teachers, though they are many and great, are not the whole. In spring, there are troops of flowers; in summer, there are waving woods; in autumn, there are fruits; in winter, there are storms and snows;—not one of which things is unfurnished with instruction. There are the birds of the air, the beasts of the field, and the creeping insects and worms. Every morning, the sun rises, and every evening, he sets, and every night, the tenderly solemn stars come out to continue the work of teaching, except when the dense clouds, in their turn, gather in, and overspread the heavens, with their deep and impressive darkness. Events pass on, every one bearing a scroll written within and without. There is joy and sorrow, there are the affections which live in human homes, there is absence and privation, labor and care, health and sickness, and there is death, who is a great teacher. And God is over all. There is abundance of instruction; there are hosts of instructers. But the eye must be open to see, the ear to hear, and the heart to understand. The mind must take hold of instruction, and retain and apply it, or it is presented in vain. Whether it be the instruction of books and masters, or of earth and the heavens, and life and time, still the mind must be awake to it, and receive it, and feed upon it, in order that it may grow, and be educated, and manifest that happy and wondrous transformation of an ignorant into an informed mind, of a rude into a cultivated mind, of intellect in its husk and shell, silent and inexpressive, into intellect which charms by its gracefulness, and sways by its power.

There is another transformation, in the spiritual world. It regards the soul of man. It is the change which comes to the spirit, when, having been long shut up, like a chrysalis in its coffin, in moral darkness and death, it emerges, with wings, into moral light, and knowledge, and liberty. It is the change which looses the bands of the soul, and transforms it from a prisoner and lover of earth, into a seeker of heaven. There is no greater transformation. When the affections of a man, which used to be poorly and sordidly engaged, are enlarged into an acquaintance with high and Divine things; when his thoughts,

which dwelt fondly and exclusively on the pride of life and the shows of this world, are occupied with the delights of home-bred peace and the pleasures of holiness and benevolence; when his heart, which was wholly callous to religious impressions, throbs at the Saviour's name, and rejoices in the love of the Father; when his tongue, which was dumb on immortal subjects, or, if it spoke, spoke of them in doubt or derision, is inspired with a new language, and exercises its gift in praise and prayer, and knows no dearer themes than those of redemption and the rest and joy of saints in the future. world; then is the man new-born, regenerated, wonderfully transformed. The transformation may have taken place early or late, by gradual processes and increments, or by sudden convictions and quick resolves and labors, but it is ever a real and a wonderful transformation. When it is most quiet, and most humble, it is generally the most sincere, and the most effectual. But let us always rejoice that in any way a sinner is turned from his sin; that a dull and cold soul is warmed into life; that a benighted being has become sensible of his place, his duty, his destiny; that a despiser of God's word and law, now keeps his testimonies and loves them exceedingly. Let us always rejoice, that, at any period, a heart of stone is taken away, and a heart of flesh is given; that the stubborn defences of insensibility are rent open, and the disenthralled prisoner is brought out into the perception of Divine truth, and the exercise of a refined and exalted humanity.

The question is naturally asked, what has effected this most important change? The true answer is, briefly, the Spirit of God. It is the transforming Spirit of God, and his mighty power, which have wrought this wondrous deliverance and transformation. God has provided, and God only could provide, those means of awaking the dormant spirit, which, by his gracious aid and furtherance, have roused it to its proper life. Perhaps by hope, perhaps by fear, perhaps by gifts, perhaps by privations, perhaps by some great happiness, but more probably by some great affliction, the Father has reclaimed his child.

The

These

outward touch we see, the outward call we hear. are palpable. But accompanying these, is the influence of God's own Spirit, not to be seen, not to be heard, impalpable, but real. So it was promised, and so we gladly believe. The faith that God by his Spirit works with us to renew us, though we may be unable to distinguish his help from our own movements and efforts, is better than all metaphysical subtilty, and will at last prove superior to it, affording the only sure rest to the mind and heart. The original call comes from God. Whether in the course of experience, or through the words of Scripture, the call comes from Him. And He is always calling. He never permits his ministers to be idle. His word is never silent. If we hear, if we make ready to obey, then He who called us, is ready to help our infirmities, and make us perfect through faith and love.

