regard to his sins. And there is nothing strange in the fact that God should use the imagination whether of sleeping or of waking men, to accomplish His own designs of mercy. Poor Walker had evidently fled for refuge to Christ. He had sought by faith to realize his acceptance with God, and, believing in Jesus, and trusting to His merits and righteousness alone, he found peace. And it was refreshing indeed now to visit him. His experience ripened daily. A cold he caught at this time again laid him upon a bed of sickness. It was to be his death-bed. But the joy and peace which he now possessed were such that every day seemed to bring him fresh evidence of his Saviour's love. Now nothing but praise was on his lips. A short time only elapsed to bring him to his end. His life journey, he said, had had a sorry beginning; but as he drew near to his end, all was peace and satisfaction. He had nothing in himself but sin, but rested all his hopes in the death and righteousness of Jesus. That lowly bed-chamber was truly the gate of heaven. And as he came nearer to his dying day, his hopes brightened, his joy increased, and his faith seemed almost to be lost in sight. It was with a song of praise to the Saviour that his happy spirit took its flight. "Hallelujah to the Lambhallelujah, Amen!" were the last words he spoke on earth. And so he died. PORTRAIT OF MRS. LYMAN BEECHER, IN A LETTER BY HER DAUGHTER, MRS. BEECHER STOWE. MY DEAR BROTHER,-I was between three and four years of age when our mother died, and my own personal recollections of her are therefore but few. But the deep interest and veneration that she inspired, in all who knew her, was such that during all my childhood I was constantly hearing her spoken of, and from one friend or another, some incident or anecdote of her life, was constantly being impressed on me. Mother was one of those strong, restful, yet widely sympathetic natures, in whom all around seemed to find comfort and repose. The communion between her and my father was a peculiar one- -it was an intimacy throughout the whole range of their being. There was no human mind in whose decisions he had greater confidence. Both intellectually and morally he regarded her as the better and stronger portion of himself, and I remember hearing him say, that after her death his first sensation was one of terror, like that of a child suddenly shut out alone in the dark. Her death occurred in a time when the New England ministry were in a peculiar crisis of political and moral trial, and the need of such a stay and support in his household was more than ever felt. He told me that at this time, he was so oppressed by the constant turning toward her of thoughts and feelings, which he had been in the habit of speaking to her, that, merely to relieve himself, he once sat down and wrote to her a letter, in which he poured out all his soul. I asked him whether he had any reason to believe that the spirits of the blessed are ever permited to minister to us in our earthly sorrows, and he said, after a moment of deep thought, "I never but once had anything like it. It was a time of great trial and obloquy, and I had been visiting around in my parish, and heard many things here and there that distressed me. I came home to my house almost over whelmed; it seemed as if I must sink under it. I went to sleep in the north bedroom, the room where your mother died. I dreamt that I heard voices and footsteps in the next room, and that I knew immediately that Roxana and Mary Hubbard were coming to see me. The door opened, and Mary stayed without, but your mother came in, and came towards me. She did not speak, but she smiled on me a smile of heaven, and with that smile all my sorrow passed away. I awoke joyful, and was light-hearted for weeks after." In my own early childhood only two incidents relating to her twinkle like rays through the darkness. One was of our all running and dancing out before her from the nursery to the sitting room one Sabbath morning, and her pleasant voice saying after us, Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy." makes me very sorry; those were not onion roots, but roots of beautifuld flowers, and if you had let them alone, I Ma would have had next summer in the garden great beautiful red and yelu! low flowers, such as you never saw." I remember how drooping and dispirited we all grew at this picture, and how sadly we regarded the empty paper bag. Then I have a recollection of her reading to the children one evening I aloud Miss Edgeworth's "Frank," which had just come out, I believe, and was exciting a good deal of attention among the educational circles of Litchfield. After that, I remember a time when every one said she was sick; when, if I went into the street, every one asked me how my mother was; when I saw the shelves of the closets crowded with delicacies which had