satisfying rewards her Father knows, so well, how to confer. Look at her again. She has passed weeks and months upon the stormy ocean, and is just gazing upon the distant outline of the dark islands, where she is to pass her life and find her grave. Oh who can tell the emotions which thrill through her heart, as she leans upon her husband's arm and gazes upon the opening wonders of her new and final home! As the ship nears the shore, the dim mountains rise to view. The luxuriant forest waves deep and dark over the extended hills and valleys. Wild natives shout along the shore, or, with hasty paddle, propel the canoe over the waves. As, with uncouth gesticulation and unintelligible jargon, they throng around the ship, and climb its sides, and her heart almost faints within her at the sight of the degraded creatures with whom she is to spend her days, think you that hope-heavenly hopedoes not animate her, as in the visions of the future she sees them elevated, through her instrumentality, from sin to holiness, and presented, rejoicing in pardon, at the throne of heaven? Ask her if she is willing to turn from those shores, and again seek her highly favoured American home. She will tell you No! And in her humble dwelling, surrounded by uninstructed heathen, she will perhaps experience hours of as un C alloyed enjoyment as is to be found on earth. She is strengthened by faith, and animated by hope. The consciousness that she is in the service of God, gives her a degree of substantial happiness such as the votary of worldly pleasure never knew. Could you hear the silent prayer her heart is offering, you would perceive it to be the prayer of praise. She blesses God that she is permitted to enter such a field of labour, and to engage in so glorious an enterprise. Look at her again. She is borne down with infirmities and cares. A humble hut is her home, and disease and hardship have made sad ravages upon her feeble frame. Her days of toil are nearly numbered, and she expects soon to find the repose of the grave. But mark her demeanour! how calm, and serene, and subdued. Gaze upon that countenance! It is already lighted up as with the purity of heaven. Listen to her conversation! It comes from an untroubled and a rejoicing heart. Ask her if she is happy. Every feature of her countenance will say Yes. Ask her if she looks back with regret upon the choice she made in early life. And in the fulness of her overflowing gratitude she will tell you that she blesses God that she was led thus to choose. has entered the ways of pleasantness; she has found the paths of peace. And oh how triumphant is the hour of her departure from She the world! The exulting language of the dying Christian is on her lips : "Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly! O Death, where is thy sting?" But trace out the history of her early friend. She moves in the gay circles of fashionable life. Her mind is enfeebled in its powers by the emptiness of her pursuits. A few short years wear out the novelty of all ordinary scenes of pleasure. As she has no other resource, she is doomed to ever increasing satiety. Her hours of depression and days of listlessness are uncheered by bright prospects in the future. She tries to appear happy; and, when thoughtless friends are around her, she buries deep in her bosom the disappointments which are weighing upon her spirits. Handsome furniture, and expensive dress, and loud-laughing companions, cannot sare from the heart ache. Conscience often reproaches her for her neglect of God and useless life. She resolves and re-resolves, yet lives the same. Many, who see her surrounded with all earthly comforts and luxuries, think she must be happy; but, did they know the truth, they would pity her as the victim of disquietude and almost of remorse. But at last her days are also terminated. In a chamber of splendour, and on a bed of down, she lies down to die. In the solitude of the dark ened apartment her mind reverts to the past scenes of life, and a faithful conscience deprives her of peace. The fever in her heart is more painful than that which is coursing through her veins. The anguish of her spirit compels her to forget her parched lips and throbbing brow. There is no medicine but the balm of Gilead which can cure one who is sick at heart. O go into that chamber! sit down by that dying bed; gaze upon the anxious countenance of the sufferer who is there; listen to her language of self condemnation, as she mourns over her wasted life; hear her speak of the insulted Saviour, the grieved Spirit, the neglected Father! The glooms of the eternal world are gathering around her, and, as she goes down into the dark valley, not one ray of joy cheers the fainting spirit. Poor lost sinner! angels may weep over your ruin! And is this the path into which thousands are rushing, vainly thinking it the path of peace? What fearful delusion! It is the broad road to ruin! The path to woe, irremediable and eternal. See these two young men, riding out from the city in the morning of this lovely sabbath. Each has a cigar in his mouth, and, with the top of the chaise thrown back, they are urging the horse to the extent of his speed. Their loud voices and boisterous laugh fall painfully upon the ears of the se rious people who are on their way to church. They rein up the horse at some dissipated and fashionable place of resort, and are soon seated in a little back parlour, which has witnessed many a scene of riot and of ruin. Two other congenial companions join them. The table is spread. The cards are produced. Wine and glasses are upon the table, and upon the mantel-shelf a lighted candle and cigars. Bottle after bottle is called for, as they drink deep and play long. Louder and louder their voices rise as the tide of excitement swells, ånd late in the evening the rattle of their wheels is heard, and their inebriating song swells upon the night air as they return to the city. Who is that young man with flushed cheek, and tottering limbs, and aching head, so late in the morning opening the store? It is one of those tavern rioters. His fevered brain is not yet cooled. His trembling nerves have not yet recovered from the sabbath day's debauch. The excitement of his spirit yesterday has caused a corresponding depression to-day. He is so gloomy and so miserable that life itself is almost a burden. The duties of the day are intolerably toilsome, as he draws through them oppressed by the double weight of an enfeebled body and a remorseful spirit. He cannot shut out from his thoughts a widowed mother, who is looking to him for her heart's com |