called the Christian paradox, that he who, in theory, ascribes least efficacy to human efforts, and most to the Spirit of God, in the salvation of men, is ordinarily most indefatigable in those very efforts which he knows are of themselves utterly fruitless and vain.

And here I must close this chapter by urging my readers to commence immediately the practice of bringing all their wants and cares to God. I trust some have been persuaded by it to do so. The following texts, prayerfully consulted, may afford them direction and encouragement: Psa. 145:18; Matt. 7:7-11; John 14:13; Eph. 3:20, 21; Phil. 4:6,7; Heb. 4:14-16; 10:19-22; James 1:5-7.

Some of my young readers, however, probably wish to know what became of the packet-ship which I left in imminent danger out in the bay; for that narrative is substantially true, though I was not an eye-witness of the scene. When I left them they were tossing about upon the waves; the storm was increasing, the captain had almost given them over for lost, and those of the passengers who were not prepared to die were greatly agitated by remorse and terror. Things continued in this state for some hours, and very few of those on board expected to see another morning. The passengers in the cabin, however, before long perceived that the violence of the tempest was a little abating; the thunder of the wind and waves grew somewhat less; and though the pitching and tossing of the ship rather increased than diminished, they began to cherish a little hope; some of the number even fell into a troubled sleep.

The

At last there were indications of the morning. dim form of objects in the cabin began to be a little more distinct. The gray light of day looked down through the narrow window of the deck. As the passengers aroused themselves, one after another, and looked forth from their berths, they perceived at once that the danger was over. They went to the deck, clinging to something firm for support, for the wind was still brisk, and the sea still heaved and tumbled in great commotion. But the danger was over. The sky was clear. A broad zone of light extended itself in the east, indicating the approaching sun; and not many miles distant there was extended a level sandy shore lined with dwellings, and opening to a small harbor, filled with vessels which had sought shelter there from the fury of the storm. It was Provincetown, at the extremity of the Cape.. I need not say that the passengers and crew assembled once more at the throne of grace before they landed, to give thanks to God for having heard their prayer and granted them protection.

CHAPTER IV.

CONSEQUENCES OF NEGLECTING DUTY.

"If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them."

I HAVE now, in the several chapters which the reader has already had the opportunity of perusing, endeavored clearly to explain the first steps to be taken in Christian duty, and the principles and feelings by which they ought to be guided, and I think that all who have read these pages must have understood clearly and distinctly what they ought to do. Take, for example, the subject of the first chapterConfession. You cannot read or even think upon that subject for half an hour, without seeing plainly that you have disobeyed God again and again, and that you have, by thus doing what you know to be wrong, destroyed your peace of mind and displeased your Maker. This no one can deny. There is a vast variety of religious opinion and religious controversy in the world, but I believe no sect, believing the existence of the Deity, was ever heard of, which maintained that man does not do wrong, or that he ought not to acknowledge his sins to God.

But when you saw clearly that you had done wrong, and destroyed your peace, did you go and seek this reconciliation? How many probably read that chapter, and distinctly understood what duty it urged upon them, and saw the reasonableness of that duty, and yet shut the book and laid it away, without ever intending at all to set resolutely about doing it. To understand clearly what duty is, and to have a disposition to do it, are very different things.

I have during the preceding chapters been explaining what the duty of my readers is. I have said scarcely any thing to persuade you to do it, and as I have gone on from page to page, and endeavored so to explain and illustrate the principles of piety that every one could clearly understand, the melancholy reflection has often forced itself upon me, "How many now will read or hear read these things, and yet entirely neglect to do any thing I describe." "Melancholy reflection!" you perhaps will say; "why do you call it a melancholy reflection? If some are induced to do their duty in consequence of your explanations, you may rejoice in the good which is done, and not think at all of those who disregard what you say. The book will certainly do them no harm."

Will do them no harm? I wish that could be true. But it is not. The religious teacher cannot console himself with the thought, that when his efforts do no good, they will do no harm. For he must, if he speaks distinctly, and brings fairly forward a subject of duty, cause every one of his readers to decide for it or against it; and when a person decides against duty, is he not injured? Is not good principle defeated or weakened, and his heart hardened against a future appeal?

The chapter on Confession of Sin, for example, has been undoubtedly read by many who shut the book and laid it aside without at all attempting to perform the duty there pointed out. The duty was plainly brought before them. They could not, and probably would not, deny its obligation. But instead of going accordingly to God, and seeking peace and reconciliation to him by a free confession of guilt, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, they laid the book away, and after a very short time all the serious thoughts it suggested vanished from their minds, and they returned as before to their sins. Now this is deciding once more, distinctly against God.

For, to decide against God, it is not necessary to use the actual language of disobedience. Suppose that a father sends a child to call back his little sister, who is going away contrary to her father's wishes. The boy runs and overtakes her, and delivers his message. The child stops a moment, and listens to the command that she should return immediately to her home. She hesitates-thinks of her father and of her duty to obey him, and then looks over the green fields through which she was walking, and longs to enjoy the forbidden pleasure. There is a momentary struggle in her heart, and then she turns away and walks boldly and carelessly on. The messenger returns slowly and sadly home.

But why does he return sadly? He has done his duty in delivering the message; why should he be sad? He is sad to think of the double guilt which his sister has incurred. He thinks that the occasion which his coming up to her presented, might have been the means of her return and of her forgiveness, but that it was the means of confirming her in disobedience, and of hardening her heart against the claims of her father.

It is just so with the messages which a Christian teacher brings to those who listen to his words. If they do not listen to obey, they listen to reject and disobey, and every refusal to do duty hardens the heart in sin. There can be no question, therefore, that such a book as this must, in many cases, be the innocent means of fixing human souls in their sins; as the gospel itself, while it is a savor of life unto life to some, to others is a savor of death unto death.

Reader, is your name on the sad catalogue of those who read religious books and listen to religious instruction merely to bring the question of duty again and again before your minds, only to decide that you will not do it? If it is, read and consider attentively the narrative to which the remainder of this chapter is devoted. It has never before been published. I providentially met with it in manuscript while writing these chapters, and it teaches so forcibly the lesson that ought now to be impressed upon my readers, that I