himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the 25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and worthy man expired. If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius. FEW HAPPY MATCHES. 1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs, Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares. 2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains That thoughtless fly into thy chains, As custom leads the way: If there be bliss without design, Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, And be as blest as they. 3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, To dull embraces move: So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, And make a world of love. 4 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires With wanton flames; those raging fires The purer bliss destroy: On Aetna's top let furies wed, And sheets of lightning dress the bed, To improve the burning joy. 5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms None of the melting passions warms Can mingle hearts and hands: Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like stoic souls, With osiers for their bands.