But does man himself do nothing? Is he passive in this work? Has he no liberty, and no power, and must he wait to be operated upon before he can be transformed? The apostle could not have thought so, when he said, "Be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind." It was not without meaning that such an injunction was given. All moral and religious injunction implies the capacity of hearing and of action, and also the choice of not hearing and not acting. It may safely be said, that it is the part of man to do all that he has the capacity of doing, all that his constitution and condition enable him to do. But it must be always remembered, that it is God who first bestows the capacity. Exertion belongs to man; the power of exertion is given from God, as aid also from Him will be graciously and abundantly given. "The work to be performed, is ours,

The strength, is all His own.'

And therefore to Him, and not to us, be ascribed all the glory. To those who are transformed, belongs the infinite reward of the transformation itself. An argument, not of pride or self-estimation, it is, but of humble and adoring and eternal gratitude, that we are brought to know, and to love, and to serve, as children and heirs, children of God, and joint heirs with Christ, our Father in heaven;

that our souls are emancipated into a spiritual life and freedom, which are a foretaste of that succeeding and yet more glorious transformation, when this earthly shell and tabernacle of the body shall be broken and dissolved, and we shall soar on everlasting wings, in the new heavens, with all spirits of the redeemed. AM. ED.]

SEVENTH WEEK-MONDAY.

LEGIONARY AND SANGUINE ANTS.

I HAVE elsewhere noticed the care which the various species of ants take of their young, as well as the art with which some of them construct their habitations; there are numerous other habits and instincts exhibited by different families of this very diversified class, which, however attractive, I cannot stop to examine. I shall confine myself to one feature in the history of two different species, equally peculiar and interesting.

The Legionary or Amazon ants, are a species whose trade is war, and whose subsistence depends on the success with which they invade and enslave ants of another class. The younger Huber has paid great attention to the warlike habits of this remarkable community, and the manner in which they procure laborers to provide for their domestic comforts; and the result of his investigations is so surprising, that were not his account confirmed by other naturalists of undoubted veracity and sound understanding, we might be inclined to believe that his imagination had affected the sobriety of his judgement. In abridging his narrative, I shall select those incidents which seem to be most illustrative of the peculiar instincts of this remarkable insect.

"On the 17th of June, 1804," observes this pleasing writer and accurate observer, "whilst walking in the environs of Geneva, between four and five in the evening, I observed, close at my feet, traversing the road, a column of legionary ants. They moved with considerable

rapidity, and occupied a space of from eight to ten inches in length, by three or four in breadth. They soon approached a nest, inhabited by a colony of the negro ant, the dome of which rose above the grass. Some of the negroes were guarding the entrance; but, on the discovery of an approaching army, darted forth on the advancing legion. The alarm instantly spread into the interior, whence their companions rushed forth, in multitudes, to defend their homes. The legionaries, the bulk of whose army lay only at the distance of two paces, quickened their march, and when they arrived at the hill, the whole battalion fell furiously upon the negroes, who, after an obstinate, though brief contest, fled to their subterranean galleries. The legionaries now ascended the dome, collected in crowds on the summit, and taking possession of the principal avenues, left some of their companions to excavate other openings in the exterior walls. They soon effected this, and through the breach the remainder of the army made their entrance; but, in about three or four minutes afterwards, issued forth, again, each carrying a pupa or grub, with which booty they retraced their route, in a straggling or irregular march, very different from the close, orderly array they had before exhibited."

Next day, M. Huber witnessed successful attacks by this warlike tribe on two other negro hills, in the same vicinity. He went to the encampment of the victors, before their return, and was surprised to observe, all around, a great number of the very negro species which they had been attacking. "I raised up a portion of the building,” he goes on to say, "and upon still perceiving more, I conjectured, that it was one of the encampments which had already been pillaged by the legionaries; but I was set right, by the arrival, at the entrance, of the very army I had been watching, laden with the trophies of victory. Its return excited no alarm among the negro ants, who, so far from offering opposition to the entrance of the triumphant army, I even observed approaching the warriors, to caress them, and present them with food, as is the custom among their own species; whilst the legionaries,