there is an appeal to principle, and to the generous feelings of the heart. There are men who are doing more harm than good by insisting that Christians are bound to give away "at least one-tenth of their income." Let us test that gauge of giving. Just compare two cases. There are two men whose income is equal-say forty shillings a week. But one of the men has only himself to provide for, whilst the other has a wife and six or eight children dependent upon him. Will any one look that man in the face, and tell him that he ought to give away four shillings weekly out of his earnings of forty shillings? or will any one say that the other man, who has no cares beyond those of his own person, ought not to give away more than his neighbour with the large family and the same income? One per cent. is a greater sacrifice to some than fifty per cent. to others.

He

Then again, a man in business may make good profits in one year, and no profits the next. Nay, he may be hundreds or thousands of pounds worse off next year than he is this. Who shall dictate to such a man what proportion of the successful year's profits he shall give away? must consider not only the extent of the demands upon him, but also the character of his risks, and judge for himself as to the amount of his givings. Proportionate giving is all that is inculcated in the New Testament: the measure of proportion must be determined by circumstances and an enlightened judgment and conscience.

But let no one class himself among the poorest, nor say that he is too poor to give anything, and ought only to be a receiver, and not a giver. Almost any one who attends religious ordinances may find some one poorer than himself, without travelling far from home. Even some of those who maintain appearances of a higher position in society, have a life-long struggle with difficulties that they never find themselves able to overcome. He is poorest whose means are least equal to his necessities. That which is given, however, out of the depths of poverty, so long as no wrong is done to another by the giving, is all the more acceptable to God, as a real sacrifice on the part of the giver.

Joyous giving is what is especially meant by cheerful giving. "A cheerful giver" is one who gives with glad feeling; one whose giving is with hilarity, or joyousness of heart. Whether a man give to the poor in a direct form, for the relief of present distress; or in an indirect form, in support of a hospital, a dispensary, an orphanage, a retreat for the aged and desolate, a sick society, or any other benevolent institution; or whether he give for the Christian education of the young, either in a Sundayschool or otherwise; or for the support of the Christian ministry, or of a place of worship, or of Christian missions- either home or foreign; or whatever other good object his givings may help, it should be to him a joy that he can give, and a joy to give. God would have his people to taste the blessedness of giving, according to the memorable and apostolically enshrined saying of the Lord Jesus, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." (Acts xx. 35.)

We have no sympathy with the attempt that is at present being made to fasten upon the consciences of Christians as a binding law, of permanent obligation, what the apostle Paul recommended to the Gentile churches as a temporary method for meeting the urgent wants of their Jewish brethren at Jerusalem. It is a method which, when occasions for its application arise, may be recommended and adopted as both apostolic and suitable. That view of it may be safely maintained. But to construe it as law, at all times obligatory, and everywhere to be enforced, and to be made part of the education of youth and the teaching of professors in colleges, is to wrest Scripture from its primary and plain use, in support of a favourite theory of Christian Finance. Men who work the institututions of religion and charity never think they can get money enough from those who give. What is wanted is a wider area of giving, a large increase in the number of givers. This should be attempted rather than perpetually urging for larger givings. If that cannot be done, committees and officers of institutions should reduce their expenditure. Let them study and practise economy, as those who are perpetually giving are obliged to do. We might plead aloud for our own institution. It greatly needs a larger free income. We believe that many would give to its funds if they knew what distress it relieves, and the class of cases dependent upon its income. Why will not a greater number of the branches be at the pains to make it known? Why will they not place its papers and its magazine in the hands of persons in their respective neighbourhoods who can help it, and who would if they knew enough of its character, its work, and its need? Less than a thousand guineas a year of free income will not suffice to meet the claims of the annuitants entitled to an allowance of four shillings a week. And what is that allowance for men who have laboured for 30, 40, or 50 years or more "in the word and doctrine," for nothing? And what are a thousand guineas for all Wesleyan-Methodism, and the United Methodist Free Churches combined, to raise in a whole year? It would be easy to raise £100 a month, if men would but work a little. What branch is so poor and helpless that it cannot raise five shillings a week, tenpence a day for every working day, if determined to do it? Cannot ten persons be found in each branch, to collect each a single penny a day? That would make five shillings a week, or £13 a year. If a hundred branches did this, they would raise £1,300 a year. It can be done. Who will undertake to do it? Those who cannot give money might surely give sufficient time for collecting a penny a day : and to give time in that work would be as good as giving money. Who will begin the new year with this "labour of love?" Reader, can the Saviour say of you, He, or " She hath done what she could?"

Members of the Association, friends, supporters, and sympathisers,-we ask you to ponder what we have said, and to do what you see to be practicable, and feel to be right for the poor, aged, and worn-down local preachers, who are dependent upon our funds.

Narrative.

AMERICAN SKETCHES.

THE CRADLE OF AMERICAN METHODISM.

