abated; leaving, indeed, a shadowy form and emaciated frame, but still a living and breathing man, instinct with the life of restored hope.

Many solitary weeks had yet to elapse ere Lawrence was able to leave his sick chamber, and look abroad on the fair face of nature, or frequent the haunts of his former years. Often in moments of delirium had his mind wandered over each familiar spot, and his sleeping thoughts engaged in the business or pleasures of life, and, waking, he would weep to think that it was but a dream. Now, however, all appeared substantially true, and the fleeting happiness to be derived from these sources seemed of twofold value, from the long time he had been debarred its enjoyment.

When the mariners with whom Jonah sailed had experienced a deliverance from impending death, we are told "they prayed unto the Lord and made vows." There is much that is beautifully instructive in their example, dictated, as it was, by a spirit of grateful remembrance of past danger and preservation. Alas, with the individual whose history we relate the case was widely different! He, too, had made solemn promises of a life devoted to the service of a forbearing God; but these were formed in the anguish of his soul, and in the near view of death and eternity. The day of restoration was to him the time of forgetfulness of his mercies, and of ingratitude to their Author. Not that he was able at once, and without any scruple, to break the ties which bound him to a life of new and better obedience; but his feeling of remorse on account of unfulfilled obligations, was transitory as his sense of benefits received; till, like the last of our summer songsters, it took its flight, leaving the soul bound in the icy fetters of a wintry death. And so it was, that, before the revolving year brought again the day memorable no less for the destruction that threatened to swallow him up, than for that manifestation of favour which rescued him from the borders of the pit, he had so far forgotten or neglected the lessons there designed to be taught him, as to be completely absorbed in the little cares and frivolous amusements of a vain world. A vain world, we say, for, as he stood on the portals of eternity, he could have renounced it all for the least gleam of hope to break in upon his benighted soul, and dissipate the dark cloud that overshadowed him with its gloom. Now, however, it so deeply possessed his heart and soul, that to secure its enjoyment and favour, he was willing to sacrifice an approving conscience and a peaceful mind, solid comfort in the hour of death, and a cheerful prospect of a blessed immortality.

We have reason to believe that there is a state of being in this world almost as hopeless as any in the world to come. That it is possible for individuals to mingle in our worshipping assemblies, and listen to the sound of the preached gospel, who are past the power of the life-giving Spirit to quicken, and whom the most heavenly truths

can never more affect. These the apostle Jude describes as "twice dead, plucked up by the roots." Trees once, perhaps, full of the buds of promise, but now withered and dry. The rain may, indeed, come down in plenteous and genial showers, and the sweet influences of sunshine be freely poured forth, but all in vain; and the barren, dead, cursed tree is at last removed to the place of burning. How fearfully was this illustrated in the case of Lawrence P. Sixteen years of lengthened life were added to his days; the hoary white of age now stood upon his brow, and his failing faculties warned him that the lot of all men was at hand. But see him still in the pursuit of mammon, the slave of those passions which he had so long indulged, the servant of those sins the dreadful penalty of which he hasted to pay. His last illness was short and slight. By this time his hold upon life was feeble, and a little sufficed to hurry him away. So far, however, from apprehending the approach of death, he looked forward to renewed health with the returning spring. The last day he spent on earth he glanced with complacency over his beloved ledger, as he sat supported by pillows in his sick chair, calculating the gains of the year just brought to a close; and ere the winter's sun had completed his hasty journey, his wretched spirit had gone to its last account. Surely as a dream, when one awaketh, must his life have appeared as he looked back upon the time he had slumbered away in the careless security of a hardened heart, till the last sand had fallen in the glass that marked the measure of his days, and the midnight cry waked him from the sleep of sin to the morning of vengeance.

Reader, let us, in conclusion, make one remark on the foregoing sad and monitory narrative, if, indeed, any be needed. It is this, Lawrence P. was the murderer of his own soul. He understood its value; he knew, too, the worthlessness of all that could be offered in exchange; he had computed both at that solemn period when the scenes of earth seemed to be closing around him, and the visions of eternity opening to his view. And having made the calculation, estimated, rightly estimated, the supreme importance of the soul's salvation, and the emptiness of all besides, he yet trifled with his dearest interests, and bartered away his most precious possession for the things which perish in the using. Everlasting ages of fruitless

remorse will measure the extent of his loss.

Perhaps some who read these pages may have been brought to the borders of the tomb, and there taught the lessons of eternity. The vanities by which you were encompassed faded from your view as light broke in upon the mind, scattering the mist of false and perverted judgment, and developing objects in their true character and relative proportion. Oh, be entreated to take your standard of things from what they appeared at this awful point of observation! We are walking through a world of shadows no less than of substances. We are surrounded by infinitely solemn and eternal realities,

yet haunted by fleeting and delusive phantoms. Value, then, the revelations of such sacred hours. Let your affections be set upon what then appeared worthy of your regard. By faith lay hold on the unseen world, and there secure imperishable treasure. Thus shall you experience on earth a peace which passes all understanding, while you rejoice in the glorious assurance of endless happiness beyond the grave.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

The bustle of the fight was over; the prisoners had been secured, and the decks washed down, the watch piped, and the schooner had once more relapsed into midnight quiet and repose. I sought my hammock, and soon fell asleep. But my slumbers were disturbed by wild dreams, which, like the visions of a fever, agitated and unnerved me; the last strife, the hardships of my early life, and a thousand other things mingled together as figures in a phantasmagoria. Suddenly a hand was laid on my shoulder, and, starting up, I beheld the surgeon's mate.

