Three evenings after I called again. It was just at sunset. Emma was about to take her departure. Her mother had raised her up in the bed a little. She smiled as if some good news had been told her, or as one might, who, in the glee of childhood, was going out with playmates for a run in the green fields, or to gather flowers in the wood.

How she talked of heaven, and the angels, and of the Saviour, her Saviour; wondered if they would know her when she got there, and if she should see her little brother that died last spring, and that she had mourned for so much; how sweet the music of the golden harps would be, and how beautiful the green fields, and the bright flowers, and the crystal waters !

"And oh, mother, you must come soon. You will, won't you? I shall want to have you with me, so much;" said the child, in the transport of her joy. Her mother covered her face, and answered only with tears. "And father," she added, as a cloud passed for a moment over the sunlight of her vision;-" think poor father will come too? I want him to come. And little Willie, you must be a good boy, and you will come some day; and we'll all be there." Her strength failed.

Presently, her father, who had been absent all day, opened the outside door and stumbled into the kitchen. Emma heard him, and wished him to come in. Mrs. Ray stepped to the door and called in her husband. He came with an unsteady step, and a dreamy, vacant look, that told of the excesses of the day.

"Father," said Emma, "come, and sit down here by me; I wanted to talk a little with you before I go." He took the hand she held out to him; he saw the change, and the truth flashed upon his mind. His child was dying. It entered his soul like a sword. In a moment he was a sober man, and it seemed as if some fearful storm of agony overwhelmed him.

"Father," she said, "I always loved you, and I've tried to be a good girl and mind you. Have n't I minded you, father?" "Yes, you have," he fairly sobbed. "And when I have n't been a good girl, I am sorry for it, and want you to forgive me. And now I am going to be with the Saviour. I shall see Henry; he is there; and mother is coming before long; and little Willie, he will come, some time; and, father, won't you come too? Won't you? I want you too, father."

He laid his head on her pillow, and wept like a child. "But you must leave off drinking, father, and swearing, or else you never can come; and you must be kind to mother, and go to meeting and hear the gospel preached. Won't you, father? Won't you do all this, and get ready to come too? Say, father; promise me ;-I won't ask you anything else ;-say, quick."

Her strength failed. "Yes, Emma; yes, I will promise you. If God will help me, I will try to come too."

"Thank you; thank God;" she answered. "Now let me kiss you, father,and mother, and Willie; there, good bye! Father will come, and we'll all be there," she faintly murmured, as she turned away her head, tired, exhausted, folded her hands upon her bosom, shut her eyes, and went gently to sleep. It was some minutes before they would disturb her, but let her rest. Then her mother went softly to her, and whispered, "Emma." She answered not. Emma was sleeping so sweetly"Blessed sleep, from which none ever wake to weep."

Mr. Ray kept the promise made to God and to his dying child. And should you stroll along the south-east declivity of Pcemetery, where the spring sunshine falls so pleasantly, and the early violets bloom so lovely, and mark a plain memorial inscribed, "To Emma Ray, aged 12 years. In heaven,"-believe that for once, at least, tomb-stones may tell the truth; for Emma Ray is in heaven.

WILLIAM HUNTER, THE MARTYR BOY.

In the year 1554, soon after the accession of the Bloody Mary to the throne of England, there lived in London a lad about nineteen years of age, an apprentice to a silk weaver. His soul had been illumined by divine grace during the controversies of the preceding reign, and he had learned to abhor the falsities of the Papal church.

When the edict, requiring the people to attend mass, was published in the name of the bigoted Queen, William's master ordered him to comply, and to go with him to the church. But the boy replied that he dare not, for he believed that it would be a sin against God for him to countenance such idolatries. And the master drove him from his house.

William walked to the home of his father, at Bruntwood, and was kindly received, for

his parents loved the boy, feared God, and abhorred Popery.

He sat one day at the door of his father's cottage, poring over a well-worn copy of Tyndale's Bible, which his father had laboured long to purchase; and his soul was feeding with joyous relish upon its precious truths, when a priest passed by the door. William, absorbed, did not observe him until he softly approached, looked over his shoulder, and saw the hated volume. The boy started and closed the book. But it was too late. The priest uttered never a word, but scowled portentously, and walked

on.

That night William Hunter was thrust into a dungeon. The next day he was taken before Master Justice Brown, who questioned him closely concerning his faith. William would not lie, nor would he conceal what he believed. He confessed that he was in heart and soul a Protestant, and that he dare not in conscience attend the mass. He was sent back to his dungeon. His pious father and mother visited him, and encouraged him to persevere in his good confession, even to death. "I am glad, my son," said his mother, "that God has given me such a child, who can find it in his heart to lose his life for Christ's sake."