AFTER three months laborious wanderings over the vast continent of America, I returned to New York, wiser, I hope; and it was my own fault if not a better man; for the world can present no finer field for doing and getting good. How strange it appears to me that the human mind can retain so much of the past. Neither time nor distance seems to produce any forgetfulness. All things live before me, each still preserving its identity. The places I visited, the things I admired, and the kind-hearted friends who received a passing stranger with so much courteous hospitality, though some of them since then have gone home to heaven, yet their forms, their features, the tones of their voice, and the kind hands which ministered to my necessities, are as fresh in my recollection to-day as when I saw and heard them. In fact, I cannot read, or hear, or speak of America, but the whole panorama of that fair fertile land is, as it were, moving before me. The lofty, pale blue sky, the white-scudding clouds, fringed with the last golden rays of the setting sun, the bright moon, shedding floods of light over the placid waters of Ontario and its kindred lakes, the mighty forest, then pass in review; the tall trees appear in the distance, as if their outstretched arms were directing the course of the sun; and as the shadows of evening close in, their dark-plumed heads, like the rugged peaks of Sinai, are veiled in clouds. I heard a quaint nurse say to her infant charge: "Charles, you see the pines are putting on their night-caps." The child evidently understood what was meant, and quickly bounded from the dewy lawn. The brushwood and large undergrowths were covered with honey-suckle, Virginia creeper, and convolvulus, deep crimson, white, and blue, which had a very pleasant appearance to the eye. Of the interior of the forest, where the rays of the sun have never penetrated for thousands of years, I can say but little. Pushing my way, I will not say far beyond the line where the slanting rays of the sun fall, there I found trees of every kind and growth, scattered about in every direction, one over another, and in every stage of decay; some just fallen, others pulverised, and young saplings growing up, vegetating and feeding on the ashes of the dead. The interior of the forest presented an awful solitude, and to me it seemed unbroken, save by the flutter of strange birds, the hissings of snakes, and the baying of wolves. It will readily be imagined how cautious I was, fearing that some wild beast from his lair might dispute my passage, or that I might unwittingly tread upon some reptile brood. Now and again I was startled by the crash of a rotten branch falling from a dead tree, the perpetual flutter of withered leaves, and the strange unearthly sound of a screaming bird. I did bend

my knee to speak with Him whose hands planted every tree, and whose clouds water all the forests. But an indescribable fear of the slimy snakes crept over me, as in imagination I saw them creeping about; and though I knew I was knocking at the palace-door of a Great King, who is pledged to open, yet I did not wait for a response, but went away without getting, I fear, any good. The huge, treeless, and almost homeless prairie is equally an object of interest and wonder. It appears to the human eye as if it stretched on and on through interminable space, or were bounded only by the rising and setting sun. The grass grows tall and coarse, but fattens oxen well. Flocks of birds, which I cannot describe, frequently darken the sun in their noisy flight, and produce a partial eclipse. Now countless herds of wild deer stalk from glen to glen; and the untamed buffalo roams at large, presenting tempting sport for the red Indian hunter, who, with amazing skill and speed, sweeps down upon his prey. But lakes, rocks, rivers, mountains, brawling torrents, and thundering cataracts are but a fractional part of the inventory of the wonderful panorama which the new world presents.

My stay in New York was drawing to a close, and I was more anxious to see what is called the "Cradle of American Methodism" than anything else. There were no difficulties in the way. John Street was just at hand; and it is by no means the most fashionable place of resort. It is narrow, and has a gloomy appearance; and like many of the old streets and narrow lanes of London, was built without design, and without reference to health or comfort. The old Methodist Episcopal Chapel is one of its most prominent objects, and to me was the most attractive. By the woodcut which is here presented it will be naturally inferred that its origin was humble; and it has no pretensions to ornament or

beauty. Yet, strange to say, it is more admired by many, than all the splendid Gothic architecture in that gay city. On my near approach I found that time was doing its work on the iron palisading. The old gates creaked as they fell back upon their hinges, and told me, in plain language, that they had responded to the touch of many passing strangers. The chapel-keeper was very courteous, as indeed I had found all the Americans to be. While I was reading a large placard, headed, "The Local Preacher's Convention," the chapel doors were opened. At my request the good man retired, and left me alone within the hallowed shades of that memorable sanctuary. I closed the door and shut out the noise of the busy world, as far as it was possible; and I did really feel all but a superstitious reverence for the place. The spirits of the mighty dead seemed to be about me. Philip Embury preaching to crowded congregations; Captain Webb, in his own peculiar way, pointing weeping sinners to the cross; Barbara Hick, singing in softest lays, and nursing into grand proportions that form of Christianity which the young students at Oxford scoffingly called "Methodism." Seated in the pulpit, and undisturbed in my reverie, many thoughts of the past and future crowded in upon my mind; and some of the darkest pages of French history were unfolded. The history of Charles IX., of Catherine de Medicis, of Louis XIV. and the times which passed over them; burning of Bibles, and of the men who printed them, and even innocent children who read them ; millions, strange to say, of earnest Protestants, martyred in the most cruel and revolting forms; hundreds of thousands sacrificing country, friends, homes, and estates, seeking shelter in far distant lands from the tempests of Rome's burning wrath, and that little colony dragooned from the banks of the Rhine, which fled to Ireland and found protection from the red hands of cruel Jesuits, beneath the fostering wings of our own Elizabeth. Then I thought of John Wesley's crossing the English Channel, preaching to the refugees at Court Mattress, appealing to their reason, their sympathies, their faith; rekindling the sacred fires which once burnt upon their altars; and how many who were cold and deathstricken began to move.

Quickened by the strange impulse of a divine life, they sought and found a home in the far West, where they could worship the God of their fathers free from care or disturbance. And wonderful to think, there was I seated in their first sanctuary.

How many and strange were the scenes which passed before me in the short space of that half hour. Little did Bossuet or Massillon know what they were doing when they recorded the deeds of the great Louis XIV. in glowing eulogy, and prayed that the King of Heaven might save the king of earth, who had, in his wisdom and goodness, destroyed thousands of profane temples, and martyred heretics by the million, or driven them, with their false doctrines and false gods, to profane other lands. Little did Rome and the Pope know, when they walked in procession