been sent in for her; and how I used to be permitted to go once a day into her room, where she sat bolstered up in bed taking her gruel. I have a vision of a very fair face, with a bright red spot on each cheek, and a quiet smile, as she offered me a spoonful of her gruel; of our dreaming one night, we little ones, that mamma had got well, and waking in loud transports of joy, and being hushed down by some one coming into the room. Our dream was indeed a true one. She was for ever well; but they told us she was dead, and took us in to see what seemed so cold and so unlike anything we had ever seen or known of her. Another remembrance is this: Mother was an enthusiastic horticulturalist in all the small ways that limited means allowed. Her brother John, in New York, had just sent her a small parcel of fine tulip bulbs. I remember rummaging these out of an obscure corner of the nursery one day when she was gone out, and being strongly seized with the idea that they were good to eat, and using all the little English I then possessed to persuade my brothers that they were onions, such as grown people ate, and would be very nice for us. So we fell to, and devoured the whole, and Then came the funeral. Henry was I recollect being somewhat disappointed too little to go. I remember his golden in the odd sweetish taste, and thinking curls and little black frock, as he fro that onions were not so nice as I had licked like a kitten in the sun, in ignosupposed. Then mother's serene face rant joy. I remember the mourning appeared at the nursery door, and we dresses, the tears of the older children, all ran towards her, and with one voice the walking to the burial ground, and began to tell our discovery and achieve- somebody's speaking at the grave, and ment. We had found this bag of onions, the audible sobbing of the family; and and had eaten them all up. Also I then all was closed, and we little ones, remember that there was not even a to whom it was so confused, asked the momentary expression of impatience, question where she was gone, and but that she sat down and said, "My would she never come back? They dear children, what you have done told us at one time that she had been ་་་ than the living presence of many mothers. It was a memory that met us everywhere, for every person in the town from the highest to the lowest, seemed to have been so impressed by. her character and life, that they constantly reflected some portion of it back upon us, 1 T Even our portly old black washerwoman, Candace, who came once a week to help off the great family wash, would draw us. aside, and, with tears in her eyes, tell us of the saintly virtues of our mother. Her feelings were sometimes expressed in a manner that was really touching. I recollect one time her coming to wash when the family were assembled for prayers in the next room, and I for some reason had lingered in the kitchen. She drew me towards her, and held me quite still till the exercises were over, and then she kissed my hand, and I felt her tears drop upon it. There was something about her feeling that struck me with awe. She scarcely spoke a word, but gave me to understand that she was paying that tribute to my mother's memory. " Guilford, where her early days were passed, I used to find myself treated with a tenderness almost amounting to veneration, by those who had known her. I recollect, too, that at first the house was full of little works of ingenuity and taste and skill, which had been wrought by her hands furniture adorned with painting; pictures of birds and flowers, done with minutest skill; fine embroidery, with every variety of lace and cobweb stitch; exquisite needlework, which has almost passed out of memory in our day. I remember the bobbin and pillows, with which she made black lace. Many little anecdotes, were told me among her friends, of her ceaseless activity, and contrivance in these respects. One thing in her personal appearance every one spoke of that she never spoke in company or before strangers without blushing. She was of such great natural sensitiveness, and even timidity, that in some respects she never could conform to the standard of what was expected of a pastor's wife. In the weekly female prayer meetings she could never lead the devotions. Yet it was not known that anybody ever expressed criticism or censure on this account. It somehow seemed to be felt that her silent presence had more power than the audible exercises of another... Such impression has been given me by those who have spoken of this peculiarity. There was one passage of Scripture always associated with her in our minds in childhood; it was this: Ye are come unto Mount Zion, the city of the living God, to the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels; to the general assembly and church of the first-born, and to the spirits of just men made