"Mother," he replied, "for the little pain I shall suffer, which is but a short braid, Christ has promised me a crown of joy, May you not be glad of that, mother?"

Then they all kneeled together upon the hard floor of the cell, and prayed that his strength might not fail; that his faith might be victorious.

His parents, as far as they were permitted, supplied his wants, and ministered to his comfort. A few of the faithful came to see him, and encouraged him to hold out faithful to the end, and prayed to God with and for him. Others of his acquaintance came, and urged him to recant his opinions, to profess or pretend submission to the priests, and not to provoke them to deal more harshly with him. But William, in his turn, exhorted them to come out from the abomination of Popish superstition and idolatry. The priests, too, expostulated with him, and promised and threatened, but all to no purpose; he would not abandon his faith in Jesus as a sufficient and only Saviour.

In a few days he was tried, and condemned to be burned to death as a heretic.

They took him back to his dungeon, and, after long communion with God in prayer, he lay down and slept. He dreamed that the stake was set, and the fagots piled around it, at a place that had been familiar to his boyhood, at the Archery Butts, in the suburbs of the town, and that he stood beside it prepared to die. And there came to him, in his dream, a robed priest, and offered him life if he would recant and become a faithful son of the Papal church. But he thought that he was impelled to bid him away as a false prophet, and to exhort the people to beware of being seduced by such false doctrines.

He awoke from his dream encouraged and strengthened, believing that grace would aid him to do in reality as he had done in vision.

With the morning dawn, the sheriff came and bade him prepare for the burning. And when his father had gone, the sheriff's son approached him, and threw his arms around his neck, and wept. "William," said he, "do not be afraid of these men with their bows and bills, who have come to take you to the stake."

"I thank God," said William, "I am not afraid, for I have cast my count what it will cost me already."

As he passed cheerfully out of the prison, he met his father. The tears were streaming down his face, and all the old man could utter, amid his choking sobs, was, "God be with thee, William, my son; God be with thee, my son."

And William responded, "God be with thee, dear father; be of good comfort, for I hope we shall soon meet again where we shall be happy."

So they led him to the place where the stake was prepared, and he kneeled upon a fagot and read aloud from the bible the 51st Psalm. As he read the words, "The sacrifice of God is a contrite spirit: a contrite and a broken heart thou wilt not despise," William Tyrell, of the Bratches, interrupted him, and said, "Thou liest, thou readest false; the words are, an humble spirit." "Nay, but the translation saith, a contrite spirit." "The translation is false," quoth Mr. Tyrell; "ye translate books as ye list yourselves, ye heretics.' "Well, there is no great difference in the words," said William, and continued his reading.

Then came the sheriff and said to him, "Here is a letter from the Queen, offering

thee life if thou wilt yet recant." "No!" said William, "God help me, I cannot recant."

The executioner passed a chain round his body, and fastened him to the stake. "Good people, pray for me," said William. "Pray for thee!" said a priest, "I had as soon pray for a dog." "Well, you have that which you have sought for; I pray God it be not laid to your charge at the last day; I forgive you." "Ah!" said the priest, "I ask no forgiveness from you." "Well, if God forgive you not, my blood will be required at your hands."

And then the lad raised his eyes to heaven and prayed, "Son of God, shine upon me." And as he spake, the sun, over which a dark cloud had floated, suddenly burst forth as from a veil, and beautifully illumined his countenance.

Then came the priest, whom he had seen in his dream, with a book in his hand, to urge him to recant. But the boy, whose soul was nerved to the endurance of martyrdom, waved him away, saying, "Away, thou false prophet. Beware of these men,

good people, and come away from their abominations, lest ye be partakers of their plagues."

"Then," said the priest, "as thou burnest here, so shalt thou burn in hell." But William answered, "Nay, thou false prophet, I shall reign with Jesus in heaven."

And while a voice in the crowd exclaimed, "God have mercy on his soul," and many voices responded, "Amen, amen," they kindled the fire, and the brave christian boy prayed, "Lord, Lord, receive my spirit," his head fell into the smothering smoke, and his soul filed to the loving embrace of the Redeemer, who had purchased it with his own blood.

MRS. COLEMAN,

RINGSTEAD, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE.

