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courage her mother to try to bear up one night longer, and hope for better luck on the morrow.

We leave them in their misery to return to Mr. D. The contrast between the two dwellings is great, although the distance is but a few rods.

Mr. D thought no more of the beggar-girl; he supposed she might be an impostor, or might not; at any rate, he did not care to be annoyed by her, and he felt that he had put a final stop to her solicitations, so far as he was concerned.

We have said that Mr. D- had a little boy. He was the idol of his parents, and a general pet among the servants; and they were frequently in the habit of taking him with them when they went out upon errands in the streets. The man-servant was going out towards night, and he said to the little fellow, jestingly,

Josey, do you want to go with me?" "Oh, yes," said the favourite, and ran for his hat.

"But stop," said John, "I did not say I would take you along with me. It is late, and too cold. The next time I go, I will take you."

It was with some difficulty, however, that he pacified him; he started, leaving, as he thought, Josey at home; but he was no sooner gone than the little fellow ran out, unnoticed by the family, and followed him. He was not quick enough to overtake the servant, and on entering the street, he took a wrong direction. In a few moments he was wandering away from home, not knowing whither he went, and with nothing to shield him from the severe cold but his little hat, which he had thrown hastily upon his head.

It was late in the evening when the servant returned, and the family were feeling very anxious about little Josey, as he was never allowed to be out in the evening; but, supposing he was safe with their trusty servant, they waited patiently for his return. We can judge of the surprise and increased anxiety of the parents, when the servant returned without him.

"Why, John," exclaimed Mr. D, "what have you done with Josey ?"

"Indeed, Sir, I left him at home, and have not seen him since," said the affrighted

servant.

"What in Heaven's name has befallen my child? He is lost. Haste, quick, to the crier's, and search the city for him: it

is dark and cold, and if he is exposed, he will certainly freeze. He cannot talk sufficiently to tell where he belongs. I am afraid some dreadful accident has already befallen him !"

Each member of the family and their friends, far and near, were immediately despatched in search of the unfortunate runaway; but no traces of him could be found, and such a night of terrible suspense the parents of the child never before suffered.

Morning came, however, and with it the bright sunshine which made everything look cheerful, save the countenances of the troubled parents of little Josey. They had lost not a moment in search of the missing child, but as yet no tidings of him had been heard. About the middle of the forenoon, the friends all returned, and almost gave up the search as hopeless. In an agony of despair, the naturally hard-hearted Mr. D threw himself upon his couch and wept aloud; while his wife was in a state bordering on distraction.

Presently there was a report in circulation that a poor woman and little girl had been found frozen to death in a miserable dwelling not far distant from Mr. D's residence. When the news reached the wretched man's ears, he started to his feet as if struck with some terrible shock. Such things were not uncommon, yet Mr. D. was not in the habit of taking notice of such reports.

But now it seemed as if some unearthly impulse urged him forward! He seized his hat, rushed from the house, and hastened to the spot, where there was a crowd collected round the door. It was but a few moments' walk from his dwelling, but the street where it was located bore a very different aspect.

It was a narrow, filthy lane, and the old, dilapidated buildings, with their broken windows and doors, shewed that there must be suffering there, if in such a place human beings could even exist at all. He was shewn through a narrow passage-way to a low back room, which was made for a cellar, but which at present was the only tenement of a miserable family.

There was a fire-place in one corner, which contained nothing but a little ashes, and a heap of worn-out straw in another corner, on which lay the bodies of the unfortunate victims.

There were various articles of ragged

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clothing thrown over them, on removing which, there proved to be another child, smaller than the little girl!

The woman lay with her arms clasped around both the children, and it was evident, from their position, that she had drawn them closely to her bosom, in the endeavour to keep them warm from the heat of her own body; but it was more than she was able to do, with the severity of the weather; and she had met with them her untimely end. The three were frozen dead. As soon as their faces were exposed, Mr.

D was the first to recognize the bodies. The first was the poor little beggar-girl; and, with a glance at the other child, he gave a shriek which would have pierced the heart of a stone, stood aghast a moment, and then fell heavily on the floor! One glance shewed that it was his own child!

No one was left to tell the story, but to the father's mind the sad truth was apparent.