perfect." We all knew that this was what our father repeated to her when she was dying, and we often repeated it to each other. It was that we felt we must attain, though we scarcely knew how. In every scene of family joy or sor row, or when father wished to make an appeal to our hearts which he knew we could not resist, he spoke of mother. I remember still the solemn impression produced on my mind when I was only about eight years old. I had been violently seized with malignant scarlet fever, and lain all day insensible, and father was in an agony of apprehension for my life. I remember waking up just as the beams of the setting sun were shining into the window, and hearing his voice in prayer by my bedside, and of his speaking of "her blessed mother who is a saint in heaven," and wondering in my heart what that solemn appeal might mean... ام I think it will be the testimony of all rini note, vbast 5 y prontaloni blew out A boim mo olqooq ditstopy vi. her sons, that her image stood between them and the temptations of youth, as a sacred shield; that the hope of meeting her in heaven has sometimes been the last strand, which did not part in hours | of fierce temptation; and that the remembrance of her holy life and death. was a solemn witness of the truth of religion, which repelled every assault of scepticism, and drew back the soul from every wandering to the faith in which she lived and died. The passage in "Uncle Tom," where Augustine St. Clair describes his mo ther's influence, is a simple reproduc tion of this mother's influence, as it has always been in her family. SIT Bit DR. MULLENS ON OUR MISSIONS TO CHINA.DEVIAG Missionary We have before us a "Report on the China Mission of the Londecent visit to Society" by Dr. Mullens, founded on personal observations during his China The great majority of our readers can have no access to it in its present form, and will, we are assured, welcome in these pages the following extracts from it, CHINA is a beautiful country. Its provinces are not only vast, widespread, and occupied by a teeming population, but to the careful observer, they exhibit many distinctive forms of beauty. The tropical parts of the China Sea are in colour a brilliant sapphire, and as a vessel speeds on her course, the irritation of the tiny medusa covers the surface of the waters with broad patches and long trails of golden light. Exposed to treacherous storms-the terrific typhoons—the care of God has provided the coast with a series of bays and quiet anchorages, into which the watchful sailor may run for shelter. The seaboard, for eight hundred miles, is a line of charming hills, which throw into the waters, from 1 " and pears, and abundance of delicious grapes. All round the west and south vast mountains enclose the empire, whose hollows are filled with glaciers which no foot has trodden, and whose summits are covered with perpetual snow. The provinces desolated by the rebels have undoubtedly lost an enormous number of their inhabitants; walled cities have been emptied, and hundreds of villages have been razed to the ground. But still the people cover the land; produce rises from the soil; the cities * *Y Bite are again being filled with busy 1 which has upheld the people for centuries, is in a state of decay. Confucianism has made them intensely conservative, intensely selfsufficient. But it is wearing away, and, in the presence of the active thought and active life of the great outer world, they strive in vain to cling to the old quietism of by-gone ages. Materially active and enterprising, the Chinese give their whole souls to the pursuits of this world; they think only of buying," selling, and getting again. Real 1 ཝཱ truth, the fear of God, the love of their fellows, the happiness of a ( future life, rarely enter their minds. A more worldly, idolatrous, and really ignorant people can scarcely be found in the world. The Gospel alone will give them: [trülé education, true liberty, true life, by? giving them sound faith, and a hope that maketh not asham Still, therefore, do they constitute the largest single field of missionary labour, and still do they present to the Church of Christ one of the most pressing and powerful claims toog which its attention has been drawn. yodł sit to stung Leviqort adT B H. THE STATIONS OF THE LONDON MISSIONARY SOCIETY. avolley bit 1 Jusod to WHYTE B92 said) 26 bon‚ovidy grz ten the Society has planted mission-ro ary y stations in seven cities, and all who appreciate their high position and influence in the empire must allow that choice has been in every id lat the respect admirably made f Hong Kong is the head-quarters,‚ of [{ · the English Government in China, and is an English possession. With its lofty hills, its green valleys, and capacious land-locked bay, it is a place of great beauty. Its English, houses, built of stone upon a steep |