Mrs. Coleman, of Ringstead, Northamptonshire, was daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, of Denford, in the same neighbourhood, who were members of the Baptist church, at Ringstead, for more than half a century. Mr. Lawrence was a deacon of the same church upwards of twenty years. He was a christian of deep piety, undeviating integrity, childlike simplicity, and rich experience. For the sphere in which he moved, and the opportunities he enjoyed, he was a great reader, a deep thinker, and had obtained a most clear and comprehensive view of the scheme of gospel truth. He died Nov. 7th, 1850, aged 81 years: and of him all his christian friends say, "The memory of the just is blessed." Mrs. Lawrence had fallen asleep in Jesus in March, 1849.

Mrs. Coleman died on the morning of the 4th of July, 1851, aged 45 years. She had been an exemplary member of the church at Ringstead twenty-five years. She was afflicted with spinal disease during the

whole of the last eight years of her life. For the last four years she was entirely unable to attend the house of God; and for the last two years she was quite confined to her bed. Her disease completely paralyzed her lower limbs, distorted her whole frame, deranged and obstructed all the functions of life, and continually developed itself in every direction until death -to her a messenger of mercy-liberated her ransomed spirit from its shattered tabernacle. Her deportment under this long and distressing affliction was such as displays the reality and power of vital christianity in a very striking manner. Her "repentance towards God, and faith towards our Lord Jesus Christ," were evidenced by their legitimate fruits during the whole of her christian course. Her love to the distinguishing doctrines of the cross, to the ordinances of gospel worship, and to the cause and people of God, was sincere, ardent, and unwavering. But her long affliction was the occasion for the development of several traits of christian character, which are worthy of a distinct notice.

Our dear sister manifested a very remarkable degree of resigned submission to the will of God, as displayed in his providential dealings with her. The closest observer, it is believed, never witnessed in her the exhibition of an impatient spirit, or heard a murmuring word from her lips. She frequently said, "There is a 'needs-be' for all these things, and if we cannot see the reason for them now we shall know all about it hereafter. It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good." Indeed, the writer never witnessed a brighter exemplification of the apostolic principle: "Let patience have its perfect work."

Her self-renunciation was striking. She never obtruded the tale of her afflictions upon her visitors, never enlarged upon her sufferings, much less magnified them. She seemed to shrink from everything calculated to fix attention upon herself as a sufferer; but she embraced every proper occasion for magnifying the grace of God, by which she was comforted and sustained.

Her love to the word of God was very apparent. The bible ever lay within her reach. Seldom did the writer visit her without being questioned concerning the meaning or application of some passage or passages of scripture which she had noted in her solitary reading. She read the word devotionally as well as intelligently. She was not only illuminated, but also warmed and cheered by its influence. Its doctrines

confirmed her faith, its promises brightened her hopes, and she received its precepts in the spirit of obedient love.

Her experience was not characterized by transports. Her prevailing frame of mind was a calm, unwavering reliance upon the finished work of Jesus. From this she was never moved. Her cheerfulness was surprising it continued to the last. She recognized the gradual approach of death without the least perturbation. The adversary was not allowed to harass her when death was in view.

On the morning of her departure her husband, who had tenderly watched over her during the whole of her affliction, witnessing the indications of the final change, hurriedly went for a beloved female friend. On her entering the room the dying saint accosted her with the usual smile. In a few minutes she requested assistance in changing her posture; but immediately sinking down she said, "I must go; fare thee well." And so she died: or, rather, began to live.

To live a life that knows no ending,
No toil, no grief, no pain attending;
A life whose powers are ever growing;
Its streams of bliss for ever flowing;
Its heavenly riches still increasing;
Its songs of triumph never ceasing!
This is the life she lives above,
In spotless purity and perfect love.
W. K.

THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE AND HIS ENEMY. -A slave in the West Indies, who had originally come from Africa, having been brought under the influence of religious instruction, became singularly valuable to his owner, on account of his integrity and general good conduct. After some time, his master raised him to a situation of some consequence in the management of his estate; and on one occasion, wishing to purchase twenty additional slaves, employed him to make the selection, giving him instruction to choose those who were strong, and likely to make good workmen. The man went to the slave-market, and commenced his scrutiny. He had not long surveyed the multitude offered for sale, before he fixed his eye upon an old decrepit slave, and told his master that he must be one. The poor fellow begged that he might be indulged, when the dealer remarked, that if they were about to buy twenty, he would give them that man into the bargain. The

purchase was accordingly made, and the slaves were conducted to the plantation of their master; but upon none did the selecter shew half the attention and care, that he did upon the poor old decrepit African. He took him to his own habitation, and laid him upon his own bed; he fed him at his own table, and gave him drink out of his own cup; when he was cold, he carried him into the sunshine, and when he was hot, he placed him under the shade of the cocoanut tree. Astonished at the attention this confidential slave bestowed upon a fellowslave, his master interrogated him upon the subject. He said, "You could not take so much interest in the old man, but for some special reason; he is a relation of yours, perhaps your father ?" "No, massa," answered the poor fellow, "he no my fader." "He is, then, an elder brother ?" massa, he no my broder." "Then he is an uncle, or some other relation ?" "No, massa, he no be my kindred at all, nor even

"No,

my friend !" "Then," asked the master, "on what account does he excite your interest?" "He my enemy, massa," replied the slave; "he sold me to the slave-dealer; and my Bible tell me, when my enemy hunger, feed him, and when he thirst, give him drink."

