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discovered?" She said she recollected nothing bat a hymn which she need often to sing to her children, and which is as follows:—

"Alone, yet not alone am I,

Though in this solitude so drear;

I feel my Saviour always nigh,

He comes the weary hour to cheer.

I am with him and he with me,—

E'en here alone I cannot be."

The Colonel desired her to sing the hymn as she used to do. Scarcely had the poor mother sung two lines of it, when Regina rushed from the crowd, began to sing it also, and threw herself into her mother's arms. They both wept for joy, and the Colonel gave the daughter up to her mother. But the other little girl had no parent*. They had probably been murdered. She olung to Regina, and would not let her go, and so she was taken home with Regina, though her mother was very poor. Regina began to ask "after the book in which God speaks to us." But her mother had no Bible—for the Indians burned her Bible when they burned her house and killed her family. Her mother resolved to go to Philadelphia and buy a Bible; but her good minister gave her one, and it was found that Regina could read it at once.



We cannot accompany the departing spirit through that mysterious and dark valley, which, to the Christian, however, is usually far from dark. Sometimes the diseased body afflicts the spirit with a dethronement of reason, wildness of fancy, or utter obliviousness, and always with more or less of its own earthlinees, until the final, decisive moment comes, when death executes his commission, strikes the blow, and open the prison door. At that instant the emancipated spirit goes forth, a free denizen of eternity. It then enters upon the higher walks of existence. Like a bird let loose, it moves with unfettered wing in its own proper element. Its faculties are quickened into a more vigorous and commanding activity; its perceptions become immeasurably more lucid and comprehensive than while they were restricted in these dull fetters of clay. The Scriptures instruct us that a private judgment is passed upon every individual, on leavng the body. He is found to be in a justified

or an unjustified state—in harmony with the laws of the moral universe and the grace of redemption, or otherwise—a lover of God and holiness, or the opposite—and accordin gas he i» the one or the other, he is approved or condemned. In the one case, he has within him the element* of everlasting bliss; in the other. those which must embitter his immortality. In the one case, therefore, he sees the King in beauty—beholds Christ as he is, and, thus beholding him, is perfectly transformed into his moral likeness. "It doth not yet appear what we shall be, but this we know, that when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we shall tee him at he is." In the other case, he sees no beauty in heaven's King; appalling frowns sit as a cloud on the face of his Judge, and by the withering and desolating sentence of exclusion he is, like a star struck from its sphere, lost to all the sweet and glorious attractions of heaven, and doomed to the blackness of darkness for ever.

The' former enters, therefore, immediately upon a state of unalloyed bliss, the latter upon a state of corresponding woe. The former begins to drink full draughts of the river of life; the latter to feel the burning thirst of ungratified de;sires, remorseful consoience, and frowning justice. These considerations bring eternal retributions very near. It is but a breath, a vapor, that separates us from them. They also invest death with an amazing solemnity. It is not "the pains, the groans, the dying strife;" not the parting with all the possessions and friendships of earth; not the narrow house of gloom and corruption, awaiting the body, that imparts the shrinking dread to death;—it is the fact that the undying spirit is about to open its eyes on the tremendous scenes of eternity. That active, conscious, immortal epirit, is about to meet its Judge, and render its last account! The curtain that has hitherto hung before the eye of the probationer is about to rise, and all that is glorious in an eternity saved, or awful in an eternity lost, is about to burst on his vision. A few hours or moments, and his eternal destiny will be fixed in heaven or in hell 1 The hour, the moment, at length comes 1 There is an awful pause. The last struggle of nature is over—the gates of mortality are thrown open—the struggling spirit has escaped. And as we gaze upon the calm, pale form, now only a form, that deathless spirit is awaking to more amazing realities and more mighty activities than we have ever conceived. Is it a spirit of sin? He that is filthy is filthy still. No welcome voice of love from heaven

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falls on his ear—he cannot soar and sing with angels—he cannot see that glorious face which illumines the heavenly worlds, for only the pure in heart can see God—no sweet remembrances of the past, or anticipations of the future cheer him, and he sinks into the unutterable woes of an undone eternity.

Is he a spirit of holiness? He that is holy is holy still. His pure and piercing eye descries the far-rolling worlds of brightness, all radiant with the glory of God and the Iamb. An innumerable company of angele, and the spirits of just men made perfect.invite him with hallelujahs to come up higher. With bounding joy, he exclaims,

"I mount, I fly:
O death, where is thy victory 1
O grave, where a thy sting r"

la a moment the gates of glory receive him and while our tears are falling, he is in the midst of the visions of that world, where God wipes all tears away; while our mournful silence is broken only with sobs of grief, his ears are drinking the melodies of heaven, and he is beginning to sing that new song which no man on earth can learn. He has reached his home—and so shall he be "for ever with the Lord."



