farewell, even though it be till we meet in heaven. Pray for us! Remember our darling children."

Mrs. S., in a brief note, expresses the same devotion to the sacred cause as her beloved hus

band. She says, "Much as we love Englandand we do love her more than ever-we all thank God that he is permitting us to leave her shores on such an errand. Farewell! Forget us not at a throne of grace."

A DEVOTEE OF JUGGERNAUT.

In the province of Orissa, to which Mr. Stubbins and his friends are going, stands the temple of the great idol Juggernaut. Thousands of pilgrims, from all parts of India, repair thither to worship that ugly block of wood. Mr. Sutton, an active missionary, says,-"Returning from visiting a school this evening, my attention was arrested by a poor wretch who was measuring his way to Juggernaut by his own body, or rather by half its length. He never rose upon his feet, but only upon his knees. When on his knees he reached his hands forward, and then drew his body onward a little. Every time he made this advance, he beat his forehead on the ground three times, looking towards the temple, which was in sight.

"When I got sufficiently near, I called to him,

but he did not appear to hear what I said, and continued on his way without paying the least attention. I therefore came up, and succeeded in stopping him: a deep melancholy was visible on his countenance, his lips moving in prayer to his god in a low grumbling tone of voice.

"When I had surveyed him a few moments, he gave over repeating, and I began to converse with him as well as I was able. I first inquired how far he had come in that manner. He answered, 730 miles. How long have you been on the way? About eight months. He appeared about twentyone years of age, and was so emaciated by his austerities, that his voice was nearly gone: I could but just understand him. I asked him what he expected from his visit to Juggernaut. I was told that he expected almost everything, particularly that hereby he should get rid of his sins. I endeavoured to persuade him that his hopes were fruitless. I then told him about Jesus Christ dying for his sins. He seemed to hear with some attention and surprise.

"A number of wicked-looking brahmins now gathered around us, and began to encourage him to proceed. I left them with mingled feelings of indignation and pity. This man will be esteemed holy, and probably be worshipped by the people after this journey."

HUSH'D be the murmuring thought! Thy will be done, O Arbiter of life and death, I bow

To thy command. I yield the precious gift

So late bestowed, and to the silent grave

Move sorrowing, yet submissive.

I lay thee down to rest.

O sweet babe!

The cold, cold earth,

A pillow for thy little head. Sleep on

Serene in death. No care shall trouble thee:
All undisturbed thou slumberest far more still
Than when I lulled thee in my lap, and soothed
Thy little sorrows till they ceased.

Then felt thy mother peace; her heart was light
As the sweet sigh that 'scaped thy placid lips,
And joyous as the dimpled smile that played
Across thy countenance. Oh, I must weep
To think of thee, dear infant on my knees
Untroubled, sleeping. Bending o'er thy form,
I watched with eager hope to catch the laugh,
First waking from thy sparkling eye a beam
Lovely to me, as the blue light of heaven,
Dimmed in the agony of death, it beams no more!
Oh, yet once more I kiss thy marble lips,

Sweet babe! and press with mine thy whitened cheeks;
Farewell, a long Farewell! Yet visit me

In dreams, my darling! Though the visioned joy
Wake bitter pangs; still be those in my thoughts,
And I will cherish the dear dream, and think
I still possess thee. Peace, my bursting heart!
Oh, I submit. Again I lay thee down,

Dear relic of a mother's hope. Thy spirit,

Now mingled with cherubic hosts, adores

The grace that ransomed it, and lodged thee safe
Above the stormy scene.

THE MOTHER'S DREAM.

SHE had watch'd o'er the couch where the dear one had wither'd,

And many false hopes had illumined her eye,

Every word from the lisping pale lips she had gather'd, Till the time was arrived for young Mary to die.

She had been to the grave, and had wept while they cover'd

What once was so lovely, and still was so dear; The image of Mary around her still hover'd, 'Twas hard to believe she no longer was here.

But Time had attempted to wear out the traces
Of Mary's existence, and peace to impart;
And well he succeeded in all other places,
Except in the depths of the mother's sad heart.

One night, when the spirit mysterious was roving,
The senses unconscious of every scene,
Young Mary appear'd in her presence, as loving,
As fair and delighted, as e'er she had been.

"O Mary, my Mary, they said you had left me,

And how has my heart been o'erloaded with pain; I was thinking that death of my joy had bereft me, But no, 'tis not true, I have got you again."

How sweet was the time while the mother was telling
The soul-rending feelings she lately had known!
Even Mary herself seem'd intent on revealing
The wonderful things that belonged to her own.

But from pleasure to pain, Oh! how short the transition!

What heart in this sorrowful world but can tell? Some angel of darkness beclouded the vision,

Nor suffer'd the loved ones to whisper, "Farewell."

D. I.