poor mother, when we parted, that we should all meet again; but one is gone, and my sister is just going, and I must still be a stranger below, and friendless." "Not friendless, Henry, if you put your trust in God; he will be your friend, and we shall meet again in heaven." "It is all the hope I have left, my sister." "It is; then are you a Christian, Henry?" "I am a great sinner, and a poor Christian." "You are? Oh, Henry how happy shall I die! But I wish you to promise me one thing; promise that you will stay at home and take care of our poor father, after I am gone." "I will." "Now," said the fainting sister, "am I' happy; but Mr. S.," said she, turning to the minister, "will friends in heaven know each other? It seems as if I shall want to know my brother more." "We shall all be happy and be as the angels in heaven," said the minister.

"Tell me, brother, where and how you became a Christian, for I greatly desire to know."

We all drew our chairs near the bed as the young man related the various situations in which he had been placed, since he left his father's dwelling. How he had been a very wicked wanderer, from one part of the world to another, alike regardless of home and his Maker; how at length he met with a missionary in the east, who had taken great pains to instruct him, and by whose means he had been brought to reflect on his ways and prospects. This Missionary had given him a Bible, which had been his constant companion ever since. After his hopeful conversion he had made several profitable voyages, and brought home his wages to his poor parents to comfort them in their age. He had not heard anything from them since he left the little cot on the mountain; but often, as he sat at the top of the mast, or clung to the yards, had he prayed earnestly for his friends at home. He concluded his interesting narrative with many tears, partly out of joy that he had been so distinguished by the mercy of God, and partly out of sorrow that he had found none to comfort, but his aged father. We were greatly affected at his narration, but still more so as we turned to the dying Charlotte. A smile of joy and hope was still playing over her features, but her heart had ceased its throbbings and was cold in death. She had listened to her brother's voice till the blood ceased to flow in her veins, and so peacefully did the spirit leave its tenement that we knew not the moment of its departure. We saw the body calm and placid, as if laid in slumber, while the soul had gone to its everlasting rest.

THE PLACE OF REST.

"This is not your rest."

(I AM weary of life, I am tired of the earth,
Of its dark, dark sorrows, and boisterous mirth;
Of its changeful scenes, its uncertain joys,
Its woes that frown, and its pleasure that cloys,
Of its dreams that delude the youthful breast;
Would I could find me a place of rest!

I sought in its lands beyond the sea,
Where the flowers come forth in brilliancy,
Where spreads the brightest and sunniest sky,
But, alas! I found that the flowers must die;
That clouds would o'ershadow the heaven's blue breast,
And I left it-for me 't was no place of rest!

I returned again to the place of my birth,"
But a change had come over its cheerful hearth:
Some now were wand'rers afar o'er the wave,
Some were at peace in the lonely grave;
There were still kind hearts that were not estranged,
But except their affections, all things were changed!

There were voices beloved, but their tremulous tone

Told of the years that were over and gone;

There were brows scarce touched by Time's darkening wing, That looked like the lingering flowers of spring!

There were smiles, but they shone only over decay,

Like the fading light of the dying day!

There were heads, with whose sunny, clustering hair
Were mingled the early snows of care;

There were eyes, but in place of their once bright hue,

A mist of tears bedimmed their blue:

Oh, I brooked not to look on those altered things,

And I stayed not there my wanderings!

I went to fair cities, and in the crowd

I mingled awhile with the gay and proud;

I strove to be happy, I strove to smile,

But the days passed heavily on, the while;

And though every hour with mirth was fraught,

It bore not within it the peace I sought.

I fled away into solitude

I hoped to find quiet by mountain and wood;
But, alas! when the spirit would use its wings,
And mingle with grand and glorious things,
'Tis fettered by clay to its earthly sphere;
Rest there was none for my bosom here!

'I sat me down 'neath the midnight sky,

The bright stars sparkled like gems on high;
Before me lay the mighty deep,

Still murmuring on its troubled sleep;

And I thought, as I gazed on its heaving breast,

There is indeed no place of rest!.

But there came a still small voice through the gloom:

Thing of the dust! return thee home;

Is it thine to repine at the will of HIM,
Before whom yon glorious stars are dim?
Pray that thy sins may be forgiven,
And hope for thy final rest in heaven

CHRISTIAN RESPONSIBILITY.

BY GEORGE WATERMAN, JUN.

