and thistles shall it bring forth to thee,' Genesis iii. 17, 18. The likeness is very striking. Again, the weeds in a garden generally grow faster than the flowers; and that which is evil in children soon outgrows every good thing that their parents and teachers plant in their minds! If in the month of April you were to put a flower root on the same border with some chickweed that was then making its appearance, and let them grow side by side until July, you would find that the weed had spread all over the bed, while the flower had made but little progress. So the graces of the Spirit grow but slowly, while wickedness springs up quickly, and spreads rapidly, soon covering the heart. It is very sad to see what progress some young people make in sin. We have seen lads at ten or twelve years of age whose hearts were as hard as the rock-no impression could be made on them. That look of defiance and insolence which was visible in their countenance showed too clearly that they were, even at that early period of life, almost 'past feeling.' You can run much faster down this hill than you can go up it; and you get on at a much swifter pace in wickedness than in religion. The former is more agreeable to the mind than the latter. The carnal mind likes it, while, sad to tell, it is 'enmity against God.' Further, the weeds in a garden are often much stronger than the flowers. They can bear more from the weather, and escape the devouring caterpillars better than tenderer plants. The slugs appear to like the stems and blossoms of our beautiful flowers, while the hardy weeds often escape. Here see a resemblance. The tender buds of grace, such for instance as those good impressions which have sometimes been made on your minds, frequently fall an easy prey to temptation, while sin too often resists every attempt to subdue and root it out. We have seen a gardener pull very hard at a weed before he could get it up by the root, while flowers have been easily destroyed. Sin is deeply rooted in the heart, while religion, in too many instances, has but a feeble hold upon the affections. We labour hard to clear the mind from the weeds of sin, but often in vain ; good instructions, however, are easily forgotten, and religious impressions soon worn off. 'One sinner destroyeth much good,' but it takes many righteous people to destroy a little evil. The weeds in a garden look very bad. And what looks worse than to see children doing wrong things— such as lying-playing truant-breaking the sabbath -disobeying their parents-showing unkind tempers -and other wicked things? These disfigure and deform many young people who would otherwise be very lovely and interesting. Good children are comely and pleasant in the sight of God, as a beautiful garden is to us. He says, 'I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me,' Prov. viii. 17. And as we delight to inhale the fragrance of the rose and violet and other sweet flowers, so in the prayers and sacrifices of pious young persons, the great God smells a sweet savour. His countenance doth behold the upright,' but he is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity.' Once more, the weeds in a garden are injurious. They rob the ground of its moisture, and make it poor, and by running among the flowers, weaken and choke them. Need I apply this part of the similitude? Scarcely; you all know how sin weakens the force of those instructions that you receive, and how completely they choke the good seed that is sown in your minds. Sin destroys your happiness and usefulness, and makes you a curse instead of a blessing to those around you. Your evil example corrupts others, and thus the weeds spread. It was said of a very wicked king who seduced his people into idolatry, that he 'made Israel to sin;' and when young people are led captive by sinful habits, they are apt to draw others into the same snare. 'Evil communications corrupt good manners.' Sin makes us afraid of death and of God. We shrink from the thought of meeting him, to give an account of the deeds done in the body, and thus it quite destroys our peace. Lastly, the weeds in a garden are destroyed. And this must be the end of all who continue to bring forth evil things. You remember what was done to the children who mocked the prophet of the Lord; 2 Kings ii. 23, 24-to the disobedient Absalom who rebelled against his Father; 2 Samuel xviii. 9-and to the lying Gehazi; 2 Kings v. 27. We do not want to terrify you with similar punishments, but your opposition to the great and good God is infinitely displeasing to him, and if not repented of will unfit you to dwell with him, with his angels, and his people in heaven. Those weeds of sin must be rooted out, and Christ is able and willing to do it. He came on earth for this very purpose. O then go to his footstool at once, and cry with earnestness, Create within me a clean heart Ŏ God."" GOODNESS AND GRACE. OUR fruitful fields and pastures tell, But oh what human eye can trace, Love, everlasting, hath not spar'd And in him endless life prepar'd, For souls by sin undone. THE NAIL-MAKER AND HIS CHILDREN. ELIHU BURRITT is an American; by trade a blacksmith; but a man of wonderful learning and great abilities. He has visited our country this summer. He wished to see famous old England-not so much its rich men, and its nobles, and their splendid mansions, as the people themselves—the poor people. For this purpose he set out on a journey on foot. In a newspaper, "Jerrold's," he gives an account of what he saw and heard on Tuesday, July 21. We abridge it a little, and alter some of his learned words, to make the matter plainer. This is a sad tale for an American stranger to tell of the condition of some of our English families. “After a quiet easy breakfast, served up on a little round table for myself alone, I sat down to test the plan I had formed at home for my travels in this country: namely, to write until one o'clock, then to take my staff and travel on, eight or ten miles, to another convenient stopping place for the night. The house was as quiet as if a profound Sabbath were resting upon it, and the windows of my airy chamber looked through the foliage of grave elms down upon a green valley. I got on well; and after a frugal dinner at the little round table, I buckled on my knapsack. Having paid my bill, and given the landlady a copy of my corn meal receipts, I resumed my walk towards WThe summit of the first hill I ascended, opened to the view a splendid amphitheatre, embosoming the village of B. As this was the most extensive and variegated landscape I had as yet seen in England, I stopped a few minutes to notice the features that distinguish it from American landscapes. There is a vivid sprightly greenness, and a velvet softness about a newly-shorn meadow, which strikes an American at the first view of a summer landscape in this country. But the most distinguishing and inter esting feature of all, is the evergreen hedge. The soft and luxuriant verdure of the fields, reposing in the valleys, or curving gracefully around the gently sloping hills; the groves, dells, and ivy-netted cottages and churches of the olden time, and the golden wheat-fields overrun with glancing waves of sunlight, would be like unframed pictures without the hedge. In fact, if our bleak American stone walls or rail fences were substituted for it, the rural scenery of England would be robbed of its loveliest feature. Everything looks picturesque when enclosed by this self-woven wall of green-even the veriest pasture. It lines every road and lane, surrounding groves and gardens," pastures, meadows, corn-fields, and potatoe-fields. As I descended into the valley of B, I could look right into hundreds of gardens, which for all the world, appeared like so many bird's nests, or moss-baskets, placed one above the other up the hill, and filled with different plants and flowers. The opposite wall of the valley was hung around with portraits done in Nature's crewel work; or with fields alternating through all her pencil tints, and looking like framed pictures in their hawthorn borders. "I was suddenly diverted from my contemplation of this magnificent scenery, by a fall of heavy rain drops, as the prelude to an impending shower. Seeing a gate open, and hearing a familiar clicking behind the hedge, I stepped through into a little blacksmith's shop, about as large as an American smoke house for curing bacon. The first object that my eyes rested upon, was a full grown man, nine years of age, and nearly three feet high, perched upon a stone of half that height, to raise his breast to the level of his father's anvil, at which he was at work, with all the vigour of his little short arms, making nails. I say a full-grown man; for I fear he can never grow any larger, physically or mentally. As I put my hand on his shoulder in a familiar way, to make myself at home with him, and |