t with
your treasures; listen to Hannah's song as she gives up her only son, to
call him hers no more--listen till you feel your heart joining also in
the lofty anthem, and you forget all selfish grief, as she did, in the
contemplation of His glories who is the portion of the soul. "_My heart
rejoiceth in the Lord._" Alas! alas! how does even the Christian heart,
which has professed to be satisfied with God, and content with his holy
will, often depart from him, and "provoke him to jealousy" with many
idols! Inordinate affection for some earthly object absorbs the soul
which vowed to love him supremely. In its undisguised excess, it says
to the beloved object, "Give me your heart; Jehovah must be your
salvation, but let me be your happiness. A portion of your time, your
attention, your service, He must have; but your daily, hourly thoughts,
your dreams, your feelings, let them all be of me--of mine." Oh for such
a love as she possessed! We should not then love our children less, but
more, far more than now, and with a better, happier love--a love from
which all needless anxiety would flee--a perfect love, casting out fear.

Ye who feel that death to your loved ones would not so distress you as
the fear of leaving them among baleful influences--who tremble in view
of the evil that is in the world, remember where Hannah left, apparently
without a misgiving, her gentle child. With Eli,--who could not even
train his own sons in the fear of the Lord--with those sons who made
themselves vile, and caused Israel to transgress,--she left him _with
the Lord_. "Go ye and do likewise," and remember, also, He is the God of
the whole earth.

* * * * *

Original.

"OPENING THE GATE."

I lately met with an account of a youth, under the above title, which
contains a volume of instruction. It is from a southern paper, and while
particularly designed for a latitude where servants abound, it contains
hints which may prove highly useful to lads in communities where
servants are less numerous:

"'I wish that you would send a servant to open the gate for me,' said a
well-grown boy of ten to his mother, as he paused with his satchel upon
his back, before the gate, and surveyed its clasped fastening.

"'Why, John, can't you open the gate for yourself?' said Mrs. Easy. 'A
boy of your age and strength ought certainly to be able to do that.'

"'I _could_ do it, I suppose,' said the child, 'but it's heavy