his father had the good sense to check and discourage. The wise parent thought that at his tender years the exact sciences might prove too severe a study for him, and said that he should learn Latin first and mathematics afterwards. Blaise was very curious about this forbidden pursuit. At least he might ask his father what mathematics were. Something was said about geometry. "Geometry," curtly answered his father, "is the science which teaches the method of making exact figures, and of finding out the proportions they bear to each other." And having given this definition, he told him not to think or talk any more about it. Innate genius, however, will always find its way. If he must do his Latin in school hours, he certainly might amuse himself as he liked in his play hours. He sat down in a large room, all alone, with a piece of charcoal, and tried to draw exact circles and triangles, and to find out in what relations they could stand to each other. One day his father entered the room where his son was so engaged, and so intent upon his investigations that he was not aware of his father's presence. His father asked him what he was doing. The son answered that he was trying to make out such and such a thing. "And what made you think of that?" said his father. "My having found out this," was the answer. the boy went gradually backward, till he came to the definitions and axioms out of which all geometry is elaborated. The happy father was transported with joy at this proof of his son's genius.

And so

stole into

Years afterwards, when he was visiting his sister Jacqueline, a sermon bell was heard to toll. His sister went into the church, and her brother also it by another door. It so happened that the subject of the preacher's discourse was the commencement of the Christian life. He showed how well-disposed persons, by entangling themselves in worldly ties, put obstacles in the way of their salvation, and so run as to miss the prize of their heavenly calling. Pascal thought this teaching exactly met his own case, and took it to himself as a warning sent by God.

He had also had another and a more terrible warning in a narrow escape from a frightful death. One day he was going in a carriage with four horses to Neuilly. Several friends were with him; it was a holiday, and there was to be a gay promenade upon the bridge. The bridge was lofty, and a portion of it was only protected by a low railing. At this part of the bridge the two leaders became restive, took the bit in their teeth, and dashing aside, plunged over the bridge into the Seine. Providentially, the traces snapped, and the carriage was left firm, standing upon the very edge. The feeble frame of Pascal was ill adapted to stand such a shock. He immediately fainted, and it was some time before he revived. The event itself made a deep and lasting impression upon his mind.

His liberality to the poor was very great; for this he deprived himself of everything. When some one called this indiscretion, he only said, "One thing I have observed, that however poor one is, one always leaves

something behind in dying." He would say, "Do not cherish grand plans of benevolence, but go straight into the hovels of the poor; acquaint yourself with them as individuals." When the heart-breaking news was brought to him that his beloved sister, Jacqueline, was no more, what he said was this:-" God give us grace to die as well as she died;" and "Blessed are they that die, provided they die in the Lord."

It is sad to think how some of the errors of the Romish Church clung closely to him, embittering his painful life, and shortening his few remaining days. His austerities and mortifications were carried to an extent far too severe for his frail and broken constitution. His mind at times seems to have partaken of the disease of his body. He seems to have turned away in thought much too often from the goodness and love of God. He would live on meagre and insufficient fare, and discharge the most menial offices. He wore beneath his clothes a girdle of iron with sharp points affixed, and when he found his thoughts wandering, or that he was taking pleasure in anything worldly, he would with his elbow force the sharp points into his wasted side. This he did, although he both felt and declared that no austerities of the body could in themselves be acceptable before God.

in

Pascal died somewhat suddenly, at the age of thirtynine, in 1662. One of his last requests was very characteristic. "Let me have some poor sick man the house, and let him be tended at my expense, with precisely the same care as I myself am tended with. For when I see how my every want is supplied, it gives me great pain to think what an infinite number of poor there are, more ill than myself, who are destitute even of the common

necessaries of life."

THE BELIEVER'S SAFETY.

HE dimmest sight of Jesus is a life-look; the stealthiest touch of His robe is soul-healing; the feeblest spark of love to Him is an earnest of heaven; and the faintest breathing after holiness is a drop of the "living water," welled in the soul, and "springing up into everlasting life." Glory is the goal towards which these, the lowest marks of grace in the regenerate, aspire, and in which they will ultimately be absorbed.

Not one of the sheep given by the Father to the Son shall perish; not a sinner redeemed by His blood shall be lost; not a child adopted by His grace shall be absent; not a jewel excavated from nature's mine by His grace shall be missing in that day when the Shepherd shall gather together His flock, and the Father shall bring home His family, and the Saviour shall cluster around Him His redeemed,-in that day when the King of Sion shall appear, His diadem studded, and His breastplate blazing, with the precious stones of His especial and peculiar treasure.—“They shall be Mine, saith the Lord, in that day when I make up My jewels," or "my peculiar treasure."

M

PRESS FORWARD.

Y soul, press forward to the prize,
Forgetful of the things behind;
Though foes obstruct, though storms arise
Press on-thy perfect rest to find.

