The poor people in the neigbourhood knew and loved him well. Often had they heard his voice in their lowly cottages, reading aloud to them the words of life or fervently seeking the blessing of the Lord for themselves and their families. They had sometimes also the pleasure of hearing, in their village church, his solemn testimony to the truth as it is in Jesus. They had known him from his childhood. His father had once been a labourer in their mines, but by his own diligence, he had raised himself to a higher station, and he spent and ended his life among them. The son left home when a lad of sixteen, and entered he university of Cambridge; but every year he visited his birthplace, and he did not forget his old friends. They knew that he was superior to them, and they honoured and respected him on account of his talents and abilities, though he made no assumption of knowing more than others. They had heard, what was a fact, that he had reached the first place among many highly-gifted companions, and had gained the greatest honours the university could offer. They knew, too, that he had devoted his talents to the service of the Lord as a preacher, and they had earnestly longed for his first visit to them after his ordination. They would willingly have kept him among themselves, and were not a little surprised to hear that he had resolved to leave his home, his friends, and his native land, for ever, and never to return among them. He was now looking round upon the scenes of his childhood, endeared to him by a thousand tender recollections, and about to turn his back upon them, and upon all his beloved friends. Was it strange that he should feel sad?

But why had this young servant of God exposed himself to this severe trial? Why could he not remain in his own land? Had he not feelings like other men? Was not a fair, an honourable course open before him? Honour had been the subject of many of his youthful dreams. Naturally he was inclined to spend his whole time in the pursuit of knowledge, in the enjoyments of literature, and in converse with the minds of the departed. His genuine piety, as well as his talents, had gained him many friends in England, and no doubt he might have occupied a high station in the church. His feelings were extremely affectionate, especially to one whom he tenderly loved, his heart was bleeding at the thought of separation, and yet he resolved to sacrifice all worldly honours and refinements, all earthly enjoyments. The love of Christ constrained him. The needy condition of the ignorant heathen world had fixed his determination to leave all, that he might follow his crucified Lord and Saviour; and in obedience to his parting conmand, go forth, to preach, the unsearchable riches of Christ to those lying in the shadow of death; to tell to those who are lost, of the love of him who came to seek and save their souls.

Strong in the promise of the Lord, he was resolute in his decision to be unmoved by the scorn of a thoughtless world, or the persuasions and representations of his friends. He counted all things but loss, that he might win Christ and be found in him. No eye but that which saw his heart, knew of the conflict which filled him with the bitterest anguish, when he took leave of the scenes of his early youth. But he raised his eyes from earth to that world of light and glory in which the servants of the Lord dwell, and together see his face for evermore; and this was his comfort.

The first dawn of day had been seen from the mountain summits in the sultry land of India. It was the Lord's day, the day of rest; but very few of the

natives of the east knew how to hail this blessed day, and very many have never heard why it is hallowed, or of that glorious resurrection from the dead, of which this day is a type. In the populous cities, here and there crowds of poor natives are seen bringing their offerngs of fruits and flowers to the temples of their gods, while others are gazing with wonder on the tortures which the fakeers inflict on themselves, or bending with reverence before the haughty brahmins. The Europeans pass on their way without regarding the mistaken multitudes, or smiling in contempt at their foolish idolatries, while their own hearts are engrossed in the pursuits of pleasure or of covetousness. Most have left their native land to seek for riches in this distant region, and are living without hope, and without God in the world.

The sun had just risen on the soldier's barracks of Cawnpore, and the clay or bamboo huts in the neighbourhood, when a crowd of more than a thousand soldiers were assembled together to worship God, and to listen to his word. Their looks showed that they had suffered many hardships and fatigues under this burning sky, and some of them had already been enfeebled by the diseases of the country, and seemed advancing to the borders of the grave; but none of them looked so weak as the young stranger who stood in the midst and preached to them Jesus. Labour and suffering, extraordinary zeal in the service of his Master, and toilsome exertion in this hot climate, had made his whole appearance painfully different from what it was when he left his native hills. His earnest voice was become hollow; his face was of a deathlike paleness, proving the inroads of sickness, though it glowed with holy zeal as he spoke of righteousness, temperance, and of judgment to come, and besought his thoughtless hearers to be reconciled to God. Animated by this noble subject, he forgot his own weakness, and stood as the messenger of Christ to the weary and heavy laden, till the increasing heat reminded him that some shelter was needed by his hearers.

On the same sabbath, the sun had reached its meridian heat. The burning sandy plains reflected its rays, and all nature seemed to droop under their influence. A straw-roofed house in Cawnpore, of which the entrance was shaded by cocoa-nut and fig-trees, was thronged by two hundred Hindoo beggars of the lowest class, the victims of poverty and distress. They were so sunk in ignorance and neglect, that they seemed but little above the brutes that perish, waiting to die and be forgotten, like their fellow-creatures around them. They used in this manner to flock to the house of the English padre, or preacher, to seek for bodily relief; but he knew they had immortal souls, and that for these the Son of God had died, and while feeding their perishing bodies, he also set before them that living bread which came from heaven, that a man might eat thereof and not die.

