lished; but much more, he felt it to be essential to the Church's freedom and purity, and to her conformity to the divine will, that her government and discipline should be internal; that Christ's people and ministers should be at liberty to execute all his laws; and that their interpretation of those laws should not be settled by act of Parliament, and adjusted to meet the policy of earthly statesmen, but by their own consciences exercised in responsibility to himself alone. It was this view of it that made the day of Disruption memorable in the estimation of Mr. Macdonald: and the results of the testimony given that day, destined as they are to influence other Churches, distant countries, and future ages, will render the Disruption of the Scottish Church memorable and illustrious in the history of the world.

When the intelligence of the Disruption reached Calcutta, Mr. Macdonald, along with all his Scottish missionary brethren, joined the Free Church. Some members of the Established Church of Scotland seceded with them; and it became necessary to provide a regular ministry, till a pastor could be secured from Scotland. Mr. Macdonald, having had previous experience in the charge of a congregation, was requested temporarily to act as minister of the flock. Their first meeting was on Sabbath the 13th of August 1843, in Freemasons' Hall, of which the use was at first granted them, but from which, before long, they were ejected. The first sermon was preached by Dr. Duff in the morning; the second by Mr. Macdonald, whose text was, "Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them." After the service, he baptized a native convert, Lal Behari Sing (now a catechist of the Free Church); and it was a singular coincidence, and probably de. signed in the good providence of God to encourage his faithful servants, that this first convert of the Free Church had himself been compelled to make sacrifices for the truth, by resigning, prior to his baptism, a good situation, and foregoing excellent prospects, in a Government school.

donald should be their permanent pastor, nor was any call sent to Scotland till his determination to continue in his missionary work had been privately but sufficiently ascertained. Even during the time he acted as minister of the flock, he maintained as far as possible, and almost to as great an extent as before, the discharge of his important duties in the Free Church Institution. He drew only his salary as a missionary, and would receive nothing from the congregation. But when his labours among them ceased, they felt that whatever his feelings might be as to receiving of their carnal things, they had certain debts to him, which it became them to discharge. To this subject we should not allude, partaking as it does in a great degree of a private character, but it has already come to light through the press. With a man like Mr. Macdonald, whose professions were ever sincere, and whose resolutions were seldom changed, it was useless to deal as with one who could be tempted and persuaded to accept what he had previously deliberately declined. It became necessary, therefore, so to carry out the design of testifying the people's regard for him, as to render any gift they could offer a tribute of their affection, without being at the same time open to any of his objections as a payment for setvices, for which, he considered, the mission committee, in effect, had paid already.

The first intimation which Mr. or Mrs. Macdonald received of the design, was a letter informing the latter that it had been accomplished, and that the sum of 5,000 rupees was lying in the Bank of Bengal subject to her order. The whole proceeding, by the spirit in which it was conceived and effected, deeply moved his feelings, and its entire unexpectedness overcame him at the first, in a way that was not usual with one who was generally so calm and self-possessed.

On the arrival of Mr. Mackail, Mr. Macdonald preached the sermon at his induction as pastor of the Free Church congregation. His text was, "How shall not the ministration of the Spirit be rather glorious?" It was followed by an address to the new minister and the congregation. Both have since been published together, and they form the last publication he sent from the press.

It had been the earnest desire of many of the Free Church congregation that Mr. Mac

He

worked unostentatiously; but his weight was felt, for "the words of the wise are heard in quiet." He became as faithful a hearer as he had been a pastor; and none of the congrega

tion, on Sabbath days or week-day evenings, more loved the gates of Zion, or more delighted in the public worship of the sanctuary. He rejoiced in the ministrations and the prospects of usefulness of his successor, and was ever his ready counsellor and his cordial friend, prepared to assist and to encourage him. He preserved, too, the tone of his personal piety-that essential element of usefulness, which so many have so miserably neglected under the languor they have experienced, or amidst the multi tude of labours they have undertaken in this trying land. He felt as Henry Martyn did, that nothing but constant activity and continuing instant in prayer could keep him breathing; and with him he dreaded the preference of work for God, to communion with him. Thus in much watchfulness he fulfilled his course. As a follower of them who through faith and patience now inherit the promises, he looked to the end of their conversation, even Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; as a stranger and pilgrim on the earth, he kept himself unspotted from the world; as a good soldier, he endured hardness," "as a labourer," he patiently "accomplished his day." Nor did he live and work in vain. "The righteous, and the wise, and their works, are in the hand of God." (Eccles. ix. 1.)

(To be continued.)

NOTES OF A VOYAGE. (From Arthur's Mission to the Mysore.)

MARINE SCENERY.

