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MY FIRST SABBATH IN PARIS.

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friend, through all the gaieties of a Parisian sabbath, as my first place of worship after the sufferings and privations of my protracted voyage.

We were rather late in the arriving, for my residence was two miles off. The room was crowded with persons evidently of high rank, and of polished manners. As we stood for a moment at the door, in some little embarrassment as to a seat, a gentleman at the other end of the chapel, kindly came forward, and conducted us to a place by his side. The services had already commenced; the organ was touched by a skilful hand, which had obviously been trained in other scenes; and the whole audience were beginning to unite in a song of Zion. The accents of my native tongue sounded doubly sweet in the worship of the sanctuary, as contrasted with the foreign voices which fell everywhere upon my ear, without the chapel. The services were all performed with the tenderness and solemnity of those who felt the blessedness of drawing near to God; and who felt it the more because they were "strangers in a strange land." Upon me, in my feeble state of body, the effect was overpowering. The reader will not think it a proof of weakness, that I wept almost without restraint during the whole service, and especially the communion which followed, if he considers the scenes of trial through which I had just passed, the associations connected with that little chapel, transformed from a ball-room into the sanctuary of God, and the contrast between our employment and that of thousands around us who were wasting their sabbath in thoughtless gaiety, sweeping through the Champs Elysées past our quiet retreat, utterly regardless of that Redeemer on whom our hearts were fixed in sweet and holy communion. It was to me indeed " the gate of heaven;" and much as I have enjoyed the worship of the sanctuary in various parts of the world, I have never known a season which took so deep a hold on my feelings, as my first sabbath in Paris, in the chapel of LEWIS WAY.

On returning to my lodgings, I wrote the following lines intended to embody the emotions I then experienced. No person, I am aware, can so enter into my feelings as fully to understand me, except one who has been placed in similar circumstances. It would not be surprising, therefore, if what was poetry to me should seem far short of it to others.

LINES

Written after worshipping in the chapel of
Lewis Way, on the Champs Elysées, Paris.
That sacred Dome which meekly smiles,
O'er scenes where pleasure revels wide,
And calls from earth's seducing wiles,
The souls where faith and hope reside.
That sacred Dome was open thrown,
Wide as its owner's heart, once more;
And round its hallowed precincts shone,
The radiance of a brighter shore.

There, while from loftier structures rose,
In all its pomp, religion's art,
That modest temple only knows,

The breathing incense of the heart.
And there to join the happy few,

A stranger came who long did mourn,
Far on the Atlantic wave anew,
Each lonely sabbath's slow return.
Long had he felt the withering power
Of stern disease-the keener smart,
That waits the solitary hour-

The desolation of the heart.

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MARY LENTLEY.

BY A VILLAGE PASTOR.

SOME twenty years ago, the wit and the wealth, the beauty and the strength of old Berkshire were gathered in its sweetest valley; that which embosoms Williams College. It was Commencement day. Anxious hearts were on the stage, and anxious hearts, that smiling faces hid, were many among the crowd.

Perhaps you have never been in this loveliest vale? It has been well said that standing on the plain at West Point, hundreds of feet above the glorious river that winds at your feet and loses itself among the everlasting hills, it is almost impossible to feel that nature alone has spread out such a plain among the mountains and formed it so fitly for the mighty ends to which man has appointed it. It seems as if art had cast the spot into her mould, and fashioned it so as to combine all that is vast and sublime in wild omnipotent nature, with all that is beautiful and fit for use in the skill of man. And if I were sent to make a spot in which to plant a seat of learning, the retreat for study, where science should offer to her votaries all that can attract, and elevate, and lead to her loftiest and sincerest worship, I would pile up mountains on every side, clothe them with forests of giant trees, in summer robed in the richest green, and in the autumn reflecting every color that the eye loves to dwell on; here I would make a gap among these hills, and through it I would lead a gentle stream into the valley now sleeping sweetly in the arms of its mountain-guards; here I would make another gap, and through it should flow another river more rapid and more pure, and these two streams, emblems of knowledge and virtue, should meet in the centre of the valley; they should flow into each other and become one richer, lovelier, mightier stream, flowing on with a broader, deeper current, passing out of the vale by another gap among the hills, to fertilize the earth, and finally mingle its waters with the distant sea. At the junction of these streams I would plant a grove where the sons and daughters of science might walk and meditate and pray, and all over the valley should be the abodes of quiet, loving people, whose God is the Lord. Here I would place the College. Here it has been placed, and this, without a word of fancy, is the valley in which my "Alma

