"Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not?"-ISA. lv. 2.

VAIN PURSUITS.

The truant urchin has forsook the school,
To learn betimes how best to play the fool;
O'er hedge and brake, beneath a burning sun,
With breathless haste, he perseveres to run;
His folly's cause is pictured to the eye:
The object what?-A painted butterfly,

At length outspent, he grasps the trembling thing,
And with the grasp, destroys the painted wing;
Chagrined he views, for of that beauteous form,
Nothing remains, except a homely worm.

So larger children leave important deeds,

And after trifles oft the truant speeds;
And if by toil he gains the gaudy prize,

Alas! 'tis changed-it fades away, and dies.

THE foolish boy, leaving the useful and delightful pleasures of study, runs after a pretty butterfly that has attracted his attention. On he runs, through brake and brier, over hedges and ditches, up hill and down dale; the sun, at the same time, pours down its burning rays upon his uncovered head. See how he sweats, and puffs, and toils! 'Tis all in vain-just as he comes up with the prize, away it flies far above his reach. Still he follows on; now it has settled upon a favourite flower. He is sure of it now; he puts forth his hand. Lo! it is gone. Still he pursues-on and on he runs after the glittering insect.

Presently it alights, and hides itself within the leaves of the lily of the valley. For a while he loses sight of it; again he discovers it on the wing, and again he renews the chase. Nor is it until the sun descends the western sky, that he comes up with the object of his laborious race. Weary of the wing, the butterfly seeks shelter for the night within the cup of the mountain blue-bell. The boy, marking its hiding-place, makes a desperate spring, and seizes the trembling beauty. In his eagerness to possess it, he has crushed its tender wings, and marred entirely those golden colours. With deep mortification, and bitter regret at his folly, he beholds nothing left but a mere grub, an almost lifeless worm, without form and without loveliness.

This emblem aptly shows the folly of those who, whether young or old, leaving the solid paths of knowledge, of industry, and of lawful pleasure, follow the vanities of this life. Corrupt and unbridled passions and vitiated tastes lead, in the end, to ruin.

The way of transgressors is hard, as well as foolish and vain. To follow after forbidden objects is far more laborious than to pursue those only that are lawful. It is said of wisdom, that all her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are paths of peace.

The mind of the youth who is in pursuit of vanities, or of unlawful pleasures, is ever raging like a tempest. Now up, now down-he knows nothing of true pleasure, nothing of solid peace. The object he desires and pursues so ardently mocks him again and again. "To-morrow,' he says to himself, "will give me the object of my wishes." To-morrow comes—once more it eludes his grasp. Now he becomes uneasy, then impatient, then fretful, then anxious, and then desperate; now he resolves at all hazards to seize upon the prize-it is his own; but ah! the flowers have faded, the beautiful colours have disappeared; the angel of beauty is transformed into a loathsome object. His eyes are opened; and, alas! too late, disappointed and remorseful, he learns the truth of the maxim, that "it is not all gold that glitters."

"Man has a soul of vast desires;

He burns within with restless fires:
Toss'd to and fro, his passions fly
From vanity to vanity.

Great God! subdue the vicious thirst

This love to vanity and dust;

Cure the vile fever of the mind,

And feed our souls with joys refined."

'The high ones of

stature shall be hewn down, and the haughty shall be humbled."-ISA. x. 33.

DANGER OF GREATNESS.

The clouds assemble in the blackening west,
Anon with gloom the sky becomes o'ercast,
United winds with wide-mouth'd fury roar,
Old ocean, rolling, heaves from shore to shore;
With boiling rage the waves begin to rise,
And ruffian billows now assail the skies;
The hardy forests, much affrighted quake,

The hills, too, tremble, and their mountains shake;
The oak majestic, towering to the skies,

Laughs at the whirlwind, and the storm defies;
Spreads wide its arms, rejoicing in its pride,
And meets unbending the tornado's tide;
The winds prevail, one loud tremendous blow
The monarch prostrates, and his pride lays low;
While the low reed, in far more humble form,
Unknown to greatness, safe, outlives the strom.

THE storm rages. The sturdy oak, the growth of centuries, lifts its proud head towering to the heavens; it spreads abroad its ample branches, giving shelter to birds and beasts. For a long time it resists the fury of the hurricane, but 'tis all in vain with a mighty crash it is overturned; its very roots are laid bare, its branching honours are brought low; birds, beasts, and creeping reptiles now trample upon its fallen greatness.

But see the humble reed, bending to the storm, escapes unhurt. Its lowly position has preserved it from destruction; while its mighty neighbour is no more, it still lives, and grows, and flourishes.

This is an apt emblem of the danger attending upon high stations, and of the security afforded in the less elevated walks of life. It is calculated to damp the ardour of ambition, of that ambition, at least, that seeks to be great only that self may be enriched, or vanity gratified.

This kind of greatness is indeed the most dangerous, and the most uncertain. It is sure to be a mark for others, equally aspiring and unprincipled, to shoot at; while the possessor of this greatness, not being protected by the shield of conscious integrity, falls to rise no more, and the flatterers and dependants being no longer able to enrich themselves, unite in trampling under foot the man they formerly delighted to honour.

Love is not an evil of itself, neither is ambition; but they may both be expended on worthless or sinful objects. Let the youth seek out a proper object for the lofty aspirings of the soul; let him learn to direct them by the providence and word of God. True greatness consists in goodness-in being useful to mankind. Those individuals usually called great, have been the destroyers, not the benefactors of our race. A private station is as much a post of honour as the most elevated. Indeed, properly speaking, there are no private stations; every man is a public man, and equally interested with others in the welfare and progress of his fellows. The lowly reed is as perfect in its kind as the lofty oak, and answers equally the end of its creation.

It is true, however, that the more elevated the station a man holds in society, the more responsibility he is under both to God and man. He is also exposed to more dangers and temptations. Envy, that hates the excellence she cannot reach, will carp at him and slander shoot her poisoned arrows at him. Happiness seldom dwells with greatness, nor is safety the child of wealth and honours. "But he that humbleth himself—in due time-shall be exalted." A striking instance of the dangers of greatness may be found in the fall of Cardinal Wolsey. This ambitious man lived in the reign of Henry VIII., king of England. He was that monarch's favourite minister. He is said to have been "insatiable in his

acquisitions, and most magnificent in his expenses; of great capacity, but still more unbounded in enterprise; ambitious of

power, but still more ambitious of glory." He succeeded-he was raised to the hightest pinnacle; but he fell under the displeasure of the king. The inventory of his goods being taken, they were found to exceed the most extravagant surinises. Of fine holland, there were found eleven hundred pieces; the walls of his palace were covered with cloth of gold and silver; he had a cupboard of plate, all of massive gold; and all the rest of his riches and furniture were in the same proportion; all of which were converted to the use of the king. A bill of indictment was preferred against him; he was ordered to resign the great seal, and to depart from his palace. Soon after he was arrested for high treason, and commanded to be conducted to London to take his trial.

When he arrived at Leicester Abbey he was taken sick-men said he poisoned himself. His disorder increased. A short time before he expired, he said to the officer who guarded him: "O had I but served my God as faithfully as I have served my king, He would not have forsaken me in my gray hairs." He died shortly after, in all the pangs of remorse, and left a life rendered miserable by his unbounded ambition for greatness.