On this day, he again came out from his lonely dwelling, and though faint and weary, he was moved with compassion to see these sheep having no shepherd. He heeded not the sultry sun, nor the fever burning in his veins, but he told them of the love and mercy of his God, their Creator and Redeemer. Sometimes his feeble voice was interrupted by a burst of joy from his hearers; sometimes he paused to take breath, and then they waited in sorrowful silence. At last exhaustion obliged him to stop, and return into his house.

Once more, when the shadows of evening were seen by the lengthened trunks of the palm trees, this devoted preacher of the cross performed his laborious but willing service. On the Sunday evenings, a little band of European Christians

assembled round him in the house of God to join their pastor in prayer and praise to God, and to hear of the never failing mercies of Christ, who has promised to be with his people alway, even unto the end of the world. Sweet was the intercourse of these kindred minds among heathen tribes, and sweet were the songs of Zion which they sang together, though their voices faltered and trembled when they thought of their families and friends, from whom they were far distant. But how rich were the words of comfort which the preacher spoke, when he told them of the promises of their covenant God. Many humble hearts were cheered, and many feeble pilgrims were encouraged to hold on their way. In one of the loveliest and most fertile valleys of Asiatic Turkey, almost surrounded by grassy hills, the towers and minarets of Tocat appear in view. The traveller may plainly distinguish the flat-roofed houses and blooming gardens, or the more striking buidings of mosques and market-places, the broad open streets, and clusters of rich fruit trees, with the lofty rocks which seem to rise from the midst of them, on the summit of which the ruins of an old castle are seen, the sure defence of the town below. But should he turn from the gay and busy scene on this side, and look downwards in the contrary direction, he may fancy himself to be placed in the solitude of a desert. No sound disturbs the universal silence except the distant murmur of the Issus, which bends its course among the neighbouring hills, or the slight rustling of the leaves beneath the tread of the stork or pelican, or the flapping of their wings when they prepare to rise in the air.

This fair and lovely scene, where there is so much to interest the eye and mind of the stranger, was visited by a terrible scourge in the year 1812, which sent many thousands to an untimely grave. This was the plague. Hundreds daily died. Many left their homes, and sought a refuge in the neighbouring mountains, but vain were their hopes of escaping the destroyer. The fragrant breeze, perfumed by flowers, brought with it infection, and the people drooped and died in the solitary spots where they had taken shelter. Mahommedans thronged their mosques, Armenians and Greeks crowded their places of worship, imploring the mercy of God, yet the work of death proceeded.

In a small room, in a wretched post-house, or inn for travellers, near the entrance of the town, lay a foreigner in his dying moments. His countenance, his dress, and the gentle accents which proceeded from his lips, announced that he was an Englishman. None knew where he came from, or what was the object of his journey. He had come to Tocat in sickness, accompanied by a single Tartar, a rough unmerciful man, who showed no concern for his suffering companion, but had without him pursued his journey to Constantinople. Some friendly Armenians, who pitied the young stranger, afforded him some trifling assistance as they passed, but their relief was of no avail. The attack of the plague was too much for his already exhausted frame, and the young missionary of Cawnpore fell into the sleep of death without any friendly voice to comfort him in his last struggles, or any faithful hand to support his sinking head. The friends of his childhood, and also those whom God had raised up for him in the land where he laboured, were far distant. Many were anxiously longing for his return home, as he had set out on his journey towards England. Constrained by sickness, he had long relinquished his labours, and he was seeking restoration for his health, that he might return with renewed energy and power to promote the glory of God among the nations of the East; but the Lord called his spirit to "arise and depart," and, released from its earthly prison, he joyfully

obeyed the call. He was not alone in his last hours; the Angel of the covenant was with him; and heavenly guards doubtless watched over his dying pillow, and waited but the bidding of their Lord, to convey him to his everlasting rest. He had fought the good fight, he had kept the faith; his labours and sorrows were ended, and eternal joys were opened to him. He sleeps in a foreign land; an insignificant grave in the Armenian burying-ground at Tocat contains the simple memorial of his name; but as long as the millions of benighted Hindoos read in their own tongue his translation of the New Testament, and the thousands of Mahommedan Persians receive light and knowledge from the same sacred source; as long as a Christian heart desires to live not to himself but to Him who died for us and rose again, so long will the recollections of Henry Martyn be dearly prized.