The little frozen hand of his cherished boy still held a crust of bread-the only article of food there was to be seen in the room! It were vain to attempt to depict the multitude of agonizing thoughts which crowded the distracted father's brain, in that terrible moment: words fail to describe them! He contrasted the character of the little beggar's heart with his own. He thought of her whom he had turned penniless from his door, who, pitying his little son, had evidently taken him in from the street, and shared with him her last morsel, and then striven to shield him from the cold by nestling him in her own bosom ! He had refused her the means of saving the life of his darling son, and he was the murderer !

Mr.

It was too much for human nature. Dwas borne home senseless, and for many days he merely shewed signs of life, but not of reason. The body of little Josey was taken home by the friends, and buried, but the parents never saw it.

The mother, from the effect of the shock, fell into a fever, from which she never recovered. Mr. D- —at length recovered his bodily health and strength, but he never was a man again. He would frequently have seasons of raving, and would call for his child in the most piteous manner, saying that they had hidden little Josey from him; that he was not dead, but they were keeping him in suspense, only to torture him! At other times he would be calm,

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Sometimes he would hire people to go about the streets with him in search of his little "runaway," as he called him. In this way he spent many years, and his friends indulged him as long as he was quiet; but at length he became so mad that they were obliged to confine him, and he ended his miserable existence in an insane asylum.

Thus ends the sad history of one who, by a single act of unkindness, sacrificed his own life, with that of his beloved wife and idolized child! "He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord;" and happy is the man who hath such a debtor. No one is safe from accidents; and he who lends to the poor, knows not how soon he may have the favour returned fourfold; for none is so rich but that some day he may be grateful for the services of even a little beggar.

THE CHILD ANGEL. "She did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Listening to their fairy chime;

Her slender sail

Ne'er felt the gale;

She did but float a little way,

And putting to the shore,
While yet 'twas early day,
Went calmly on her way,

To dwell with us no more.
No jarring did she feel,

No grating on her vessel's keel;
A strip of silver sand

Mingled the water with the land,
Where she was seen no more-
Oh, stern word, nevermore."

How few whose names are written wife, mother, have any idea or understanding of the solemn responsibilities resting upon them in these relations! A few years of butterfly existence-the finish given at a fashionable boarding-school, a short wooing, a gay bridal, a gayer honeymoon, and the young creature seats herself at last by her own hearthstone, and wonders if life is all a holiday.

Such a one comes up to my recollection; the life of the social circle in which she moved, always carrying sunshine wherever

she went, merry-hearted as a bird, thoughtless of the morrow; light, air, motion, all sources of the keenest enjoyment, roving like the bee from flower to flower, extracting only honey; sensitive, ardent, impulsive, warm-hearted, but "remembering not her Creator," lacking the "one thing needful." I loved her, as did all who knew her, for the world had not yet spoiled her frank and generous nature; but with all that wealth of feeling, and without the guiding-star of religion, I could only say, "May God keep her!"

Her husband was, like herself, fond of the gay world, but fully able to appreciate the strong, deep love she bore him.

A babe was given her. With a flood of joyful tears she welcomed it. At once she became the self-sacrificing, patient, enduring mother. You could not have charmed her away from that babe's cradle, "charmed you never so wisely." Concerts, parties, balls, were alike forgotten; her chief joy was to watch those tiny features to caress that fragile form. The gay, ringing laugh was heard less frequently-a sweet, calm seriousness marked her whole demeanour. She would sit for hours gazing on its cherub face with moistened eyes. Years passed on. The child grew up a delicate, fragile thing, with large, thoughtful, earnest eyes, through which the soul seemed ever speaking; moved to tears by a strain of sweet melody, or the gorgeous beauty of the sunset cloud-caring naught for the sports of childhood, but, like the child Saviour, "hearing and answering questions."

At

The love and devotion of Alice for her mother almost amounted to idolatry. night her fairy hand was outstretched from the little bed, to rest in that of her mother. By day she was ever at her mother's side, with her book, or with those large brown eyes fixed on her mother's face, intensely interested in her conversation. When there were visitors, she would take a seat in some quiet corner, never losing a word, pondering all she heard. If any one advanced an opinion different from the views expressed by her mother, Alice would timidly venture forth and say, "I don't think it can be so; my mother doesn't think so;" or, "I'm sure you are right, for I've heard my mother say so." On these occasions an expression of seriousness, almost amounting to distress, would settle upon the mother's face, and her eyes would often fill with tears.