It was a sultry afternoon, when I was seated at a window in my counting-room, with several documents before me-, which I had just examined 1 and noted. I had thrown open the window, and was reclining in my chair for a few moments, to enjoy a light current of air which was formed by the opening of nn opposite door. At this moment, a rough-looking man, of more than middle age, entered the room. Before addressing me, he took a seat in a chair, with a strip of paper in his hand. For a moment, he seemed loet in thought, and then rising, he presented me the paper, inquiring at the same time, with evident anxiety, whether it was good. I found it wae an order for some articles of provision, and told him it was good, and that he might take the articles whenever tie wished. He seemed relieved at this, and then remarked, that he was greatly fatigued, and if I had no objection, he would rest for a few moments. There was something in the appearance of the man -which interested me, and I was glad of the opportunity to have a little conversation with him.

"You look like one," said I, "who has labored hard for many years, and have not, I fear, had much opportunity for rest?''

"No, Sir: I am a ship-carpenter, and have seen little besides the rough-and-tumble of life. I do not think well of mankind."

"Men are selfish the world over," I replied; "but a life of toil like yours is far better than a life of abundance and ease, when attended, as it frequently is, by idleness, prodigality and vice. You escape many temptations."

"We have temptations of our own," said the man. "The language of kindness and sympathy does not often reach me from the wealthy and the great; they have their enjoyments, I have mine, and there is a great gulf between us."

"But it ought not to be so. We are alMhe children of one common Father, and are bound to love each other as brethren. I agree with yon, however, that the wealthy and the great do not often recognize the poor as their brethren—but for all this, we must love them."

"I have no love for those who have none for me—what do I owe them J They grudge the scanty pittance due to my daily toil. They will not turn aside from their easy path to walk with me over brambles and thorns."

"But they, as well as you, have wants and woes. The Bible teaches us to be kind to all men, even to the evil and unthankful: it tells us also, that they who will be rich, run into many foolish and hurtful snares, and pierce themselves through with many sorrows."

"I do not believe the Bible," said my companion— "it is no book for me."

"Then, indeed, you are unhappy: you have little consolation in the present life, and no. hope in the life to come."

"I do not believe," said he, "in any life to come. We die as the brutes, and death is the end of our being."

"Every man desires peace of mind—it is essential to his happiness. Do such thoughts as yours give you comfort and peace t"

"As much as other people have. The men who profess religion seem to be as miserable as I am. But I must now go, and I thaak you for the use of your chair."

"Stay a moment, my friend," said I; "while you have been eitting, I have noticed that you appear ill, and speak with difficulty. You are not, I think, able to do much labor?"

"I have a bad cold," said he, " which affects my lungs a little; but it will soon be over. I have had many such."



"One moment more, and I will detain you no longer. I hope you will take care of your health, and not expose yourself till you are decidedly better—your cold is not to be trifled with. And here," I added, giving him a tract, "is a book I wish you to read. It will, if faithfully read, show you a picture of your own heart, and I pray God it may also show you the path of peace."

"Sir," said the man, "I always refuse these books; but you have spoken to me with a degree of kindness and interest which I have seldom heard, and I will read your book, not that I expect to believe it, but I am unwilling to disoblige you."

The stranger left me, and while his parting steps were yet on my ear, I fervently prayed that he might think on his ways, and find the consolations of that grace which now he contemned and scorned.

About three months after the interview I have related, I was walking towards a shipyard in the northern part of Boston. The sun had nearly reached the southern tropic, and its setting rays were falling on the piles of masonry on my right; the cold autumn winds were sweeping rudely along, and it was one of those afternoons when every thing looks dreary and sad—to me, at least, every thing was sad. I had just clambered over the brick wall of the graveyard where the tombs of the pious and gifted Mathers, and those of many others of the Puritan fathers, were reared over their dust. My mind was filled with images of the past — the holy men of old stood before me—I remembered their works of faith and labors of love. I had seen them firm in the panoply of the gospel, valiant for the truth, and now they were before me as an immortal array of glorified saints. The unfading palm was placed on their brow, and they were passing into the inner temple, not made with hands. I gazed on the glorious band, until its glittering forms, one by one, had disappeared; and when I turned once more to the objects of earth, and remembered that I was a pilgrim and a stranger here, with many a conflict before me, and many a scar, I could not repress the wish that, like theirs, my journey was ended, my warfare over, and my eternal song begun.

