not utter a single petition except as it was repeated to him. When a child, and till his mother had been called to her rest, doubtless few nights passed without his uttering that petition so well known in earth and heaven,

but now he could not recall a single line of it. No effort was spared to teach him to pray, and he felt if he could only pray there might be mercy. Now the lesson was in the simplest words, as Jesus taught his disciples,-"Our Father;" and now in words suggested by his own expressions of need. I tried to teach him the Prodigal's prayer; it was too long; then the prayer of the dying thief; it was complex, and dissipated his attention; then the prayer of the Psalmist,-"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." But, however apparently fixed the first petition in his mind, it was immediately removed by the effort to repeat the second. Then the simple prayer of the disciples,-"Lord, teach us to pray;" but the sense of his necessity, like a wave, seemed to overflow his soul and wash the very words from his memory. Then at last the prayer of the publican,-"God be merciful to me a sinner." He felt its fitness and repeated it, as a child trying to master a lesson, till weariness would close his eyes; and yet, when the sound of his own voice had died, the words of the prayer seemed borne away upon a wide eternity. For a week before his death I visited him every day, offering with him this one petition," God be merciful to me a sinner!" but oh, how sadly and emphatically would he say, "I cannot remember that prayer; I repeat it, and while I speak the words I forget it." When asked if the prayer was displaced by other thoughts, he answered, "No." The only exercise of mind of which he was conscious was the effort to recall the forgotten prayer. He asked help of the young men, who watched with him as the sands fell rapidly in the measure of his probation; but they sought in vain for the lost prayer, and his last words, coming as a deep groan from the shadow of death, were "Oh, if I could only remember that prayer! what was that prayer he taught me? God-be- !" The "wheel was broken at the cistern,' ""the dust returned to the earth as it was," "and the spirit" "unto God who gave it," where, for aught we know, past experience and present consciousness are mingled in a fearful unity to those who "remember" not their "Creator in the days of their youth, while the evil days come not."

Reader, this is a sad piece of history. Is it not? Nothing can be more terrible than the sight of a fellow-mortal conscious of his own doom, and calling for help when no earthly power can help and those two Christless companions, to whom he appealed for the lost prayer, doubtless felt it. But, oh, do not turn away from this

strange end of a fellow-mortal with the simple tribute of a sigh for his early death and blasted hopes; for there are solemn lessons taught by the history of this human soul. God speaks in it. Will you hear? He speaks to repeat and enforce the direction, "Remember now thy Creator."

1. This history assumes, most emphatically, that "the evil days" may come before old age overtakes you. He had seen only two-andtwenty years; and your evil days may be wholly unconnected with old age. When God says, "Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth," he speaks to some who will never see "the days" made "evil" by the weight of years. The fate of this young man sweeps away that indefinite period between youth and old age which, by its very indefiniteness and uncertainty, is likely to prove your ruin. God's Spirit says, "Remember thy Creator while the evil days come not, and the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them." You have seen enough of old age to assure you there is force in the reason; you know how, among other disadvantages, the memory of the old man leaves him, how the work of yesterday is but as a dream in his mind; you know how he halts, and loses time, and grows weary, looking for the place where he left off in the unfinished task; you know how he lays down his glasses in one place and his Bible in another, and then asks help before he can even begin to study God's truth; you know, too, how strangely his memory treats him, for, while it will keep nothing that is given it now, it is forever bringing before him the follies, enjoyments, and conduct, of his youth. If he had only remembered his Creator then, he could not have forgotten him now. But now his memory is gone. The history of this young man shows you that memory may fail long before old age hardens the heart and dims the vision. A poor sinner in his two-and-twentieth year died, crying, "Oh, if I could only remember that prayer!"

Labour and sorrow must attend the effort to remember God in old age; it will then be a task without pleasure, if not wholly without reward. Time works strange things with the memory. But, young man, there are other things besides time that make the poor sinner's soul like the quiet waters, reflecting an image only so long as the object is present. There are other things besides old age that harden the sinner's heart, so that God's truth will neither enter nor leave its impression; for this man fell on the threshold of manhood, crying, "I can't remember that prayer.”

2. Again: does not this short, sad history teach you that something like judicial forgetfulness may precede "judicial blindness?" Reader, instead of being given directly over to hardness of heart, you may be left, in your helplessness, to lean upon a memory obliterated; instead of being suffered to "believe a lie," you may be abandoned to an utter forgetfulness of God's truth and promises; and though he will never deny his own words, when offered in a sincere prayer, you may not be able even to say "God be merciful

to me a sinner!" It is certainly a singular fact-more singular than that a young man should have to bear one of the burdens of the old-that the memory, perfect in all other respects, should be utterly useless when the poor sinner would recall God and his truth to mind.

You supposed you had a perfect explanation of this young man's difficulty, as you read of his failure to remember the publican's prayer. "His disease-oh, yes! his disease-blunted his faculties and divided his attention; and God will not hold man responsible for the effects of disease." Reader, don't be deceived; for, if it were a result of his disease, it would take nothing from the urgency of the command, "Remember now thy Creator;" for then the reason would be, "because the days will come when disease will destroy your memory." But was it disease that destroyed his memory? It was active enough upon other subjects. He could remember the length of time between my visits, though six days had intervened; he could remember what had passed before his eyes while he lay trying to recall the promises of God; he could remember when I had read to him from the Bible, and when I had left "James's Anxious Inquirer" for his instruction; he could remember when I had prayed with him, and when I had left him to pray for himself with God's printed words before his eyes, but he could never recall the words nor show me the place of their record. He could remember the paragraphs and advertisements of the weekly newspaper, which he read till the week of his death; he could remember when he saw one neighbour and another pass upon the street; he seldom failed in giving notice to his attendants of the hour for taking his medicine. Reader, he could remember any thing save his Creator and his Creator's teaching. Even his dying words assure us of the fact that it was not a fault of memory in general that shut the door of darkness upon his closing life; neither was it the difficulty of the subject that prevented the light of God's truth from entering the poor sinner's soul. "Oh, if I could only remember that prayer he taught me !" Poor man! he could remember that I had taught him a prayer; he could remember he was a sinner, and must pray if he would find mercy; he could remember that he had not yet made peace with God; but he could not remem