GRAY HAIRS.-Spiritual decay is the idea suggested by the expressive figure of the passage: "Gray hairs are here and there upon him." These "gray hairs" are decided evidences of backsliding. And what is one of them? What one of the more marked symptoms of spiritual decay in the soul? A lessoned appreciation of Jesus is a clear and affecting evidence of spiritual relapse. Once he was in your estimation "the chief among ten thousand." He was the sovereign of your hearts. "His name was as ointment poured forth." He was to you as "the apple tree of the wood." You "sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to your taste." His cross attracted you, his love constrained you, his voice charmed you, his person was all your admiration, and his work all your boast. Oh, how precious was Jesus to you then! You never thought his yoke irksome, nor his burden heavy, nor his cross painful. No time spent with him was deemed lost; no sacrifice made for him was counted costly; no labour for him was wearisome; no shame, no ignominy, or suffering for his sake, was worthy of a thought. The secret of all was-you loved the Saviour with a deep and intense affection. But the "gray hair" has appeared! Jesus is less precious to you now. Reverse the picture just drawn of your former self, and you have the faithful portrait of your soul's present state! Your love has waxed cold, the ardour of your affection has waned, your heart is divided, other objects have displaced the Saviour; and if you follow him at all, it is like Peter, "a great way off." Is not this real decay? "Gray hairs are here and there upon him."0. Winslow.

HERE MY MOTHER KNELT WITH ME.The Rev. Mr. Knill, well known to the religious world in connection with Russia, was the child of a pious mother. Among his letters he gives the following interesting reminiscence:-"After spending a large portion of my life in foreign lands, I returned again to visit my native village. Both of my parents died while I was in Russia, and

their house is now occupied by my brother. The furniture remains just the same as when I was a boy, and at night I was accommodated with the same bed in which I had often slept before; but my busy thoughts would not let me sleep. I was thinking how God had led me through the journey of life. At last the light of the morning darted through the little window, and then my eye caught the spot where my sainted mother, forty years before, took my hand and said, 'Come, my dear, kneel down with me, and I will go to prayer.' This completely overcame me. I seemed to hear the very tones of her voice. I recollected some of her expressions, and burst into tears, and arose from my bed, and fell on my knees, just where my mother kneeled, and I thanked God that I had a praying mother. And, oh! if every parent could feel what I felt then, I am sure they would pray with their children as well as for them."

AFFLICTION. When sorrow, when the cross comes upon thee, seek not with the world to distract it. Drive it not away with fresh sources of sorrow, but bid it welcome. Cherish it as a heavenly visitant, as a messenger sent from God with healing to thy soul; and thou shalt find that thou "entertainest angels unawares." Thou shalt find the bow in the cloud: his light arising out of darkness; his form upon the troubled waters. And if he hush them not, he shall say to thy soul, "fear not, for I am with thee." He shall make it gladlier to thee to lie down in trouble and anguish, while he is with thee, than ever any of the joys of this world were, while he was less present with thee, or wherein thou forgottest him. The blessed lot is not to live joyously in the world, undisturbed by sorrow or suffering, having our good things in this life, and left to our own ways. It is to lie low (well is it for us if it be of our own accord, yet any how to lie low) under his cross. Though for a time it lie heavy upon us, it is not so heavy as sin. Though it wound us, the wounds are "the wounds of a friend." Though its nails pierce us, they are but to let forth the disease which would consume us. Though it bow us to the earth, it places us not so deep as we deserve to be; it casts us down only, that, when we have learnt to lie there in silence and humiliation, He may raise us up.

SWEDEN.

Mr. Nilsson, having stayed some little time in Sweden, after receiving notice that his sentence of banishment had been finally confirmed, was led to think it on the whole best to go with Mrs. Nilsson to Copenhagen, where they were welcomed by Mr. and

Mrs. Förster. Leaving Mrs. Nilsson there, brethren Förster and Nilsson went to the triennial meeting of delegates of the Baptist churches of Germany and Denmark, held at Hamburgh. And after the close of these meetings, brother Nilsson, by the kindness of a friend, was enabled to visit England;