I watched that mother and child with the most intense interest. I looked for the

time when all this weight of responsibility should lead her to the foot of the cross. I saw (with spiritual eyes) this child angel invisibly drawing her thither. Nor did I look long, nor in vain. One morning she came to me with a burst of tears, and said, "Oh, teach me how to go with that child to heaven!" I told her simply, earnestly, her duty; she listened with eager interest; nay, more-for, God be thanked, my prayer was heard-she tried hard to perform it.

And now, little Alice's mission on earth being accomplished, the mother's new-born faith and trust in God were to be put to the trial. The Good Shepherd called her lamb gently to his fold. The little feet falteredthe large eyes grew dim. With a flood of bitter tears the mother cried, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me?" But grace prevailed, and as she closed the child's eyes in death, I heard her pallid lips say, "Not my will, but Thine be done."

Since then the grave has closed over the husband of her youth; poverty, suffering, and trial have marked her pathway, and now she can look back and see the kindness of her heavenly Father in thus early sheltering the little shrinking lamb from the storm and the tempest.

"Full short their journey was; no dust
Of earth unto her sandals clave;
The weary weight the aged must,

She bore not to the grave.
She seemed a cherub who had lost her way
And wandered hither; so her stay
With us was short, and 'twas most meet

That she should be no delver in earth's clod,
Nor need to pause and cleanse her feet,
To stand before her God."

THE ACTRESS.

One day an actress belonging to a theatre in was going through one of the streets in that place, when her attention was attracted by the sound of voices in a poor cottage before her. Curiosity prompted her to look in at the open door, when she saw a few poor people sitting together, one of whom, at the moment of her observation, was giving out the following hymn, which the others joined in singing:

"Depth of mercy! can there be
Mercy still reserved for me?
Can my God his wrath forbear?
Me, the chief of sinuers spare?
"I have long withstood his grace,
Long provoked him to his face;
Would not hearken to his calls,
Grieved him by a thousand falls."

The tune was sweet and simple, but she heeded it not. The words had riveted her attention, and she stood motionless, until she was invited to enter, by the woman of the house, who had observed her standing at the door. She complied, and remained during a prayer which was offered up by one of the little company; and, uncouth as the expressions sounded, perhaps, to her ears, they carried with them a conviction of sincerity, on the part of the person who used them.

She left the cottage, but the words of the hymn followed her. She could not banish them from her mind; and at last she resolved to procure the book which contained it. She did so, and the more she read it, the more decided her serious impressions became. She attended the ministry of the gospel, read her hitherto neglected and despised Bible, and bowed herself in humility and contrition of heart, before Him whose mercy she now felt she needed, whose sacrifices are those of a broken and contrite spirit, and who has declared, that with such sacrifices he is well pleased.

Her profession she determined at once and for ever to renounce; and, for some little time, excused herself from appearing on the stage, without, however, disclosing her change of sentiments, or making known her resolution finally to leave it.

The Manager of the theatre called upon her one morning, and requested her to sustain the principal character in a play which was to be performed the next week for his benefit. She had frequently performed this character to general admiration; but she now, however, told him her resolution never to appear as an actress again, at the same time giving her reasons. At first he attempted to overcome her scruples by ridicule, but this was unavailing; he then represented the loss he should incur by her refusal, and concluded his arguments by promising, that if, to oblige him, she would act on this occasion, it should be the last request of the kind he would ever make. Unable to resist his solicitations, she promised to appear, and on the appointed evening went to the theatre. The character she assumed required her, on her first entrance, to sing a song; and when the curtain drew up, the orchestra immediately began the accompaniment. But she stood as if lost in thought, and as one forgetting all around her, and her own situation. The music ceased, but she did not sing; and,

supposing her to be overcome by embarrassment, the band again commenced. A second time they paused for her to begin, but she did not open her lips. A third time the air was played, and then, with clasped hands, and eyes suffused with tears, she sang, not the words of the song, but,

"Depth of mercy! can there be
Mercy still reserved for me ?"

It was almost needless to add, that the performance was suddenly ended. While many ridiculed, some were led, from that memorable night, to "consider their ways," and to reflect on the wonderful power of that religion which could so influence the heart, and change the life, of one hitherto so vain and so evidently pursuing the road that leadeth to destruction.

It will be satisfactory to the reader to know, that the change in Miss

was

as permanent as it was singular; she walked consistently with her profession of religion for many years, and at length became the wife of a minister of the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.

A CONTRAST.