ber "that prayer." "What was that prayer?" Why, dear reader, it was only seven short words; there were only two persons mentioned in it," God" and "me," and then a character to each,-"God, merciful," and "me, a sinner,"-and then two words to join them together,-"be" and "to." What could be more simple in language or thought? But he could not remember "God be merciful to me a sinner!" Oh, is there not meaning in that command of the Holy Spirit,-" Remember Now thy Creator"?

3. Reader, pause, and consider again this history. You are trying to forget God, and you have tried it long. Let me say to you, as one who has stood by the open grave to see the fact veri

The task is not so

fied, and oh, how sadly, You WILL SUCCEED. hard as you imagine, and the time may be briefer than the span of life. It will not be long before you will not only be able to cast him out of all your thoughts, but when the very effort to remember him will be pain and sorrow. Yes, you can succeed in forgetting God. How much of His precious truth you once knew has already departed! how many gracious promises you were once able to repeat you now know not where to find! how many prayers recorded in God's word for just such poor sinners can you now recall if your necessity require it? Your memory may still be quick enough; old age may not yet have dimmed your vision and shut you up to nurse dead remembrances of childhood, while it refuses to allow you to retain any thing profitable; sickness may not yet have closed the door upon you and set you to watch the hands of the clock as they slowly measure the hours of your ending life. But God says, "My Spirit shall not always strive," and without that Spirit your memory will be as the lamp blown out, and it will be midnight with your soul. Two-and-twenty circles of your rejection of God's command may leave you with a terrible remembrance of your guilt and an utter forgetfulness of his mercy. You may be able to remember that "the wicked shall be turned into hell, with all the nations that forget God," and yet be wholly unable to recall that other assurance, though just as simple,-" He that seeketh findeth, and to him that knocketh it shall be opened." You are able to remember to-day that positive promise,-"I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me.' Oh, then, heed the teaching," Remember now your Creator," lest the "evil day" come speedily, when you shall strive in vain to repeat the publican's prayer,-"God be merciful to me a sinner." Repeat it now! Go alone and repeat it:" God be merciful to me a sinner!" Repeat it day by day until you feel its meaning, lest, when you descend that dark way from which none return, a voice come, as the groan of a soul without a memory,-"Oh, if I could only remember that prayer!"-"What was that prayer he taught me?"-"God"-"be". ** and the doom of the forgetful be S. C. LOGAN.

yours!

CONSTANTINE, Mich., December 6, 1855.

THE GADARENE DEMONIAC.

LUKE VIII. 26-36.

THERE are some pictures and some characters, some scenes in nature and some themes in religion, which only grow upon us from a repeated contemplation. This inspired portraiture of a demoniac is one of them. The description, you perceive, is twofold. First, we see the devil in the flesh, the culminating point of his

power on earth; and, secondly, we behold the demoniac restored and sitting at the feet of Jesus. In the first we have the foreshadowing of what this earth would be if given up to Satanic influence; in the second, what it will be when Satan is cast out of the world and confined in the abyss of hell.

Gathering together, from Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the features of this demoniac, and grouping them in one picture, we find1. He was possessed of devils or unclean spirits. He was no longer master of himself. An alien power had possession and was ruling in the high places of his soul. A legion of devils had taken possession of soul and body. A Roman legion, one in spirit yet many in number, was a fearful instrument of oppression and power. Before its thick and serried ranks the most formidable opposition quailed. Such a power, strong, inexorable, and cruel, had entered this man's soul, and was lording it over him.

"And he ware no

2. The second feature is given by Luke. clothes, neither abode in any house, but in the tombs." Naked, stripped, utterly despoiled by the usurper! His home was deserted, and he was shrieking and howling among the tombs, the monument of the power of the fierce spirit of hell that was reigning in his bosom.

3. "And no man could bind him, no, not with chains: because he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and the chains. had been plucked asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces. The human frame, under the influence of disease, is capable of exertions that seem almost fabulous. In the present day, maniacs are known to break the strongest bonds and even chains; and, notwithstanding the constant action of mind and body, seem daily to increase in muscular strength. We are not then surprised to hear of the supernatural strength of a demoniac.

4. No man could tame him. "And always, night and day, he was in the mountains, and in the tombs, crying, and cutting himself with stones.' "Exceeding fierce, so that no man might pass by that way." Who can tame the devil? who make social a spirit of the pit? Christ himself, although he has hurled Satan as "lightning from heaven," has not yet completely subdued him.

Such, then, was the Gadarene demoniac. Possessed of a legion of devils, endowed with supernatural strength, exceeding fierce, naked, cutting himself with stones, he wandered, howling night and day, among the mountains and the tombs, attacking with hostile violence whoever dared enter his domain. Bishop Warburton, in his "Cross and the Crescent," states that, "Descending the sides of Mount Lebanon, I found myself in a cemetery, or Moslem burying-ground. The silence of the night was broken by fierce yells and howlings, which I discovered proceeded from a naked maniac, who was fighting with some wild dogs for a bone. (A dead man's bone.) The moment he perceived me, he left his canine comrades, and, bounding along with rapid strides,