has traced its lineaments of peace and bliss; or that sudden whisper of
a gentle, child-like voice, now and then heard by the ear of fancy,
persuading you to be a Christian. Do not let the world, or shame, or
procrastination, lead you to resist such efforts of almighty love to
save you. He who has had a child saved by Christ, and will not be
himself a Christian,--what more can God do to save him?

The breaking up of our homes is one of the mysteries of God's
providence. The last thing, perhaps, which we might suppose would be
allowed, is, the removal of a mother from a family of young children.
This being so frequent, we cease to wonder at any other dispensations;
we conclude that separations are to be made, regardless of any and every
seeming necessity and endearment. "Sirs, I perceive that this voyage
will be with hurt and much damage, not only of the lading and ship, but
also of our lives." The conviction is forced upon us that there is
another world, for which we must make all our calculations. "There is a
better world," said the distinguished William Wirt, after the death of
his daughter, in 1831,--"there is a better world, of which I have
thought too little. To that world she has gone, and thither my
affections have followed her. This was Heaven's design. I see and feel
it as distinctly as if an angel had revealed it. I often imagine that I
can see her beckoning me to the happy world to which she has gone. She
was my companion, my office companion, my librarian, my clerk. My papers
now bear her indorsement. She pursued her studies in my office, by my
side, sat with me, walked with me, was my inexpressibly sweet and
inseparable companion,--never left me but to go and sit with her mother.
We knew all her intelligence, all her pure and delicate sensibility, the
quickness and power of her perceptions, her seraphic love. She was all
love, and loved all God's creation, even the animals, trees, and plants.
She loved her God and Saviour with an angel's love, and died like a