rock. Still he holds to his slender support, and when one refuge fails he resorts to another, and still refuses to trust in God.

PRACTICAL PIETY.

MR. PILGRIM,

I HAVE often noticed, in my intercourse with Christian people, the happy effects which religion produces on the minds of those who live in the constant exercise of its sacred and important duties. It imparts a sweetness to the temper, gives a peace and tranquillity to the mind, and diffuses a calm and heavenly cheerfulness through the soul, which can be accounted for on no other supposition than that of its divine and holy origin. An instance of this kind fell under my observation, in one of my late excursions through an unfrequented part of the county of

Being somewhat fatigued with walking, I called at a farm-house of very plain, though decent appearance, for the purpose of obtaining some refreshments. Every object within and around the house bore evident marks of industry; and the cheerful countenance and inviting accents of the mistress of the family, as she welcomed a stranger to the entertainments of her hospitable board, indicated the peace which reigned in her breast, and the benevolent source whence all her actions flowed.

You have a serious task in providing for so numerous a family, I said, as I seated myself in an old oaken chair, and observed the little smiling group, which gathered around my kind hostess, whilst she resumed her labors, after attentively supplying my wants. "Very true," she replied, in a tone of patience and resignation, too seldom heard even from eminent Christians, "my task is hard; I have a great deal to do, and a great many cares; but" said she, as if anxious to present the bright side of the picture as soon as possible, "I have more time for reading and retirement, than one would think I could have." Surprised at once, and pleased with the frankness with which she thus unhesitatingly disclosed the sentiments of her heart, and the readiness with which she introduced religious conversation to one of whose character and sentiments she had not the slightest knowledge, I could not but pause a moment and reflect: This is the effect produced by the religion of Christ. Such is the peace of mind, amidst the cares and vexations of life; such the patience and resignation under the pressure of affliction; and such the cheerfulness and triumphant joy within, whilst all without is dark and cheerless, which the Christian enjoys, when he lives in the exercise of true religion; of that religion, which speaks peace to the troubled spirit, and promises its followers not only a crown of life in the realms of glory, but also many cheering comforts, as they journey through this vale of woe. These are some of the joys of those who live near to God. "Why is it," the question immediately arose in my mind, "that the great body of

Christians live so far below the standard to which it is both their duty and their highest privilege to aspire? Why do they content themselves with those small attainments in divine things which are barely sufficient to afford them some faint gleams of hope; but can never yield those permanent substantial joys which feast the soul of the engaged and active Christian ?"

After considerable conversation of this kind, in which she expressed the most ardent devotion to the service of Christ, and the greatest satisfaction in the performance of duty, I interrupted her by enquiing if she never had any fears lest all the sources of her enjoyment should prove a mere delusion? Supposing, undoubtedly, that I intended merely to inquire into the genuineness of her religious experience; (though from the air of indifference and the contemptuous smile which I affected, she might have been led to apprehend something more;) she replied, with a dejected look, "I know a great many are deceived with false hopes; and I am sensible my heart is very deceitful-I may be deceived as well as others-but" she added, after a long pause, " I think it is my greatest delight to engage in the duties of religion-I hope I have some love to God." "But how do you know," said I, correcting her mistake as to the object of my question, and assuming still more of the air and manner of a scoffing infidel," but that the bible is all a fable-how do you know that you have not, in being instructed to believe it as the word of God, been imposed upon by artful and designing men?-in fact, how can you tell that the whole subject of religion and religious experience, is not a vain delusion ?" Here her countenance immediately fell. To her, even a doubt expressed respecting the reality of that religion which was her richest and almost her only comfort, appeared to fill her with distressing emotions. With an expression of agitation in her countenance, which told how much she valued her precious hope, and an earnestness of simplicity too powerful to be resisted by argument, she replied, "I never have any doubts on that subject; I have always believed the bible to be inspired. If we give up that, what can we do? What comfort or encouragement can we find in any thing else, or what can we depend on for consolation, in the trials of life, if not on the bible ?”

It was my intention to pursue my impertinent queries still farther, but here my resolution failed me. The simple exhibition of her feelings on so interesting a question, spoke more than volumes of arguments could have done, the value of the believer's hope. Surely, thought I, if the Bible is a delusion, it is one of the most happy delusions ever practised upon the human race! It is a delusion exactly fitted to the wants and woes of suffering man. Even if the infidel's creed should be true, and if we are at length to sink like logs into the grave, and never wake to an hereafter, yet surely it is some comfort, while toiling through this vale of tears, to be allowed to hope for a glorious immortality. If all the bright hopes and exalted joys of the Christian are delusion, still I would not tear them from his breast; for sure I am, that nothing in the universe can supply their place. Destroy the Bible! and rob the humble believer of all the sweet consolation and heavenly rapture which it af

fords! To tear the sun from the heavens and shroud the earth in Egyptian darkness, to him would not be half so terrible. With this for his support, he can smile on misfortune, and wade through seas of trouble, without a murmur or complaint. With the Bible, he can meet death without dismay, can pass without fear through the swellings of Jordan, and triumph amidst the wreck of dissolving nature; but without it, life is but a dreary waste, and dark and dreary indeed is the cheerless prospect, which lies before him. But the Bible is not a delusion. Every Christian who lives as he should live, in the exercise of that religion which he professes, knows that there is a reality-a substantial and practical reality in the great truths which it inculcates. He knows that there is a God who hears and answers prayer, for he has felt his saving power; he knows that there is an eternity of bliss beyond the grave, for he feels heaven already begun in his soul. With such a witness before me, I cannot doubt. But to return to the subject of my story. It would have cheered an angel's heart to have seen the joy that kindled in her countenance, as she began to perceive that my sentiments and feelings were similar to her own; and to have witnessed the eagerness with which she grasped at the opportunity, so seldom enjoyed in her retired situation, of conversing with a Christian friend. The spirit of meekness, humility, and ardent devotion which breathed in her words and actions, showed a mind wrought for immortal glories; and the whole scene, in all its circumstances, served to make an impression on my mind too deep to be effaced by the hand of time; and taught me a lesson on the subject of vital piety, which I trust will not soon be forgotten.

