on the ear of thy breaking heart; God help thee, mother." On the banks of the river near the spot where her child has sunk to rise no more, the worn and wretched mother sinks, and pours her sorrows on the balmy air.

She

The wife of a missionary was walking out that morning, on errands of mercy; and guided by an unseen but kind hand, she comes to the spot where this pagan mother was weeping over the loss of her loved and only child; just murdered by her own hand. Poormoo, for such was the name of the Hindoo mother, told her the tale of that morning sacrifice, and expressed the heathen confidence that the offering was well-pleasing to the river-god; but the deep wells of a mother's tenderness were stirred again, and in spite of her assurance that her sacrifice would be accepted and herself blessed, she was torn with bitter grief and knew not where to look for help in the hour of her distress. Mary W sat down by her side, drew her hand within her own, dropped a tear of sympathy, for who could refrain, and then spoke to her of Him who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." told her that the gods of the Hindoos were no gods-that the Ganges has no power to save-that the only true God delights not in such sacrifice as she had offered, but turns in horror from the scene-that if she would be happy now and in paradise when she should die, she must forsake her sins and pray to Jesus Christ who had made a sacrifice to save poor sinners like her, and the heathen around her. Mary told her that she had come across the great ocean, from the land where the sun sets, to tell the Hindoo women of Him who died for them, and that if she would cast away her idols and learn of the Saviour, she would be blest for ever. Poormoo heard the story of Jesus and his love for the poor heathen; she wondered why this delicate woman, who was now speaking with her, had left her own friends and country and come there to do good to those whom she had never seen-and the more she thought of these things, the more she felt that there 'was something in this story of the new religion that paganism knew not of. This morning's interview with Mary

W

on the banks of the Ganges, was the beginning of a work of grace in her soul, that is now going on in glory. She was led to the Saviour and died in faith.

Mary W was a native of a New England home, and in the days of her childhood among the hills and the vales of her rural abode, she had no thought of living and dying beyond the seas. Away at school, she was led to give her young heart to Jesus, and where the heart is, all is. In the hour of her consecration, she made a full surrender of herself to Him who gave himself for her; and from that time she was the Lord's. I will not speak of the gifts which nature had lavished on this fair child; of the beauty that lay in loveliness on her face, and the charms that made her the pride of her companions and the source of pleasure to all who were numbered among her friends. The light of the domestic circle, and the joy of the school where her mind was in training for future power, she was early distinguished as one formed to be an ornament of society and the chief attraction of any circle in which she should move. With every prospect of earthly happiness before her, with fortune and friends and home, she brought all that she had and all that she was and laid them on the altar of her Redeemer, and resolved to live and die in his service, and in a heathen land. For she had heard of the heathen; their ignorance, their sinfulness, misery, degradation and ruin; of her own sex there crushed to the earth, dragging out lives of wretchedness here, preparing for lives of immortal wretchedness hereafter; and she had heard, too, of the love that led a Saviour from the Father's bosom to a dark world of sorrow and pain; and the love of Jesus, shed abroad in her heart, was the hallowed impulse that moved her to meditate a mission of mercy to those who had never known him whom she loved, all earthly love above. The sacrifice was made. No; it was not a sacrifice, if by that we mean an unwilling offering: it was the warm freewill gift of a young heart: beating with fond aspirations after happiness: and finding the highest happiness, where the angels find it, in doing the will of Him whose radiant smile is life eternal.

The way was opened, as it ever will be opened for those who seek it, and the fond desires of her heart were gratified. She went forth to the heathen, and there in walks of usefulness and self-denial, cheerful in the midst of privations, happy in spending the strength of her days in doing good, among those who knew not her worth and on whom those charms were wasted that would have won the admiration of the world at home, she passed her days. The record of her virtues, her works, her usefulness, her faith and love, has never yet been written: yes, it has been written in the book of life, and will be read at the last day to an admiring universe.

She died there. The flower of a northern clime could not bear the heat of a tropic sun, and just as she had won her way to the hearts of the heathen, and by the silent power of a woman's love was moulding the manners of the rough race that lived around her, she sickened and lingered and died.

In those few weeks of suffering how the memory of other days came thronging on the soul-those early days-those sunny days of childhood; the hill-side near her father's house and the streamlet that flowed by the door-that school where she first learned to love Jesus and to feel for the poor heathen-her companions-her friends; and when the fever was on her brain, her lips moved often to the mention of scenes which years and oceans had thrown far into the distance, yet not so far but they were cherished near her faithful heart. The natives would stand around her, wondering at the joy that beamed from her fading eye, at the words of rapture that fell from her lips as the glories of heaven opened on her view; and were ready to say with other heathen at such a scene, "We never saw anything like this among our people."

She died in triumph. The angels, anxious to welcome her pure spirit to their company, rested on their wings above her dying couch, and faith, not fancy, heard them whispering:

"Sister spirit, come away."

Gently the silver cord was loosed, and she flew into the bosom of Jesus.

Original.

MUSINGS.

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.

I WONDER if the rich man prays

And how his morning prayer is said? He'll ask for health and length of daysBut does he pray for "daily bread?"

When by his door, in posture meek,

He sees the poor man waiting stand,
With sombre eye and sallow cheek,
To beg employment from his hand:

And when he tells his piteous tale

Of sickly wife and children small, Of rents that rise, and crops that fail, And troubles that the poor befall:

I wonder if the rich man's thought
Mounts free, as nature's hymn, to heaven,

In gratitude that happier lot,

By Providence, to him is given?

And does his heart exult to know,

He too, like heaven, hath power to give?

To strengthen weakness, soften wo,
And bid Hope's dying lamp revive?

And when around his gladsome hearth,
A troop of friends the rich man greet,
And songs of joy, and smiles of mirth,
Add grace to flattery's homage sweet

I wonder if his fancy sees

A vision of those wretched homes, Where want is struggling with disease, And scarce a ray of comfort comes.

Oh, world! how strange thy lots are given-
Life's aim, how rarely understood!
And men, how far estrang'd from heaven,

If heaven requires-a brotherhood!

Original

SENTIMENT AND ACTION.

THE laws of life and health in the soul and its affections, are strikingly analogous to those which control the animal economy and though we are apt to overdo analogies and press them too far, in the present case there is little danger and much utility in considering them in the culture of our own hearts and in the training of others.

One of the invariable conditions of every kind of life is, that it depends upon action for its continuance and increase. Thus it is with the animal powers, thus also with the intel lectual, and not less so with the moral and spiritual affections. To maintain life in any department, the vital ener gies must be developed in appropriate action. Let the ener gies of the body be unemployed, and lassitude, disease and death are the consequence. Let the intellectual faculties lie idle, and the mind degenerates and becomes imbecile and dwarfish. And so let the affections of the heart fail to be expressed in habits of corresponding religious action, and it becomes insensible and callous. This is the secret of the injurious tendency of romances and stage representations, that awaken and excite the moral emotions without affording opportunity for corresponding action;-they place before us, in passion-moving situations, objects of pity and sympathy, which we are neither expected nor permitted to relieve. They spread out scenes of wo and want, of difficulty and danger, awakening our compassion and moving us even to tears, and then vanish, mocking the emotions they have called into existence and thus there is a disruption of the harmony which ought to exist between the moral emotions and the conduct. As is justly remarked by Dr. Abercrombie, "in the healthy state of the moral feeling, the emotion of sympathy excited by a tale of sorrow, ought to be followed by an effort for the relief of the sufferer." When in real life, such relations are