THE marine scenery of the tropics exceeded in splendour and variety all my anticipations. During the day the sky formed a superb dome of stainless and polished azure; while, lighted from above by its one magnificent lamp, it constituted an object passing beyond the beautiful to the highest order of the sublime. At evening those two features of scenery were displayed in a combination scarcely attainable in any other field of nature. As the sun sank to the ocean, heavy clouds gathered about him, like horrors round a death-bed. But as the soul that is departing in faith makes pain, feebleness, and poverty but the means of more fully displaying its graces; so the setting sun made each cloud a prism whereby to analyze his golden light and exhibit its variety of hue. The whole hemisphere glowed with indescribable beauty. All round the horizon islets of gold were floating on the bright blue surface of the 66 ocean hung on high;" while, in the west, the assemblage of gorgeous forms and dazzling tints was such as to produce a bewildering ecstasy. The prevailing hues were burnished gold and the pure prismatic red; but all the primitive colours were present, and formed themselves into combinations 80 lovely and so various, as equally to outstrip the Vocabulary and delight the eye: the "pale translucent green" of Bishop Heber was one of the most pleasing; while the blue, now combining with the red, now displaying its own brightest tints, exhibited every variety, from the deep purple of the pansy to the lightsome blue of an infant's eye. On the craggy sides of many a mountain cloud were pencilled, with inconceivable effect, every hue that is delicate or

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brilliant, till the impoverished expression is glad to escape the difficulty of specifying by the aid of Mrs. Hemans' adroit summary, "the rich hues of all glorious things."

A SABBATH EVENING.

I particularly remember, and shall never forget, one Sabbath night in those glowing latitudes. On gaining the deck, after our usual evening service, the scene which met our eye was not calculated to

dissipate, but to renew, the feelings of devotion. It tropical sea, when the moon and stars seem so bright, was one of those nights to be witnessed only on a so large, so near, as almost to make you think you are looking on other things. Orion was stretching his giant frame across the mid heaven, his "studded the west Venus flung a long stream of silver light, belt" seeming newly set with richer gems. From which danced on the wavelets of the peaceful sea. In the extreme north hovered the Great Bear, at once the memento of past scenes and the ornament of the present. A few degrees above the opposite horizon shone the four bright stars of the Southern Cross. Marshalled under these leaders the celestial host thronged in countless multitude around their abroad, as the white banner of their peaceful march. peerless queen; and the Milky Way was spread That host was sublime from its very numbers; and the impression became overwhelming by the thought that, though the least of them all was a sun, and the nearest at a distance too great to be measured even by the giant hand of modern science,* yet all were made, sustained, scrutinized, and ruled by the great Being, whose presence at our lowly devotions had been shedding such sweetness on our souls. We felt it was a time to worship. The temple was not to be sought. One of God's own rearing was encircling us, and "reason's ear" heard, from the spheres suspended in its dome, a silvery chime, summoning us to praise and prayer.

A MISSIONARY'S EMPLOYMENTS.

а

The regularity of hours, and absence of all temptation to wander, make a ship not disadvantageous for study. Having learned a little of the Canarese grammar before sailing, and being furnished with M'Kerrell's Grammar, Reeve's Dictionary, and a copy of St. Luke's Gospel, I was able to occupy myself with the language in which it would be my duty to preach. The want of capital letters, of divisions between the words, and of stops, makes the rudiments of Canarese perplexing, without a living tutor. From the commencement of a paragraph to its close there is no space between any two letters; so that you can no more tell, by the eye, where one word or sentence ends and another begins, than you can tell, on a railway, when you change counties. To be told that this custom obtains in the old Greek manuscripts may satisfy the student of its antiquity, but even that does not make him feel it to be convenient. Mr. Pope, my companion in the same cabin, was occupied with the acquisition of Tamil; being able to render each other any considerable asand day and night we toiled side by side, without sistance. Like other students, we had often to pursue knowledge under difficulties. Being young sailors, we did not know how to provide ourselves with the articles necessary to make a small cabin serve conveniently the double purposes of bed-room and study. One item of furniture, though not

"A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day," served me for nightly repose and daily employment;

*The successes of Bessel and Henderson were not then known.

taking, in the latter case, the office of a sofa. Table I had none; so, seated on my couch, with Reeve's ponderous quarto of nearly fifteen hundred pages on my knees, my feet raised upon the rail of a chair, the Grammar by my side, the Gospel in my hand, and my sea-lamp hanging overhead, many a long hour did I spend in conquering the difficulties of our Lord's parable of the Prodigal Son. All went on pleasantly enough when the ship was steady; but when she laboured, it was no easy matter to preserve an equilibrium. What with the jolting of the books, the violent swinging of the lamp, and the effort to hold on, one was obliged to read by snatches, like boys in a class. Occasionally a violent pitch would dash chair, books, student, and all, to one side or other of the cabin; while the effort to regain our former arrangement would be twice or thrice foiled by similar catastrophies, before it could be accomplished. These difficulties may look formidable to one who has never passed beyond the threshold of comfort; but they are nothing in reality. He that has an object in view so exciting as the acquisition of ability to preach Christ to the heathen, plods along without one thought of weariness or inconvenience; loving to tread the rough furrows, because he sees them strewn with the promise of many a sheaf. The drudgery of conquering rudimental difficulties was enlivened by reading the works or memoirs of those who, under greater disadvantages and fewer encouragements, had trodden the same path, and attained noble results. The young missionary derives from the records of such heroes as Zeigenbalg, Carey, Swartz, and Martyn, the same excitement to lofty aims and giant toils which the noble Romans attributed to the statues of their ancestry. Their example kindles an intense flame. His heart burns to live as they lived; the remnants of worldly feeling are discovered in their lurking-places, and warmed away; while the fused affections are cast into form in the apostolic mould.

