

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glory to be revealed, and get my cold heart affected with a view of its yet distant endearments. Love to God, communion with God, devotedness to God, these are the foretastes of heaven. through the cares and duties of secular life, I cannot preserve an invariable tendency of mind towards that holy world, let it be a more habitual and frequent tendency! I feel the sorrows of this guilty insensibility, this languor of spiritual affection, and long for those hallowed moments when the meltings of contrition, the fervours of desire, the vividness of faith, and the hope full of immortality shall shed their sacred fragrance over my spirit, and make me pant for heaven. Nor let it be a transient emotion, kindled by some momentary excitement, or awakened by some impulse of the imagination; but marked by all the ardour of passion, and all the constancy of principle. Spirit of the Redeemer! shed abroad thine own love in this poor heart of mine, and thus seal it to the day of eternal redemption. Let me greet every truth, every providence, every meditation that shall invite me to more intimate intercourse with Heaven. Let me dwell upon the communications sent down from that blessed world to cheer my fainting spirit, and revive my courage by the way. Let me welcome those messages of Divine Providence that are designed and adapted to intercept my constant view of earth, and bring the realities of eternity near. Let me grieve at nothing that makes me familiar with heaven. Let me never mourn when some little stream of comfort and joy is dried up, and I am driven more directly to the fountain. Let me take a fresh departure for the land of promise from the beginning of this new year. I would fain look upward with a more stedfast eye, and march onward with a firmer step. Nor would I lose sight of "the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night," but go where it goes, and rest where it

rests.

And who? who will remain behind? Who will be content to have his hopes bounded by the narrow scenes of earth? Go up, fellow-traveller, to eternity, go up to some selected eminence of thought, where the splendours of the holy city shall break upon your view. This world is not your home any more than mine. It cannot comfort you, more than it has comforted me. You may be called away

COULD I dip my pen into some subtile fluid, which, affecting the eye of the reader, would descend to his heart, and call forth all its humane affections; or, what would be better still, could I make the reader feel at the same moment the misery that poverty endures, and the exulting glow of joy that spreads itself in the bosom of benevolence and Christian

charity, when relieving the wants of penury, then should I be sure that my weak words would be influential in the mitigation of distress.

In the absence of these advantages, let me make an honest appeal to kindly bosoms and Christian sympathies, and without drawing on my imagination for fancied sufferings and overwrought scenes of wretchedness, I would, in a plain and simple way, beseech you to lend a helping hand at this trying season of the year, in bestowing an additional garment on the shivering frame of much-enduring poverty.

There are many among the lower walks of life, who in days gone by, have known the luxury of suitable winter clothing. Time was when a good great coat, or a warm winter cloak, was hardly an object with them: when they needed those things, they had wherewithal to procure them; but

"Old times are changed, old manners gone;"

and the scanty clothing of summer, is all that they now possess to fence out the frost, and protect them from the snow. That there are such, respectable in their Poverty, cannot be doubted; and this admitted, it follows that they have a claim on the charity of their better clad brethren and sisters.

Not a word have I to say in behalf of those

Who lost to sense of shame and more than poor,
Drest up in rags besiege the gin-shop door;
Who madly rush on ruin, grief, and pain,
And drink to drown their wretchedness in vain.

To give to these, is to give to the pawnbroker and the publican, and to increase that misery which benevolence has not power to relieve. A more than mortal hand is required to arrest them in their

If your spirit be kindly, your eye will be quick to discern suitable objects of benevolence, and your hand ready to mete out ungrudgingly, according to your ability, some additional comforts for the poor. Look over your wardrobe: that which has ceased to be useful to you may be very useful to another. Is there no great coat too much worn at the elbows and the collar, to appear respectable? no gown whose colours are faded, or cloak that is getting rather shabby? You may have overlooked these things. Now, then, I beseech you begin a closer inspection !

If we cannot literally act up to the standard, "He that hath two coats let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise," Luke iii. 11, let us, at least, show that we are not insensible to the winter wants of others, while we abundantly and unsparingly provide for our own.

It is a custom as common even among the middle ranks of life, to provide for the winter, as it is to prepare clean clothes for the Sabbath day: a stock of coals, a stock of provisions, and a stock of clothing seem almost indispensable.

Something more substantial is worn from head to foot, than in warmer seasons. Now this very custom is an argument, and a strong one, too, in behalf of the poor. If you, well-housed and well-fed, with a hearth whose cheerful blaze seems to defy the driving sleet and the freezing blast, feel unequal to endure the coming cold without additional defence, how shall the ill-lodged sons and daughters of penury, the ill-fed, and the fireless, wage war with the trying elements? Come! come! do your best to minister to their wants, and at the same time to add to your own satisfaction.

Every load of coals that is bought for the winter, every piece of beef that is sent in for your dinner, every pair of blankets ordered for the winter, and every garment of additional warmth that is then purchased, is a witness that you think these things to be necessary.

Seek out the deserving, but be not too severe to scan the infirmities of your kind when their wants are urgent. Err, if you do err, on the side of mercy. How would it be with us if our comforts altogether depended on our deserts ? "If

If all well-fed, well-clad householders were, in the depth of winter, to pass one night covered with a blanket less than ordinary, to sit down to one meal of potatoes and salt, to spend one hour in a cold, fireless room, and to walk abroad one mile, without putting on additional clothing, it would be a means of feelingly teaching them to bless God for their own comforts, and it would eloquently plead the cause of the poor.

You who have the means, do good while you can. Many a proud eagle has been pierced on the wing, many a tall tree is blown down by the storm, and many a rich man is unexpectedly made poor! The privations and sorrows of sudden adversity are bitter enough, without their being rendered more so by the remembrance of begrudging parsimony and hard-hearted churlishness. If you love yourselves, give of your abundance. Cast your bread upon the waters, that you may find it after many days.

Earnestly would I address all conditions of men that have the means of doing good: merchants, whose wealth is increased by every returning ship; bankers, who have princely incomes; and tradesmen, who are thriving in the world. While the stream of your prosperity is full, let not the channels of your benevolence be empty. Let this season find you open-hearted and open-handed. If you have been abundantly blessed, show a grateful spirit in blessing others, and while you sit down to a well-spread feast of comforts, give freely of your abundance to the poor.

In the Book of books, I find no blessing necessarily attached to riches; but I do find the words, "Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble. The Lord will preserve him, and keep him alive; and he shall be blessed upon the earth. The Lord will strengthen him upon the bed of languishing.' Surely these blessings are not to be despised! I put it to you, if amid your most joyous moments, when ministering only to your own pleasures, you have ever felt gathering round your hearts anything half so cordial as the grateful glow of satisfaction, that the consciousness of having relieved distress never fails to bestow?

Oh it is a good and glorious thing to