paration. Selfishness is, in its essence, delusion. It is the substitution of another object for that very self from which it derives its name. All its anxieties are about the body, or about the circumstances which affect the body. To be rich or great, to steep in sensuality or shine in the eyes of men; these are the prizes at which it aims; this is the competition in which it takes every mean advantage, and unfairly appropriates to itself, or, rather, to what in its delirium, it takes to be itself; for wonderful to say, about true self-about that which is really and essentially one's self-about his soul; about that in which his true identity and higher nature consist; about that of which the body is but the changeable and perishable habitation; about this soul, and its concerns, the selfish man is utterly regardless; nay, he makes a free-will offering of them all to the idol of his insanity.

But self love is, on the contrary, the recovery of the soul from this aberration. It is the state in which the prodigal is described "when he came to himself." It is the right understanding of those awful enquiries, "What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" "What is a man advantaged if he gain the whole world and lose himself or be cast away?" The truth is, that if a man love not himself, he must be reckless of his own salvation; for what signifies to him the weal or woe of a being for whom he does not care? It would, indeed, be mere waste of time to argue against a madness still more contagious than that already noticed, were it not that in the abandonment of self love there is a superficial show of generosity and devotedness which leads men to admire it, without well knowing what they mean. They have a notion that the love of God with all the heart implies that every other affection should be lost in that one absorbing passion. But this is altogether misconception. The love of God is not so much the complacential view of any outward exhibition of moral excellence, as the centering of the soul in the bosom of an object competent to satisfy its deepest thirst for happiness. To love God, is to dwell in God; to receive of his fulness, and to be a partaker of the divine nature. Between the love of God thus understood, and the love of self, there is consequently no rivalship or opposition; for in their very essence the latter is the desire of happiness, and the former is finding that happiness in God. So far from being opposed, they are inseparably connected; insomuch that if a man love but himself, he cannot but love God.

"If a man," saith St. John, "love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?" That is, if we see nothing amiable in the portrait, how could we admire the great original? If the character of God, displayed in one who bears bis image; if that character, brought down to our familiar apprehensions, in one who stands upon the level of a common nature with ourselves; if such an exhibition does not call forth our affections; if such a sample as we already see, does not suit our taste, what effect could a fuller manifestation of God

produce on our minds? Could we relish the fountain, if the stream is bitter to our taste? or could the meridian sun be grateful to those eyes which are pained by the morning dawn?

Such is the reasoning of the apostle-a reasoning which applies with all its force to the love of self. It may be applied in two ways. The second commandment, it may be said, is this-"Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." If, therefore, we have no self love, we can have no love to our neighbour; and if we have no love to our neighbour, (still more to our brother,) we can have, according to St. John's argument, no love to God. But his reasoning applies to the point in hand with more directness. If the love of God be but another term for God impressed by his own image upon the heart, how can we love a God afar off, if we withhold that affection where the pure in beart can see him, namely, in the faithful mirror of themselves. I know how our present imperfections, and the sin which remains even in the regenerate, must distort and cloud that image which it was the very end of our creation to reflect, and therefore we are in this life but in progress towards what we shall be in a better. But sure I am that even here there is so close a communion of the soul with God, that to distinguish between our love to the one and our love to the other, is, in a great degree, to divorce what God has joined together, and what, therefore, no human reasoning can put asunder. It is, in a word, to shut out our affections from God where he can be found, and to send them in search of him where he cannot be found.

There are, I am persuaded, invisible links which bind together, and which, in a more perfect state, will identify many things which appear divided in this coarsely compacted system. As a curious illustration of what I mean, I will mention a dream which was once told me by a truly pious and distinguished lady. She dreamed that she was engaged in prayer, and as she prayed, a figure, kneeling in the sun, was presented to her view. This figure seemed to answer to herself in every lineament and every motion. Like a celestial counterpart, it followed her in every variety and change of posture, countenance, and feature. When she lifted up her eyes, or raised her hands, this twin sister corresponded, with the finest sympathy. As the work of prayer advanced, she felt herself gently and by degrees approximating towards this wonderful and interesting object; and as she drew nearer and nearer, grew more intensely conscious that she saw before her another and a brighter self; at length nearness was lost in union, when behold she awoke, and found herself exclaiming, "O my God, am I in heaven!"

In some such way the love of self and the love of God may perhaps at last unite. Even here their approximation is advancing. In proportion as the one gains strength, and as the other is depurated from selfishness or false self, the lines of separation grow less and less. When, therefore, the spirit returns to God

who gave it, and when the soul is gathered from all its dispersions into the unity of the eternal state, these two principles may agree in one, and self love prove to have been but the earthly shadow of the celestial substance of the love of God.

I am, &c.

H. W.

THE REBELS-A STORY OF '98.

During the rebellion of 1798, when the ties of neighbourhood, of friendship, and of kindred, were forgotten in the furious zeal which bent itself to exterminate a religion deemed heretical, and mutual resistance and opposition inflamed to murderous violence the rival parties; even then the benignant genius of philanthropy found an asylum in certain lovely glens on the borders of the county of Wexford, when it was altogether banished from other parts of the land. There the yeoman, when he returned from the camp, anxious to know if his dear family still lived or had been given a prey to the fowls of heaven, was cordially welcomed by his Roman Catholic neighbours, who, if any danger arose from straggling parties of rebels, used all their influence to save him, and were ready, if necessary, to fight in his defence. Similar acts of kindness were experienced by the pikesman, when he came to visit his wife and his little ones. The old inhabitants relate many anecdotes full of interest, showing the wonderful escapes of persons thus circumstanced.