A STORM, AND ITS LESSON.

I could not help comparing the storm, when at its height, with the anticipations raised in my mind by descriptions of that spectacle. In almost every case you are told of mountain-waves, and that you cannot conceive the terrors of the scene. Now, the fact is, you find no wave anything like a mountain; and, most probably, you have carried your conceptions to a pitch by which the reality loses much of its effect. While you remain below, the roaring of the wind and the rush of the sea make the voice of the storm fearfully impressive; and to look at the waves from the narrow cabin windows, you are obliged to assign their height by imagination, for you cannot by the eye. It is here, where you feel the shock, and listen to the roar of the tempest, without being able to watch its movements, that the impression is most appalling. The ship pitches, writhes, and trembles beneath you, every joint in her giant frame groaning doleful complaints against the violence with which she is assailed. The howling of the wind, the rush of the seas making a highway of the deck, the moaning of the ship, sound like the shock of the onset, the struggle of contending feet, and the cries of the wounded.

On deck the scene is truly grand. The sky is black, rugged, and shifting; the wind terrible, with its alternate gust, "seugh," and lull; the sea heaped up into a ridge of low hills on either side. The ship lies wriggling in the dale, like a winter tree, the masts stripped of all their clothing, the storm staysail being the only stitch of canvass set. A billow is rushing forward, with its white crest shaking like a lion's mane. Nearing the bow, it looks so lofty,

that she must be overwhelmed; but with mingled delight and apprehension, you see her rear herself upon its base; then rapidly mounting, till the sum. mit is gained, she dashes forward, as if rejoicing in her escape. At that moment a cross sea strikes on the weather-bow with a dull sound, like the stroke of a battering-ram: the noble bark shudders like a child in a thunder-clap; and while you are quivering by sympathy, a fierce surge careers along the deck, making your firmest grasp needful to prevent being borne away. When you emerge, the ship is reeling on the top of another wave, as if to shake off the moisture of her last immersion; and just as this passes from under her, it strikes fiercely on the counter, in seeming anger at being foiled in its assault. While staggering from the effect of this afterblow, a broken sea, like an ambush attacking in flank, dashes suddenly upon the weather-beam. Instantly the top-masts seem nearly touching the water; the firmest hold of rope or bulwark can scarcely save you from sliding down the almost vertical deck; it seems impossible the ship can right. Volumes of wa er rushing over you confirm the impression that the moment of danger is come; but a counter swing restores you to your footing, and shows the bow plunging bravely into another billow.

The whole scene is sufficiently awful; and if one but give way to fear or fancy, it must be easy enough to make the waves mountains, the gusts artillery, and to crowd the picture with gigantic forms of horror. The lesson of a storm is one of humility. Each cloud may be the engine of destruction; you caunot bid it burst elsewhere. Each blast may bring the additional strength necessary to crush you; you cannot divert its course. Each sea may capsize or overwhelm your ark; you cannot lighten its stroke by a single drop. Surrounded by agents all potent to destroy, there is not one on which your skill can work the least amelioration. The sky, the wind, the wave, are eloquent with the announcement-"God is all in all." You can do nought but meekly crave his compassion, or mutely await his will. And when the danger is past, man has had no hand in averting it. It came upon you, pressed you on every side, brought you to your "wit's end," showed human help to be vanity, and then disappeared. You are safe again; that safety is sealed with the hand of God, and attests itself his own gift. You see his agency through no obstructive instrument; you have been dealing directly with your Maker. Therefore "being glad, because they are quiet, they praise the Lord for his goodness.”

A DEATH AND FUNERAL.

While sailing in this beautiful region (Madeira), a soldier became dangerously ill. To afford him more air he was carried on deck, where it formed a strange contrast to the ordinary gloom of a sick chamber, to see the bright sunbeams dancing not only on every object round the poor invalid, but on the very features which death was blanching. He had been a man of good character, much respected among his comrades, and manifested deep feeling when spoken to on his religious state. His prayers for mercy were fervent and touching; and, offering those prayers, he died. This called us to witness that scene which is always, described as so melancholy-a funeral at sea. It is certainly affecting-affecting from its solemnity, and still more so from the contrast it presents to all who have been wont to witness. You have death without any of those attendant forms with which it seems so naturally to harmonize. There is no sable bier; no dark train moving slowly on a sad errand; no passing from common ground within the hallowed enclosure consecrated to the memory of the dead, to the hope