A court-room in one of our large cities is thronged with a dense mass of spectators. From floor to ceiling rises one crowded array of anxious faces. The room is as silent as death. A human being is on his trial for life, and his advocate is just rising to make his last defence. Mark the carefulness with which he reviews the testimony. Mark the intense solicitude with which he avails himself of every symptom of feeling in the jury-box. And, as he draws near the close of his argument, see how his hand trembles, how his face is flushed, how his whole frame is shaking under the weight of an overwhelming solicitude, too great even for utterance. Is he too earnest? Is his appeal too impassioned and fervid? Look at that wretched criminal with his quivering lip, and let him answer! Look at that pale wife, and that group of children, all waiting in agonizing suspense for the fate of a husband and a father! Ask that breathless bystander, and he will answer, "No! he cannot be too earnest; the life of a fellow being is at stake; if he manifested any less solicitude, he would not only be wanting in professional fidelity, but even lacking the ordinary feelings of humanity."

When the next Sabbath comes, you meet that same bystander in the house of God.

Around you are a large company of travelers to eternity. Some of them are ignorant. Some of them are careless and indifferent. A large portion of them are enemies of God, with the whetted sword of Almighty wrath already hanging over them. As the minister of Christ casts his eye over his audience, he sees many who are utterly "without hope," and if death were suddenly to overtake them, he knows that they must sink to eternal darkness, and the undying Even to-morrow some of those hearers may be wrapped in their shrouds, and their souls be in another world!

worm.

Weighed down with the tremendous responsibility that rests upon him, the herald of the cross proclaims his message, with strong cryings and tears. Every argument that could be drawn from thundering Sinai or darkened Calvary, from an open heaven or a yawning hell, is presented from a soul breaking with solicitude for dying men. And when the message of love

has been delivered, and the minister of Christ has returned to his closet, to mourn there that he did not plead his Master's cause yet more earnestly, where are his auditors? How many heard his message ? How many gave heed to it? How many remembered it until they reached their own dwellings? Well will it be if some did not retire to mock and sneer at it all as the effusion of crazy enthusiasm, or of fanatical bigotry. The modern Festus, who applauded the eloquent advocate in the court-room, pronounces this man "mad;" and even many a frigid professor thinks that the worthy preacher was somewhat" beside himself," from the ardour of his emotion.

If such painful contrasts sink, the souls of God's ministers here into sorrow, and wellnigh to despair, how must they appear to those who behold them from another world? How must they appear to a saint in bliss, or to a lost soul in the world of woe?

Correspondence.

ON WOMAN SPEAKING IN THE CHURCH.*

Our correspondent, Elizabeth, in the October number of "The Church," has endeavoured to establish the right of woman to "speak in the church." She seems aware that she is apparently flatly contradicting the apostle Paul, but endeavours to shew that he could not mean what nearly all readers of the Scriptures understand him to mean. The Society of Friends, with their fundamental notion that all speaking in the church is to be by special motion of the Holy Spirit, are hardly in opposition to the apostle, or even christians generally, since all would allow that if the Holy Spirit commanded to speak, the authority was ample for doing so.

The gen

eral injunction of the Spirit through Paul, would be held to be superseded by a particular monition for a special case. The prayers and praises of the pious women she mentions have certainly no correspondence with women "speaking in the church;" partly, they were all, apparently, special promptings of the Divine Spirit, and, with

the exception of Anna's, they do not appear to have been uttered in the assembly of the people. Anna, however, is expressly termed a prophetess, and appears to have been recognized as such by the people generally. The woman of Samaria certainly did not "speak in the church," and, at best, merely called the attention of the people to a miracle which she alone had witnessed. The usefulness of pious women in the conversion of sinners, has been generally, we apprehend, in that retired and modest way which so befits the sex; but even if her speaking in public has been thus blessed in some instances, it would not, by any means, prove that God sanctioned such agency. How often has an outrageous infidel remark, or some expression of an ungodly man, been the means of awakening a new life in the hearts of others.

But Elizabeth appears to think that her strong point is, the impossibility of Paul's pressing a commandment of the law against the distinct promise of Joel, adverted to in Acts ii. 17, 18, that "daughters and handmaids" should prophesy. Paul, therefore,

* We have received several pieces on this subject, which we should have been glad if we could have used, but as they arrived late, after the following article was written, and as they all express substantially the same views, the writers will agree with us that it would be unnecessary to prolong the discussion by inserting them.

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