As those who have not the talents of worldly heroes may, even in the lowest circles, evince the same selfishness and disregard for the interests of others, the same earthly-mindedness and neglect of eternity; so those who have not the same gifts as the noble and excellent Martyn, who are not called to forsake their homes for the sake of Jesus, may still, in their own station in which God has placed them, exercise the same self-denial and zeal in the cause of their Master. "The hour is coming when all that are in their graves shall hear his voice," "then shall the wise shine as the brghtness of the firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever."

FAITH AND DELUSION.

To credit such a mat

WE cannot believe that we do not know or understand. ter is not faith, but prejudice. I cannot believe that the inhabitants of Pekin are all blue-eyed; for I am ignorant of the fact. I cannot, without being deluded, think myself to be the emperor of China, or believe the population of the planet Saturn to have each ten heads. On the same principle, men cannot believe the Romish host to be the body of Christ, or the Virgin Mary to be a mediatrix, or Joanna Southcott to have been the mother of our Saviour, or the dead to have already risen in a general resurrection. They can give no better account of such belief than a truism: they can merely say, "We believe because we believe." Necessarily in profound ignorance as to the supposed facts, or the doctrinal assumptions, of their faith, they are the victims of delusion. Religious faith is always rational, intelligent, knowing.

Faith is the fruit of consideration. We believe only what we have examined or investigated. You do not believe one who tells you that the moon is inhabited, or your child has committed murder, or a conspiracy is a-foot to put you to death, till you have considered the probabilities of the statement. Divine truth, more than anything else, requires investigation, and challenges and commands it. 'Prove all things;' try the spirits;' 'judge of what I say;' 'believe not every prophet;' 'by their fruits ye shall know them;' search the scriptures ;' 'beware of men—of false prophets of the doctrines of the Scribes and Pharases of those who lie in wait to deceive;' 'if ye will enquire, enquire ye, return, come.' Christ and his apostles spent days and weeks and years in answering questions, and in disputations and reasonings with the people. All the

earliest class of Christians believe upon enquiry and investigation. Why abounds the Bible in reasoning? Even the God of Truth's revelation of mercy and legislation of duty to his creatures, exhibits no dogmatism, no abstract theorem, no dry or bald or unargued inculcation of principle, but gives 'line upon line, line upon line, precept upon precept, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little,' that men may enquire, understand, believe and be converted.

We can tell not only what we believe, but why we believe it. 'It is because it is,' or 'What I believe is an absolute mystery,' is the language of only fanaticism or credulity. Scripture mysteries are hidden truths revealed, and taught on evidence. We believe them neither against our senses, nor in opposition to our reason, nor in the absence of proof. He who would have us to believe the stars created, our hearts depraved, or our souls condemned, must give us his reasons I am not to be called a felon, or menaced with the gallows, or humbled to consult an advocate, without reasonable probabilities being exhibited of my guilt. Faith in the gospel is conviction-satisfying the understanding-carrying demonstration to the mind: 'We are judged of all, and convinced of all.' To believe against the senses, or without perceiving evidence, is blindness, infatuation, or moral hypochondriasis; just as if a man were to believe himself twenty feet high, or made of glass, or double-headed, or combustible. I can rationally believe the vastest truth of revelation,—that God is three and yet one, or that he fills immensity, or that he assumed humanity in the person of the Son, because I so far understand the truth as to perceive its properties, and its freedom from self-contradiction and absurdity; and I see surpassing evidences of holiness, veracity, and divine inspiration in the document which records it; and I know the most wonderful miracles to have been worked before the senses of thousauds, and laid open to the investigation of the world, for its confirmation. But where are the evidences of transubstantiation, half-communion, Southcottianism, or any other delusions which were unknown till long after the canon of scripture was completed?

All evidence of evangelical truth lies in the Bible. Christian faith is founded on divine testimony, repeated, illustrated, and made plain to the mind by divine influence. Faith cometh by hearing, and hearing (or understanding) by the word of God.' To believe in Christ is to 'know the scriptures,' and to stand in the power of God.' Nothing is received on men's testimony, or on the authority of great names, or learned divines, or ecclesiastical councils. Not even the apostles had 'dominion over the faith' of Christians, but were 'helpers of their joy.' All the early believers, though some 'more noble,' or with greater frequency or zeal than others, appealed from the very preaching of Paul and Peter and other inspired preachers, to the authority of the scriptures. Such heaters as believed the men were mentally deluded with the mere phantasmagoria of the gospel : only those who believed God were believers in Christ, or the subjects of religious faith.

Faith, then, is distinguished from delusion by knowledge, investigation, perception of evidence, assent to divine testimony, emotion, and holy obedience. These characteristics of faith are so many proofs that it springs from divine operation, or arises from the illumination of the dark mind of man by the influence of the Holy Ghost, and is possessed by such only as are saved by grace, justified through the obedience of Christ, and partakers of peace, and love, and light, and holiness, through a dispensation of sovereign mercy.