freshening from the Isle of Bourbon. Midnight has arrived and gone again ;—and, at thy accustomed hour of prayer, thy body is cold in death. Translated from the

threshold of India to the kingdom of heaven, without sickness, at the holy hour of intercession, how great the change from prayer to everlasting praises!

A ship was seen bearing up against the obstinate winds of the great Indian ocean. It moved without proclamation, or shout, or defiance-bowing like a reed before the monsoon and glancing through the permitting waves like a peaceful swan. There were on board that ship two hearts united by the tenderest love-he, the missionary and minister of Jesus Christ-she, the lovely vine clinging to the oak for human support while she lifts up her rich, red clusters to heaven. One in Jesus

-one in the glorious purpose of preaching the gospel to the heathen-one in the sacred- union of souls-in the mingling of pure affections; happy pair! how shall the heavens glow with eternal beauty over your heads to shelter you from the scorchings of India's fierce haired sun-and how shall the balmy winds breathe health over the waste that these lovely pioneers of American benevolence to heathen India may long breathe the vital air, and go on together to life's far distant verge, loving the miserable more and more as their own love towards each other gains new strength at every successive stage of their Christlike career! ***** But why the tumult of baffling winds? The coast of India, gained and lost, and gained and lost again, is like the tantalizing stream, that, fabulous, flies away from the thirsty lip.

The vessel, like a sea bird, on ruffled wing, scours along under the angry brow of the tempest. Why does gloom gather on the good man's brow? Why sits he pale and disconsolate-disturbed and agonizing, by the bed-side of his companion all the live long night-and why watch out the day? Shall she die-away from the land of her fathers-away from every tender tie save her husband and her God-even before the great work, for which she lived, for which she had renounced country and friends, had been commenced? Prepare thyself for bitterness, thou pale watcher; for thou art, all lonely and sorrowful, by the dying bed of that devoted being whose heart, though breaking up in death, still clings to thee. Thou art the only witness of those last looks which reveal thoughts of impassioned fervor-far wandering ones that travel life over in a twinkling of time, recalling every tender thought, every endearing word. She steps alone into eternity, pointing with her farewell gesture to idolatrous India. In the spicy isle of the Indian ocean a column of marble bears this plaintive tale-and bears the name of Harriet Newell.

A traveller on his horse was toiling beneath the sun of Georgia. He had overpassed the sands. The broken hills, the forests, the rude wigwam, the dark scowls of Indian suspicion rose on his view, like the phantasms of a hideous dream. He meekly spoke to those who had rarely known the white man, save in battle or treacheryhe spoke to them tenderly of Jesus-he told them how his Saviour and their Saviour had died for them, and how, like his Saviour, he was willing to lay down his

life for them if they would only love his Lord. Surprised and overpowered to tears by such language from a white man, the unbending sternness of the savage character began to soften into the mellowness and glow of christian love. This traveller loved these benighted Indians unto death. He laid himself down on their blanket-and they saw, with broken and adoring hearts, how a good mana lamented missionary could die.

THE SACRAMENTAL FEAST.

I eat the white memorial bread,

I drink the Sacramental cup-
My thoughts the passion mountain tread
Where Jesus gave his spirit up.

'Twas night-the doves of dewy heaven
With drooping, evening wings at rest,—
Brief calm before the tempest given,-
Were rustling in their downy nest.

Then came in shadows, gloom and fear,
In blood, in tearfulness, in death,
The traitor-cross-the gory spear-
The sigh-the groan-the parting breath.

But-onward-o'er the crimson hill,

Ripe harvests of the earth are spread—

Bright crowns of life the vision fill,
For Jesus sleeps not with the dead.

RELIGION OF ANCIENT MEXICO.

THE attention of the world has been so frequently directed to the idolatrous systems of India, that the stupendous structure of Mexican idolatry, as it existed at the time of the Spanish invasion, is rarely mentioned, and scarcely retains any hold on the memory of man. The sources from which we compile the following brief historical sketch, are the Letter from Cortez to the King of Spain on the conquest of Mexico, and the History of Bernal Diaz, an eye-witness of what he describes.

At the time of the invasion, Mexico, at the very summit of earthly prosperity, sustained her tenth king, Montezuma-a monarch inheriting many noble qualities of mind and gentleness of disposition united to warlike energies. The form of government was monarchical, but not hereditary, and the police of the empire was a most skilful and politic combination of well-balanced powers and checks, producing the firmest consolidation of interests. Indeed, the reflecting mind can scarcely reconcile the horrid cruelty of their bloody religion with the harmony, and, in many respects, equitable frame of their government. Architectural grandeur, and the towers of temple, fortress, palace and tomb, gave ancient Mexico, seated in the midst of her quiet lake, the appearance which may be supposed to have belonged to Tyre, once the queen of cities, as she smiled in beautiful sublimity over the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Well might the Spaniards pause in wonder as their column of battle, like a cloud slumbering a moment on

the brow of the stupendous mountain environs, came in full view of this magnificent city. The market sent out the roar of business to the hills louder than that of Constantinople or of the Eternal city-and the unlooked for, and, as yet, undescribed grandeur of the palaces and temples was calculated to make the deepest impression on a foreign mind.

The chief temple of their religion occupied as much ground as a town capable of sustaining five hundred inhabitants. It was, indeed, garrisoned by ten thousand men, the body guard of the sovereign. Surrounded by high walls, with four massive gates, it threw up to a great altitude more than twenty towers or pyramids, each one surmounted by an idol. At a little distance from this temple stood a tower, a true emblem of hell, its vast door resembling the opened mouth of an enormous monster, filled with demon and serpent forms of terrible size. It was a place of human sacrifice, covered continually with blood.

In the larger temple were two altars highly adorned, and over them the gigantic figures of their war god, Huitzilopuchtli, and his brother, Tezcalepuca, the god of the infernal regions. The first had a great face, terrible eyes, was covered with gold and jewels, had a necklace of gold and silver wrought into the figures of human heads and hearts ornamented with precious stones of a blue color, and his huge body was bound with golden serpents; the other had the countenance of a bear with great shining eyes, and an equal profusion of gold and jewels wrought into, if possible, a more diabolic assemblage of infernal imagery. Before the first of these