J.

A FRAGMENT.

THE present is an age of Christian exertion. The friends of Jesus, no longer content with the exercise of that benevolence which allows the heathen to take care of themselves, or rather, to live and die ignorant as brutes, begin to enlarge their views, and to make great efforts for the melioration of a wretched world. The names of a BRAINARD, MILLS and WORCESTER, will be had in everlasting remembrance, not as the names of those who conquered kingdoms, and deluged nations in blood; but of those whose lives were spent in pouring the balm of consolation into the wounded spirit, in leading the wandering, benighted Indian home to his God, and thus, in promoting the present and eternal happiness of immortal beings. And could we draw aside the veil which conceals the transactions of the blessed, methinks we might see a HARRIET looking down, with a holy joy, on the triumphs of the Cross in India, and adoring the grace that had induced her, while on earth, to engage in the cause of Missions. And, my friend, while enjoying the best of heaven's blessings, let us realize, that in this cause something must be done by ourselves. Let us often think of the aged father, who is borne to the bed of some river, there to become the food of the shark or the

alligator of the sorrowful mother, whose unfeeling offspring can force her into the flames that are consuming the corpse of a deceased husband, and can drown her dying shrieks in acclamations of infernal joy of the wretched orphan, who has no home but the house of skulls, no friend but death, who stops the rage of hunger, blunts the edge of affection, and finds the wretched a calm and a covert amid the clods of the valley!

EXTRACTS.

THE CONCERT OF PRAYER.

[FROM THE LONDON MONTHLY CHRONICLE.]

"Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all powders of the merchant."

SAY, what are those columns of smoke which arise;

From the wilderness upward they move,

Majestic and grand, how they darken the skies,
Which unfold to receive them above.

These pillars of smoke, thus ascending above,
Shedding fragrant prefume through the air,
Are the off rings of Faith and the incense of Love,
From the Church, at the Concert for Prayer.

From the four winds of heaven these odours ascend,
Though between them the wide waters roll-

In the vials of heaven, all happily blend,

And are answered with peace to the soul.

But numbers, alas! who profess to believe,
Refuse by their presence to share

In blessings and comforts that Christians receive
At the grand Monthly Concert for prayer.

FROM LEAVITT'S MEMOIRS.

THE VILLAGE BRIDE.

"O weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb
In life's happy morning has hid from our eyes;
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or chain'd to the earth what was born for the skies.
O, weep not for her, the young bride of the vale,
The gayest and loveliest, gone from us now,
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow."

DURING the last autumnal vacation, I was riding through one

of the beautiful villages that adorn the verdant banks of the Connecticut, when the heavy tolling of a bell struck upon my ear. I had spent the early part of my boyhood in the village, and felt desirous of knowing for whom this solemn knell was sounding. On being informed, I repaired immediately to the church-yard. The procession had already arrived. The pall was removed from the coffin, and preparations were making to consign it to the earth.

The deceased was one, whom I had often seen in the pride of youth and gaiety and loveliness, possessing in an eminent degree all the fascinations of the female sex. Her parents had died in her infancy, and left their orphan child with a large fortune, to the guardianship of a distant relation. In the house of this guardian, the years of her youth rolled pleasantly away. She had no wish ungratified. No cloud of care or sorrow shaded the sunny landscape, which the world presented. She was the envied rival of her female companions, and the admiration of all the village youth. Where there is innocence, there is always happiness. Where all possible means of obtaining happiness are joined with innocence, and every object is seen by the light of eager anticipation, who can describe the exulting sense with which the young enter upon life. Among the crowd of her admirers was one, who possessed all the accomplishments calculated to please a village belle. When the years of her minority expired, and she became the mistress of her own person and fortune, she was about to intrust them both to this favored lover, but the selfishness of her guardian continually presented obstacles, apparently insurmountable. This high spirited Leander, however, was not to be daunted. He dashed aside the waves which separated his heroine; eloped with her from her guardian's house-made her his bride, and returned to laugh at the baffled malice of his enemies. Their residence became the scene of uninterrupted pleasure. Possessing all the luxuries and elegancies of life, and that too in the heat of youth, they could not but be happy. Thus glided on the first few months of their wedlock, when the angel of death entered their dwelling.

The funeral ceremonies proceeded. The solemn voice of the clergyman-the melancholy stillness of the by-standers-and the dilating, phrenzied eyes and livid paleness of the chief mourner, were deeply affecting. No sound came from his lips. He stood as mute and motionless as the lifeless form of her whom he had lost, until the loved remains were lowered into the grave, and the earth began to close up forever. Then the whole agony of his soul burst forth. He clasped his hands above his head with the convulsive motion of helpless despair, and uttered a wild and thrilling shriek, which rang in my ears for many hours.

There is something in such a scene, which makes its way directly to the heart. We may turn away in contempt from the voice of the preacher; we may even disregard the lively oracles of Heaven, and when we see the aged and infirm going to their " long home," we may say it is the lot of human nature-that they have outlived their usefulness and happiness, and that death is welcome; but when we come to the tomb of one whom we have seen in life, min