Shut up together in their various glens, attending the same school, constantly intermarrying the one with the other, mingling indiscriminately in business and amusements, religious distinctions were scarcely thought of. One great maxim regulated their conduct almost invariably in the matter of religionnamely, that every man should follow the religion of his father, and every woman that of her mother. A violation of this principle was considered infamous, except in those numerous cases where the Roman Catholic parent succeeded in taking all the children of both sexes to chapel. The priest was ever watchful to keep up and to encrease the number of his flock, by methods cautiously unostentatious, but not the less effectual; while the minister, who bore the character of an easy, good, tender-hearted gentleman, seldom passed the glebe lands, exceept to spend an evening with some of the great folks of the parish-indeed his parish and his glebe seemed equally neglected; if one presented the appearance of a spiritual wilderness, the other was not very productive of those things which contributed to his bodily comfort.

Such was the state of things in the beautifully picturesque glen of B. in the summer of ninety-eight, when our narrative commences. The loveliest spot in that glen was a cottage occu

pied by a small Protestant family, which, in its external aspect, and the cleanliness and comfort that reigned within, presented a striking contrast to the neglected and filthy appearance of the other houses in the neighbourhood. The occupant, Mr. Donovan, was the proprietor of a considerable portion of the surrounding district, and, what was singular in those days, he was a decidedly pious man. His house truly represented an Oasis in the surrounding desert; there the Word of Life was daily read, and there supplications and praises were constantly offered up to the Father of Mercies, through the Lord Jesus, whose atonement was trusted to, whose perfect obedience was pleaded, and whose spirit was enjoyed in all its fulness of consolation. Though Mr. D. was stigmatized by the name of Methodist, he was, nevertheless, greatly respected; his influence over the peasantry being such as to lead them to appeal to him as an arbiter in almost every dispute that took place among them. He had two sons just arrived to manhood, James and Charles, and an only daughter, in her eighteenth year. They had been made acquainted with the Holy Scriptures from their youth up. But while the truth produced its saving effects upon the thoughtful and susceptible mind of Harriet, its influence was but small upon the character of her ardent and impetuous brothers. They were even more wild and recklessly adventurous than the sons of far different parents. With bodies powerful and vigorous, and daring minds, they could not brook the humility and lowliness of spirit inculcated by their father from the Gospel. When the rebellion of ninety-eight commenced, they took up arms and rushed to the camp with enthusiasm, leaving their father to protect their sister, the nurse and attendant of their mother, now confined by bad health to her room.

As the glen of B. was not the scene of any of the fierce and bloody encounters of the conflicting parties, nor become the rout of their devastating parties, it remained a long time unmoved by the shocks that agitated the country all around.— The tales of battles, and the movements of camps were reported as things in some measure foreign. But this state of things was at length unhappily interrupted. A party of insurgents passing through one evening, set fire to some of the Protestant houses, as they hastily retreated from a party of cavalry that pursued; and these again, with fearful retaliation, visited the houses of the enemy, left empty by the affrighted inhabitants, who fled in different ways to conceal themselves.

The sun, as it veered toward the mountain, on whose bosom it seemed weariedly to rest after its long midsummer journey through the heavens, diffused its rich and placid effulgence on the summits of the many hills in the neighbourhood. A solemn stillness reigned over the glens, now nearly forsaken and desolate. Here and there the walls of a house presented themselves, bare and black, and reeking out of the recent conflagration; the kine stood neglected in the deserted bawn; the sheep wandered over

the mountains without a herd; now and again a woman or a child might be seen running from one cabin to another, or timidly peeping down the vale, endeavouring to descry the approach of friend or foe. Sometimes they gathered themselves in groups on the side of a hill, listening to the rapidly-flying bullets or the roaring cannon, whose echoes vibrated upon some of their hearts with awful emphasis, as the probable funeral knell of a husband

or a son.

Mr. Donovan had heretofore succeeded in quieting the fears of Harriet and her mother, by confirming their confidence in that God who had till now watched over them with a father's eye, had stilled the raging of the enemy, and turned away the tempest which had torn up the dearest hopes of others by the roots. They were frequently on their knees breathing forth the speechless utterance of the heart to Him who loves to hold sweet communings with those of an humble and contrite spirit. But, notwithstanding her perfect reliance upon God, who had hitherto preserved her from danger, she felt on this evening an unusual depression of spirits, which she in vain attempted to shake off. On the previous night she dreamed that the house was falling down in burning flames about her bed before she awoke, and that her brother Charles, his face and regimentals smeared with clotted blood, snatched her from the devouring flames. When she mentioned this circumstance in the morning, the servant-maid asserted that she had not only distinctly heard, but evidently seen, the Banshee, just as she was retiring to rest, while the moon shone mildly and palely through the latticed window of her chamber. She further stated, that having opened the window, she perceived the figure of a maiden in white, sitting in the garden, and carefully combing her long auburn tresses, who, when she perceived that she was noticed, flitted rapidly down the glen, uttering, as she went, the boding and monitory sound, whose cadence so mournfully sweet gradually died in the distance. Another person remarked that he had seen a raven hovering over the house, and that he remained croaking as if hungry for a prey, although a horse lately slain was lying in a pool of his own blood on the road, a little above. A third alluded to the rumour of a mysterious being having passed through the country, burning up the herbage and leaving the earth bare and scorched wherever he laid his foot. It was in vain that her father endeavoured to point out to her the folly of listening to such absurdities. A sort of presentiment of some fatal calamity weighed down her spirits and saddened her heart. As the evening approached, her anxiety became more painful, and her forebodings darker. When the last faint rays of the sun had been withdrawn, and the hills began to cast their shadows over the valley, she went into a corner of the garden, where many fragrant flowers had grown up under her nursing hand, and where she had woven a little bower, under whose shade she was wont to sit and read and sew. Here, as she reclined musing on the state