I was roused from my reverie by an individual who suddenly placed himself before me. It was the man to whom I had given the tract. His appearance was greatly altered—pale-faced consumption had fixed its indelible lines on his countenance. His step was feeble and tottering;

his frame emaciated, and his eye, languid and hollow, predicted that his dissolution was near. I was startled at the change, which was so great that I scarcely recognized him.

"You are now sick indeed, my friend," said I, "and you will not soon, if ever, recover."

"Yes," he replied, and added, with a terrible oath, "I wish I was under ground."

"It pains me to hear such language. Have you no fears for the future? no dread at the thought of meeting God I"

"None whatever," was the reply; "my only concern is to be rid of this miserable life."

"But there is a life to come; and if you have no love to God, his very presence will make your immortality miserable; after death is th« judgment, and after the judgment, the recompense of reward."

"If there is a God, and I suppose there ia, I am willing to trust him—he will deal with me better than my fellow-men have done."

"But if you have no love for his character, no delight in his laws, no pleasure in his service, will it make you happy to dwell in his presence, to live under his searching eye, and to obey, through eternity, that law which condemns even the least transgression I"

"I know nothing of any hereafter. My sins, if I commit any, are punished as I go along. Surely a righteous God will not inflict upon me more than I now suffer."

"I can only reply," said I, "that it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. I must warn you to escape while you may. The door will soon be shut. A Saviour freely in- 4 vites you; and if you are willing to seek him now, there is yet hope. I wish to see you again, and if ^ou will tell me your home, I will come soon and see you."

He pointed to a door in the centre of a small court. "There," said he, "is my home—it has few comforts, but is not so lonely and desolate as my heart."

"I hope that lonely and desolate heart may yet find peace; but it never will, till it becomes the abode of the heavenly Comforter—a temple of the Holy Ghost."

We parted, and the recollections of that interview followed me to my heme. I began to hope this unhappy man might yet embrace the gospel, and once more I offered an earnest prayer, that the grace of God might subdue his stubborn will, and make him a trophy of its renewing and sanctifying power.

About a week after this conversation, I made



my first visit to this misguided and unhappy man. The entrance to his house was through a narrow court, crowded with buildings which were tenanted by a mixed population ;—the abodes of poverty, and too often of wretchedness and vice. As I entered the room of the sick man, he was seated in a chair at the win" dow. The evening was mild, and the sash was thrown up, while a few beams of the sun were falling on bis face, where the fatal lines of consumption Vere drawn with unerring precision. A coarse glazed cap was on his head, and at his side, his well-worn caulking-iron and mallet, which he seemed to regard with deep interest, and always kept within reach. At my entrance he did not rise, but remained in his seat in gloomy and, as it appeared to me, sullen silence. I took a chair which was handed by his wife, when he said, "What can bring you here ?—surely there is nothing to tempt you in such a place as this."

"I have come," said I, "fortwo objects—one is to ascertain your wants, that I may endeavor to supply them; the other is, to speak to you of a treasure which you can have without money and without price."

•'I am poor," said the man, " but have never before stood in need of charity; but, in addition to days and nights of bodily misery, I am now distressed for a few dollars to pay my rent; if you can relieve me in this matter, I shall be thankful. In regard to the treasure you speak of, there may be something in it, but none for me."

I immediately entered into conversation with him on the value of the soul, the necessity of conversion, and the final doom of the wicked. He confessed that his infidel foundations were breaking up, and that he dared not meet his God. We knelt down in prayer. The scene was solemn and impressive. He was deeply affected, and said his sins now stood before him in such dreadful forms, that he could not bear the sight. The arrows of the Almighty were within him, and he could no longer brace himself against the terrors of conscience and the wrath of God. He begged me to visit him again, and to send some pious minister to instruct and pray with him.

From this time I kept up my visits for several months till his death. Through the aid of some charitable individuals, his wants were supplied, and by the instrumentality of a faithful minister, he was led to receive the truth as it is in Jesus, and to a hopeful experience of its power in his heart. The change was great indeed. In a humble reliance on his Saviour, he waited the sum

mons of death—its sting was taken away—the blood of the cross, he trusted, bad sealed his pardon, and he looked forward through a humble though trembling hope to that treasure which, though slighted and scorned by the world, is to the dying believer of priceless and eternal value. His struggle with death was long and severe, but its close, though not one of trinmphant joy, was marked by a heavenly calm.

I have usually but little faith in death-bed conversions; but they are sometimes real, and as I followed, mouth after month, this dying man, in his approach to the grave, my hope was daily strengthened that he was indeed born of God, and an heir of the kingdom. But after all, so deceitful is the heart, it may hide itself in a refuge of lies under the very gate of heaven, and at length be cast out into outer darkness. A life of willing and faithful obedience is the only solid ground of Christian hope. Without this, where the marks of repentance are seemingly clear, we may hope indeed, but it is the transient flash of lightning which now and then breaks the gloom of the thunder-cloud.