Mater" has her home. There are the mountains, the loftiest in the State of Massachusetts; there are those romantic gaps through which the traveller finds an easy and delightful passage along the brink of smiling streams and under the shade of solemn hills; there is the "junction" and the "grove" where the names of Gordon Hall and Samuel J. Mills and others are rudely carved by their own hands, on the trees at whose feet they kneeled when they prayed; there the double stream finds its way out to the West through another opening which, when filled with the gorgeous glory of a setting sun, gave me in boyhood a richer picture of the dazzling majesty of heaven than any natural Sweet scenery on which my eye ever fell. vale! How the memory of it lingers with me like the fancy of a fabled "isle of the blest.” Years have rolled rapidly by, and signs of age are thickening on me and within me, but that valley, those peaceful classic shades, those sacred halls, their hallowed associations, the friends of my youth, they are all around me with as fresh reality as if years were on y days and grey hairs the growth of a single night.

It was Commencement day, twenty years ago, and Charles Richardson-this name shall stand instead of his own-was on the stage. He was pronouncing the farewell address to the class, and every eye in the crowded house was fixed upon him, and every ear attentive to catch the words that fell from his tremulous lips. Foremost among his fellows in the studies of college, he had the rare gift of power to engage the hearts of all, so that he stood forth to-day with the highest honors, no less as a wellearned award than as freely accorded by those who rejoiced in his success. He had spoken of the parting, of the prospects, of the widely diverging paths of life, of the hopelessness of meeting again, and the sympathies of the assembly were evidently and deeply with the youthful impassioned speaker. He referred to the paths of honor which some would tread, and the fierce conflicts awaiting those who aspired to the giddy heights of fame. "Some of us," said he, "have our hearts on the distant heathen. The misery of the'r present degra 'ation and the deeper and darker misery that awaits them hereafter, have stirred within us

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the sympathies of our souls, and we go to carry to them the knowledge of God and the way of Salvation through his crucified Son. Some of you will doubtless meet each other on earth again. Perhaps you will revisit these scenes and revive the friendships here formed, and rejoice in the recital of one another's success in the contests of life. But those of us, two of us, who have been given to the heathen, now bid a long and last farewell to these consecrated halls of learning, to this unrivalled valley, these hills, and streams, and shades-farewell to you, the friends and companions of our college days -farewell to these instructors, whose counsels will go with us to the world's end-farewell to all we love-”

- A movement in the gallery of the church drew the eyes of the great assembly toward a scene of confusion, and a lovely girl was borne in the arms of her friends from the house into the open air. The vale lictory was soon concluded, and young Richardson was by the side of Mary Lentley. But who was Mary Lentley?

She was the daughter of one of the many substantial farmers in Berkshire, and, as often happens with college students, Charles Richardson had not been so smitten with the charms of study as to be blind to other beauties, and he had found in Mary Lentley charms that his books had never revealed. She had been the companion of many of his walks; he had read, and she had heard him real, the books that both of them loved, and with kindred sympathies they had drank at the purest fountains of joy, even at the wells of living waters. He had learned to love her tenderly and devotedly, and his soul was linked indissolubly to her, before he had made known his fixed purpose to be a missionary to the distant heathen. But when he broke the subject to her and asked if she would share the trials and the labors of such a service for the sake of him, and more for Christ and the perishing, she leaned upon his shoulder and looking up confidingly said, "Whither thou goest, I will go; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."