Couldst thou that better country see,
That straight before thee lies afar,
Bright with that radiant purity
That breath of sin may never mar;

Couldst thou but hear that new-made song,
To brethren safe in glory known,
And view the peerless forms that throng
Around the rainbow-circled throne;

Couldst thou but catch one glimpse of Him,
Thy Brother dear, thy faithful Friend,
Whose watchful eye no sleep may dim,
Who loving, loves thee to the end;

Or couldst thou comprehend that love,
Whose might not seraph's tongue can tell,
High as the highest heavens above,
Wide as the world-unsearchable;

With giant strength thou wouldst pursue,
Through wind and storm, the heavenward way;
And Death himself unblenching view,
Grim warder of the realms of day.

GRANNY EADLE.

RANNY EADLE has seen the best of her days; that's plain. The snow-white hair peeping out from underneath the borders of her cap, the furrowed face, and the bent form, make that as clear as anything can be. She has not only reached the mountain-top, but is as near as possible at the bottom of the other side.

And yet she was an active woman in her day; none more active. Why, only think of the family she has reared, and helped to provide for. Only think how she kept the house open when her man John was stuck fast for so many years with the rheumatism. Only think how well her children have got on in the world-all but one, who would go to the wars, and nearly broke his mother's heart.

It must have required a good stout heart to weather as many storms as Granny Eadle has passed through.

And now as she sits beside her daughter's fireGranny's corner, they call it-with mind as clear and sharp as ever, she can look back with comfort to the past, and look on with comfort to the future.

Some old grannies are peevish and fretful, and are for ever scolding the children, and giving way to saspicions. But Granny Eadle was a regular model of a grandmother.

A face so quiet, a smile so sweet, a voice so cheery and tender, what wonder that it was to Granny the children used to run as soon as ever they returned from school; that it was in Granny's ear they used to pour their little troubles and joys; that at Granny's knee they would sit and read the pictures in the fire?

In the way! Not a bit of it. A dozen grannies of her sort wouldn't have been in the way; she had got into her own little niche in the house, which she filled so naturally and comfortably, that the house would not have been the same without her.

A dear old soul was Granny Eadle. You could not help loving her.

What do you think it was that made that old wrinkled face so fresh, and placid, and sweet, and gentle? What was it that made her such a comfort and blessing to all about her, whether young or old? It must have been something not possessed by most people.

What could it have been but the Lord Jesus Himself in her heart! Surely there is none but Jesus who can keep the heart in the midst of life's cares and troubles fresh, and bright, and healthy. Ay, Jesus it was-the blessed Lord-who was as ready to inhabit the old heart of Granny Eadle as the heart of the grandest lady in the realm. It could not have been any one else. It was Jesus that did it all.

"Ah, my dears," she used to say to her young friends, who so loved to have a chat with the bright old soul, "it's the blessedest thing I know, just to trust the dear Lord out and out. Not to go to Him when you're in a bit of a trouble, but when the sun is shining too. What would an old woman like me do if it wasn't for the blessed Lord? Bless the Lord, I've got as good children as any woman could want, and a nice warm corner, and kind friends, and plenty to eat and drink; but without the Lord in my heart I should be nothing but a poor, pining, cross, old woman."

It had not always been so with Granny Eadle. her younger days her temper was as quick as her

movements.

The change came about the middle of her life. Through one cause and another she had been led to think about her soul, until at last on a bed of sickness she made the great decision, and gave herself over to Jesus to be saved and kept.

"That was a blessed time.

Bless the Lord for it. He told me to come, Did He cast me out?

I just took Him at His word. and I did come just as I was. Of course He didn't! I wasn't going to doubt Him after He had said He would receive me."

Ever since that day she had been growing, and learning, and ripening for eternity.

Now she is waiting for the summons home.

Happy old soul! I see her now in her favourite corner, with closed eyes and folded hands, listening to the reading of God's messages. With footstool at her feet, and pillow at her back, her head crowned with a high cap of spotless whiteness, she sits drinking in the wonderful truths of God.

Was there any lurking trouble in the house? The Lord heard of it from Granny's lips.

Was there any perplexity? Any difficulty? Into the Lord's ear it was quickly poured.

Were any of the children out of sorts? By faith she laid them at the feet of her Lord.

And so the days passed away in the sweetest communion and fellowship.

Granny Eadle can't last much longer. She is getting more and more feeble. She can scarcely totter across the kitchen now. She will vacate her chair before very long.

H! wildly blows the wind to-night,

As swift the gale sweeps byThe timid heart beats with affright, To think of tempests nigh; Fearfully-on the rock-girt shoreThe waves of ocean beat,

While clouds of foam, amid the roar,

Are hurried to our feet.

'Twas on a stormy night like this, Close by the dashing spray,

A youthful voice was heard to call--
"My father-come this way;
Avoid the rocks on either hand,

And oh! steer straight to me,
Behold this light upon the shore,
Where I am waiting thee."
The father heard his darling child,
And, guided by the ray,
Was thus enabled to escape
The dangers of the bay.
And soon upon the solid ground
He clasped him to his breast,
Then quickly in his cottage home,
Slumbered in peaceful rest.