On the day after his death I entered his desolate dwelling. There was the cold and lifeless clay—the coffin and the shroud. There too, the weeping wife and her two mourning children. The world without was crowded with its votaries, as they struggled on in the walks of wealth and fame—here was the silence of death, the end of every worldly pursuit—another solemn rebuke to the living, soon, alas, to be numbered with disregarded and forgotten warnings.

"Our birth is but Ibc starling-place,
Life is the running of the race,

And death the goal:
There all our earthly schemes are brought;
That path, alone of all unsought,

Is found of all."


It is reported in the Bohemian story, that St. Wenceslaus, their king, one winter night going to his devotions, in a remote church, barefooted, in the snow, and sharpness of unequal and pointed ice, his servant Podavivus, who waited upon his master's piety, and endeavored to imitate Mb affections, began to faint through the violence of the snow and cold, till the king commanded him to follow him, and set his feet in the same footsteps which his feet should mark for him: the servant did so, and either fancied a cure, or found one; for he followed his prince, helped forward

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with shame and zeal to his imitation, and by the forming footsteps for him in the snow. In the game manner does the blessed Jesus; for since our way is troublesome, obscure, full of objection and danger, apt to be mistaken and to affright our industry, he commands us to mark his footsteps, to tread where his feet have stood, and not only invites us forward by the argument of his example, but he hath trodden down much of the difficulty, and made the way easier, and fit for our feet For he knows our infirmities, and himself hath felt their experience in all things but in the neighborhoods of sin; and therefore he hath proportioned a way and a path to our strengths and capacities, and, like Jacob, hath marched softly and in evenness with the children and the cattle, to entertain us by the comforts of his company, and the influences of a perpetual guide.

He that giveth alms to the poor, takes Jesus by the hand; he that patiently endures injuries and affronts, helps him to bear his cross; he that comforts his brother in affliction, gives an amiable kiss of peace to Jesus; he that bathes his own and his neighbor's eins in tears of penance and compassion, washes his Master's feet; we lead Jesus into the recesses of our heart by holy meditations; and we enter into his heart, when we express him in our actions; for so the apostle says, "He that is in Christ, walks as he also walked." But thus the actions of our life relate to him by way of worship and religion; but the nse is admirable and effectual, when our actions refer to him as to our copy, and we transcribe the original to the life.

How To Bk A Man.—When Carlyle was asked by a young friend to point out what course of reading he thought best to make him a man, he replied in his usual characteristic manner: It is not by books alone, or by books chiefly, that a man becomes in all points a man. Study to do faithfully whatsoever thing in your actual situation, then and now, you find either expressly or tacitly laid down to your charge; that is, stand to your post: stand in it like a poor soldier. Silently devour the many chagrins of it—all situations have many—and see that you aim not to quit it without doing all that is your duty.

Many who praise virtue do no more than praise it.—Dr. Johnson.

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Sing and sigh for little Mary;

From the lap of loving care She hath fled, the laughing fairy,

Glancing through her shining hair,
In a tangled golden ravel,

Floating on the summer air;
Or in fluttering brightness glowing,

Round her waxen cheeks and face;
Or in glittering streamers flowing,

Far behind her in the race,
When those limbs, so fleet and rosy

Bore her on before the throng,
Tossing high her wild flower posy,

Ringing forth some rhyming song. Ah I how still is little Mary

In her white shroud, wide and long j

Ii. Do they fear that she should waken?

For her mother shades the light, When into that room forsaken

Tearfully she steals at night. Do they fear the wind should chill her?

For they draw the curtains round; That a voice with pain should thrill her f

For their words in whispers sound; And they tread with noiseless footsteps,

As if that were holy ground.

in. Ah ! we followed little Mary

To the utmost bounds of thought, Vogue and gray ; but there the fairy

All an angel's brightness caught; And the sheets of moonlight bore her

O'er the dead sea dark before her, Through the distance none may measure,

Height and depth we may not pass, Till the day shall come when Mary

Smites, and others cry, Alas I Till again our little fairy

Calls to us and bids us pass!


There is but a step between life and death. What is it called? A moment In a moment we pass from the one state into the other. In one moment we are alive, ond in another dead 1 Men generally make their calculations as to the continuance of their lives upon very long strides. Some count upon fifty; others upon sixty; others again upon seventy, and some even upon one hundred years. Long strides are dangerous, and are not at all times successful. How much danger is connected with a long life, and how little

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