But the parents and friends of Mary thought differently, as soon as the subject reached their ears, and they interposed objections of affection and authority, and refuse to let her go." The missionary spirit was not so widely diffused in the churches then as now, and even now such instances of parental interference are of no unfrequent occurrence. This put a new aspect

upon the affair, and the young lovers were called to examine a new and delicate question. Should Charles abandon the heathen for the sake of Mary? Should Mary desert and offend her parents for the sake of Charles?

Here was a question that has since troubled many a young heart. Had Mary, early and before she had given her heart to Charles Richardson, loved the heathen and consecrated herself to their salvation; had she been sighing after them, and praying that the way might be opened for her to go to them with the bread of life, she would have had less difficulty now to come to a decision. But she knew that she first loved Christ, then she loved Richardson, and then, when she knew that he was going to the far off heathen, she was willing to go with him, to suffer and die. How much there was in this willingness that had respect to the souls of the heathen, and how much to him who had her heart's fondest love, she would not confess even to herself. Shall she now break the hearts of her parents who declare that they cannot live without her, and will never consent to part with her, or shall she sweeten their last days with a daughter's love, while she serves the Saviour in her own quiet sphere? With Richardson it was a foregone conclusion. He must go. His heart said so, his conscience approved the decision, and the "fondness of a creature's love" must not come between him and the work to which the Lord had called him.

It was a time of trial to them both. They had spent hours in prayer, anxiously seeking to learn what God would have them do, striving to bring their minds into sweet acquiescence with the will of heaven, though that will should sunder ties dearer than those that bound them to life. At last the decision was reached. They would part. Mary Lentley would yield to her parents' wishes and devote her life to them, and Richardson would give her up and go to the foreign field. God would approve the sacrifice and give them strength to make it, and sustain them by his grace through years of loneliness and sorrow. They would be true to each other, though oceans were between them, and meet again in a brighter world where parting is unknown.

Having arrived at this conclusion, and looking fervently to heaven for help, Mary felt that she had done right and God would keep her. She thought she had given up all, and was now Christ's only; and when Commencement day approached she resolved without hesitation to attend, and listen to the valedictory of her

still loved Charles. But she knew not her own heart, nor the strength of the ties that bound her to one whom she had surrendered. And never till his words of farewell fell on her ears, and the tide of sympathy that swelled in the assembly overwhelmed her soul, never till she heard him in broken accents speaking of seeing those scenes, those friends no more, never till that moment, had the reality of her sacrifice risen in full strength before her mind; and no wonder that her delicate frame sunk under the crushing thought.

Charles lingered near her for some days, until her mind regained its self-possession, and as the native energy of her soul, strengthened by deep devotion, returned to her support, she reexamined the subject and again decided that they must part. He acquiesced, though not until he had exhausted every argument and added sweet entreaties, but in vain. Duty, she said, calls you to go and me to stay.

Richardson had yet a course of study to pursue in preparation for the missionary work, and two or three years must be spent in this pursuit at a distance from Mary Lentley. As the point was now settled that Mary was not to be his companion, and as none beyond the immediate circle of friends were acquainted with the facts which we have just related, it was an obvious dictate of propriety on the part of both of them to appear as if these things had not been. Time, it was said, would restore to the broken spirit of Mary its wonted elasticity; grace would heal the wound her young heart had received, and she would be happy and useful among the friends who could not spare her for the heathen.

She knew better, but murmured not. "God's will be done," she whispered in secret into the ear of Him who comforts those who mourn, and in the loneliness of her desertion she felt that she should never find happiness, till she found it in heaven.

When his course of study was completed, Richardson yielded to the advice of his friends, and found another to whom he was united, who should be his companion in the labors of missionary life, and a useful helper in the great field to which he was destined. But was his heart in this new relation, or was it away in the valley of Berkshire, with his early love?

A few years roll by. Under the burning sun of India and breathing an air that has been fatal to many of the noblest sons and fairest daughters of the American church, Richardson toiled with the ardor of genius fired by the strongest love

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of Christ and the souls of perishing men. shade of melancholy had settled on his spirit, but this was not to be wondered at; and he labored silently and zealously, striving to win the wandering to the Saviour of sinners.