Little Dick was a sort of

"Little Dick, Sir, is dying," he said. At once I sprang from my hammock. protege of mine. He was a pale, delicate child, said to be an orphan, and used to gentle nurture; and, from the first hour I joined the schooner, my heart yearned towards him, for I, too, had once been friendless and alone in the world. He had often talked in confidence of his mother, whose memory he regarded with holy reverence, while to the other boys of the ship he had little to say; for they were rude and coarse, he delicate and sensitive. Often, when they jeered him for his melancholy, he would go apart by himself and weep. He never complained of his lot, though his companions imposed on him continually. Poor lad! his heart was in his grave with his lost parents.

I took a strange interest in him, and had lightened his task as much as possible. During the late fight I had owed my life to him, for he rushed in just as a sabre stroke was levelled at me; and by interposing his feeble cutlass had averted the deadly blow. In the hurry and confusion since, I had quite forgotten to inquire whether he was hurt, though, at the time, I had inwardly resolved to exert all my little influence to procure him a midshipman's warrant in requital for his service. It was with a pang of reproachful agony, therefore, that I leaped to my feet.

"I fear, Sir," said the messenger, shaking his head sadly, "that he cannot live till morning."

"And I have been lying idle here!" I exclaimed, with remorse. "Lead me to him."

"He is delirious, but at the intervals of lunacy he asks for you, Sir," and as the man spoke, we stood beside the bed of the boy.

The sufferer did not lie in his hammock, as it was hung in the very midst of the crew, and the close air around it was so stifling, that he had been carried under the open hatchway, and laid there in a little open space of about four feet square. From the sound of the ripples, I judged the vessel was in motion, while the clear calm blue sky, seen through the opening overhead, and dotted with myriads of stars, betokened that the fog had broken away. How calm it smiled down on the wan face of the dying boy. Occasionally, a light current of wind -oh, how deliciously cool in that pent up hold-eddied down the hatchway, and lifted the dark chesnut locks of the sufferer, as, with his head reposing on the lap of an old veteran, he lay in an unquiet slumber. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, and his childish bosom, as white as that of a girl, was open and exposed. He breathed quick and heavily. The wound, of which he was dying, had been intensely painful, but within the last half hour had somewhat lulled, though even now his thin fingers tightly grasped the bed clothes, as if he suffered the greatest agony.

A battle-stained and gray-haired seaman stood beside him, holding a dull lantern in his hand, and gazing sorrowfully down upon the sufferer. The surgeon knelt with his finger on the boy's pulse. As I approached, they all looked up. The veteran who held him shook his head, and would have spoken, but the tears gathered too chokingly in his eyes.

The surgeon said "He is going fast, poor little fellow. Do you see this ?" as he spoke, he lifted up a rich gold locket, which had lain upon the boy's breast. "He has seen better days."

I could not answer, for my heart was full. Here was the being to whom, a few hours before, I had owed my life-a poor, slight, unprotected child-lying before me, with death already written on his brow, and yet I had never sought him out after the conflict. How bitterly my heart reproached me at that hour. They noticed my agitation, and his old friend, the seaman that held his head, said sadly—

"Poor little Dick-you'll never see the shore you have wished for so long. But there'll be more than one, when your log's out,"-he spoke with emotion-" to mourn over you."

Suddenly the little fellow opened his eyes, and looked vacantly around.

"Has he come yet?" he asked in a low voice.

come ?"

"Why don't he

"I am here," said I, taking the little fellow's hand. know me, Dick ?"

He smiled faintly in my face. He then said—

"Don't you

You have been kind to me, Sir-kinder than most people are to a poor orphan boy. I have no way to show my gratitude-unless

you will take the Bible you will find in my trunk. It's a small offering, I know, but it's all I have."

I burst into tears.

"Doctor, I am dying, ain't I?" said the little fellow, "for my sight grows dim. God bless you, Mr. Danforth.”

"Can I do nothing for you, Dick ?" said I. "You saved my life: I would coin my blood to buy yours."

"I have nothing to ask-I don't want to live-only, if it's possible, let me be buried by my mother-you will find the name of the place, and all about it in my trunk."

66 Anything, everything, my poor lad," I answered, chokingly.

The little fellow smiled faintly-it was like an angel's smile-but he did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the stars flickering in that patch of blue sky overhead.

"It's a long, long way to the stars up there; but there are bright angels among them. Mother used to say that I would meet her there. How near they come; and I see sweet faces smiling on me from among them. Hark! is that music ?" and, lifting his finger, he seemed listening for a moment. He fell back, and the old veteran burst into tears. The child was dead! Did he, indeed, hear angel's voices ? God grant it!

Varieties.

A GREAT MAN'S CHOICE.-I envy no quality of mind or intellect in others—not genius, power, wit, or fancy; but if I could choose what would be most delightful, and I believe most useful to me, I should prefer a firm religious belief to every other blessing, for it makes life a discipline of goodness, creates new hopes when all earthly hopes vanish, and throws over the decay, the destruction of existence, the most gorgeous of all lights; awakens life even in death, and from corruption and decay calls up beauty and divinity; makes an instrument of torture and shame the ladder of ascent to paradise; and, far above all combinations of earthly hopes, calls up the most delightful visions of palms and amaranths, the gardens of the blessed; the security of everlasting joys, where the sensualist and sceptic view only gloom, decay, and annihilation,-Sir Humphrey Davy.

THE GREATEST BLESSING.-I have known what the enjoyment and advantages of this life are, and what the more refined pleasures which learning and intellectual power can give. I now, on the eve of my departure, declare-that health is a great blessing; competence, attained by industry, is a great blessing; and a great blessing it is to have kind, faithful, and loving friends and relatives; but that the greatest of all blessings, as it is the most ennobling of all privileges, is to be indeed a christian.-S. T. Coleridge.