M. A. B.

Ir an inhabitant of some other world should be permitted in his flight through the universe to visit our globe, his feelings at the sight which would be presented to his view, might be more easily conceived of than described. He would see an entire world of immortal beings in revolt against Jehovah-whose attention was engrossed about the things connected with their short residence here, to the almost complete exclusion of their eternal state. His sympathies would be excited immediately in their behalf; and with feelings of deep solicitude he might be led to inquire if no remedy had been provided for their otherwise inevitable ruin. For the first time, the story of the incarnation is related to him by some attendant spirit. He hears with feelings of astonishment and admiration. He is amazed at the infinite condescension of the Redeemer, and at the carelessness and want of interest manifested by those whom he came to save. With mingled feelings of wonder and pity he seeks the reason and the consequences. But no celestial inhabitant can give him a satisfactory answer to that most important of all questions, Why do sinners reject the offer of a Saviour's love! In his unchecked flight through the universe of God, he had passed the great prison-house of despair, and heard the lamentations of its hopeless inmates. And now, when he hears that they arose in part from those, who, having neglected this offered salvation, were suffering the just penalty of their disobedience, we may conceive him inquiring with intense earnestness, Cannot I bear

some part in telling those who are yet within the reach of mercy, the glad news of salvation? With a speed which leaves thought far behind, he wings his way to the Eternal throne, and with the deepest reverence and submission prostrates himself before the Ruler of the universe, and makes known the desire of his heart. His zeal and benevolence are approved by Jehovah; but he is told that this work had been committed to human instrumentality, that the glory might appear entirely of God.

And here we may well pause and ask ourselves, Is this true? Has God indeed committed this work to mortals? Are the professed followers of Christ engaged in an enterprise which is denied to angelic minds? How great the honor! How awful the responsibilities! Who can estimate them? What mind is sufficiently strong to compute them? What science shall we call to our aid? Where shall we seek for the responsibilities of the Christian Church at the present day? Shall we summon the whole celestial hierarchy to answer the momentous question? It is into such things that they desire to look. Shall we ask the regions of the lost? A deep wail of unutterable wo is our only answer. Shall we go to the heathen world, and there ask the responsibilities of those in Christian lands? Our question rings through the massive halls of their crowded temples, and re-echoes from their lofty domes, or from the shady heights of their sacred groves. But answer there is none, save the deep groan of the dying Pagan, or the shriek of the funeral pile. But ere the sound has died away upon the breeze, a voice from the eternal world declares, "Such responsibilities can only be measured by the worth of the soul." To know ITS value we must know the constitutional susceptibilities of the human mind to pleasure or pain, even in this world; and then we must lift the veil which separates time from eternity, and follow the immortal spirit to its last abode.

The susceptibilities of the human mind to pleasure, even in this life, are almost infinite in extent and variety. Who can tell the amount of happiness which may spring from memory and imagination-from reason and conscience? even in the present state of existence. Said a justly celebrated divine in a late discourse, "If all the pleasures of all the inferior animals which have existed since the creation, could be concentrated upon one, with the aggregate of all their capacities for enjoyment, yet the human mind, even in this world, possesses the capacity of a much greater amount, and of a much higher order." If this be true, what a field does it open to our view! But let us attempt to follow this immortal mind into eternity. There these capacities for enjoyment will be ever on the increase-its every faculty expanding, and expanding, and expanding, so long as the throne of God

shall last, or immortality endure. As the undying spirit passes through one age after another in the infinite series of eternity, it will arrive at a point in which its susceptibilities of happiness will far exceed those of Gabriel at the present moment; and then it still has an eternity before it to expand and increase-for ever approaching the infinite capacities of Jehovah without the possibility of ever attaining them. What a thing is the immortal mind!

In heaven the means for the gratification of these susceptibilities are commensurate with the susceptibilities themselves-increase with their increase, and run parallel with the existence of the soul. Its every want is anticipated and provided for; and its capacity for enjoyment, and its real enjoyment, will increase in geometrical progression throughout the unending cycles of eternity.

But the susceptibilities of the human mind are as great to pain as they are to pleasure. In this scene of existence, happiness and misery are only relative terms-they are mingled emotions

"For every bitter hath its sweet,
And every rose its thorn."

But in eternity all will be happiness, pure and unalloyed; or all will be misery, dire and unmingled. In the world of despair those ever expanding susceptibilities to pleasure will only meet with an eternal disappointment, while those to pain will feast for ever upon the repast supplied by unending remorse. Could we with Milton enter the walls of the eternal prison

and there view the misery of the lost, we might be able to form some idea of the worth of the soul. There death eternal reigns. There-as portrayed by the ancient bard of earth—

"Far out it thrust a dart that might have made

The knees of terror quake, and on it hung

Within the triple barbs, a being pierced

Through soul and body both; of heavenly make

Original the being seemed, but fallen,

And worn and wasted with enormous wo;

And still around the everlasting lance

It writhed convulsed, and uttered dreadful groans,
And tried and wished, and ever tried and wished
To die; but could not die."

How dreadful the portraiture! Yet how far does it fall below the more dreadful reality!

The period will probably come-though perhaps far off in the vista of eternal years-when each lost spirit will endure at every moment, more misery than all the collected and concentrated wo which now invests the world of despair. And even then a