His wife sickened, and languished, and died— leaving him alone in a land that never appeared to him so much like the region and shadow of death, as now that his companion was taken from him, and his own health soon gave way. He struggled against the increasing conviction that he ought to return to the land of his fathers, and gather strength in the pure air of his native hills; and there was something in his heart that assured him he would be happier if one still dear to him might yet be permitted to join him in his life of self-denial for Christ.

Again he is on the deep with his face toward his native land. He reaches it after an absence of four long years, and makes his way with all haste to the spot where he left his heart when he went to the heathen. The rural home of Mary Lentley is in sight. Quiet and lonely as when he last left it with a sad heart; the same flowers were blooming at the door, and the same sun was shining cheerfully above it, but Mary was not there.

After Richardson went abroad Mary quietly set herself to the more diligent service of her master, in the Sabbath school, and in the abodes of sorrow and sickness; like an angel of mercy seeking to chase away sadness from others' hearts, while it was but too evident that the canker was at work at her own. Her parents saw with grief the gradual progress of disease, her wasting strength, her fading cheek and the sure presages of the approach of evil; they could not conceal from themselves the cause. But it was too late to find a remedy. In the weakness of parental fondness they had crossed her hopes, and the blight that had fallen on her prospects settled on her soul. Month after month she trod her path of silent usefulness, cheerful when cheerfulness made others blest, but again relapsing into deeper gloom when the motive was withdrawn. And thus, without making her grief the subject of mention even among those most dear, she sunk into the grave.

That grave had been made a year when Richardson found it in the village church-yard, and wept over the ashes of one whom he had loved so tenderly in the days of his youth. Better would it have been for him and better doubtless for the poor heathen, had Mary Lentley been allowed to foliow the impulses of her own heart, and to share the trials of the mis

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sionary life with one whose love would have made a wilderness a paradise for her. But it might not have been better for Mary Lentley. She was early taken home. She gave her heart to Christ in the morning of life, and early was she called to his bosom. Her memory still lives in the hearts of those who knew her, and when I was last in the valley that was her birthplace and burial-place, the simple story was told me, and I brought away a few flowers that withered soon, like her from whose grave I gathered them.

It has often been said that there is much romance about modern missions. But I would that every man, who forsakes his parents, and sisters, and country, and goes to the far heathen, might have one to keep him company, to whom he has been bound by the tenderest ties of youthful love, who will more than make up all that he has left behind, as his trials are sweetened by the joys of domestic bliss. It is bad philosophy as well as miserable religion that thinks it good for man to be alone.

SATURDAY NIGHT.

BY MRS. M. L. GARDINER.

EVE of that holy day, when from his works
The Lord Jehovah rested! Oh, how calm,

How still, how emblematic of that hour,

When in his own immensity enthroned,

Systems, and suns, and waters broad and deep,

Earth, with her mountains, valleys, hills, and man

Unsullied by one sin, surpassing fair,

Lay out before his all-pervading eye,

Perfect, complete, and beautiful and "good."

How holy, and how tranquil is this hour!
The world shut out, each baser sense withdrawn,
Thus sweetly resting from all earthly care,

How good is God!

From every vexing and distracting thought.
How tenderly he deals
With all his children! Now he gives to man
Repose and rest. Exhausted nature, tired,
Wearied, oppressed-hails joyfully this hour,
The earnest of a day of holier hours.

Eve of God's holy day, when promises,

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Like leaves from off the Tree of Life,' are seen
Falling around, imparting joy and peace;
Healing the sin-sick soul with glimpses sweet

Of Canaan's fair and unbeclouded skies.

The eve for secret prayer, when Faith draws back

The curtain that conceals a brighter day;

The eve when Hope comes garlanded with flowers,
Anticipating holier, happier years;

When holy Love sheds gracious influence round,
Soothing the spirit with her balmy breath.

Faith, Hope, and Love; sweet guests, Heaven's angels

Sent to earth to guide, to cheer, to elevate
Frail beings of a day, glimmering awhile
Like insects in the sun; careering swift

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