But ah! ere long, that treasured boy
Was doomed to pass away,

Borne from the darkness of earth's night
To realms of endless day.
Yet still his parent hears him call,
Across life's troubled sea,
"Avoid the rocks of sin and shame,
Steer, father, straight to me

"I've passed the bounds of time and space,
I've gained the wished-for shore,
Once met upon that peaceful strand,
Partings shall be no more."

"Ay, by God's help," he cried, "I will,
Whate'er I suffer here,

I'll strive to gain that heavenly shore,
And meet my darling there."

J. R. Robinson.

WHAT SOME PEOPLE NEVER DO.

ou lie down when you go to rest, you stand up again when morning comes, you sit at your meals, you walk from place to place, and when you drop anything you stoop to pick it up. Your body is made for all these different uses; and you do all these things very often, most of them every day.

But there is another thing of the same kind which your body is made to do; it can kneel. Do you do this, as well as the rest? Or is this the only thing of the sort which you never do?

Alas! there are many sitters, and standers, and walkers, who are no kneelers. Are you one of them? I do not mean to say that you cannot pray without kneeling. You may pray at any time, in any place, and in any posture. But if you are well and strong, if you can sit, and stand, and walk, and yet never kneel, then I fear you never pray. Is this right? Is it happy? Can it end well? Will you not wish some day (God grant it may not be too late!) that you had not lived without prayer?

To the remark, "You have not found it easy, then, to make new friends to supply the place of old ones?" he replied with emphasis, "That is impossible; in advanced life a man may make acquaintances-he cannot make friends; there is not a man upon earth whom I can take by the hand and call friend. There are those who care enough for me to see me decently buried; but probably they will be glad when I am out of the way, as they may hope to get something."

Such was the testimony of one whose frequent use of profane language showed him to be "without God and without hope in the world;" a testimony forced from him by his own misery, as to the dreariness of an ungodly old age, even when surrounded by every worldly comfort.

From this lament I turned my thoughts to the life of a Christian of about the same age. He was a man not remarkable for talents or wealth. He had led the very retired life of a working mechanic and farmer, but he never felt his age a grief or a burden.

A few months ago he said, "I enjoy life as much as ever I did ;" and his cheerful, happy countenance and kind words and acts proved the truth of his testimony. He complained of no want of friends; he was always unconsciously making new friends. Probably the friendships of his later years were not like those of his youth for romantic and passionate interest; for even when early friends dwell together till old age they are not the same to each other at the eve as at the morn of life, yet they are not lacking in any of the essentials of true friendship. When he died, the church, of which he had been a member for fifty-seven years and an officer for forty-three, and the whole community mourned his loss. The large gathering at his funeral was made up of those who came to testify their regard for his character and their assurance of his being present with the Lord.

Why was the experience of these two old men so different? The one was an ungodly man. Living for self and this world, having no consciousness of noble aims in life, he had no true self-respect, and no true capacity for happiness; at enmity with God, the promises of God could give him no comfort or hope; destitute of those noble excellences which attract and retain the esteem of others, he had no friendships worth the name, and felt life to be an empty, burdensome thing, only endurable because of a secret dread of what is to come after death.

The other was a consistent, humble Christian, whose virtues shone in all his conduct. Love to God and

love to man appeared without ostentation in his daily walk. He felt and expressed by words and deeds a sincere interest in the well-being of his fellow-men; new acquaintances soon became loving friends, and the esteem of old friends was ever deepening. To him increasing years brought no despairing sorrow, no weariness of life. In his youth he committed himself to a faithful Redeemer, and the faith and hope which gladdened him then had grown through long experience.

goodly pearls: who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it."

This parable is meant to teach us the nature of "the kingdom of heaven." This "kingdom of heaven" does not mean heaven above, but heaven below. It means God's government on earth under the Gospel, the Gospel system, what is taking place now under the Gospel, and will take place hereafter. This parable teaches the great preciousness of salvation in Christ, and that it is worth every sacrifice.

It is a very plain parable, one that all can understand without difficulty. The more so, as the very thing here represented might take place now. For pearls are still precious, and are still bought and sold in this way.

They are substances found in certain shells at the bottom of the sea in some parts of the world, and made use of as jewels. The chief pearlfishery is near the coast of Ceylon, one of the spots where pearls were sought for in ancient times. The pearls are brought up from the deep by divers; and differ much in size and value. The finest are worth a large sum of money; but these are rare. There are still merchants whose business it is to deal in pearls, either employing the divers themselves, or buying of those who do so. These customs are probably little changed since the time when our Lord spoke.

The parable represents a merchant meeting with one pearl of extraordinary value. He had probably never seen or heard of so rich a one before. Could he but get possession of it, his fortune was made. So, with