bright days, it is a working hand, it puts every iron in the fire, and keeps them in it. Hope works by use of means, for while the farmer sows, hope cheers, but hope flees from the slothful and indolent; for where there is no sowing, there can be no reaping. Had more been done for our cottagers in past years, more would have been reaped to bestow on others. Had these valiant workers been well employed in every town in England, -zeal, activity, sacrifice, love, faith, and perseverance,-more would have been done in 1838. It is now high time to awake out of sleep. We know not how soon we may be called to render an account of our stewardship. Let us all resolve, God sparing ns, to be more prayerful; for the secret prayers of true believers do much to undermine Satan's kingdom. Let us be more given to searching God's word : by this we learn the awful condition of unconverted sinners, their awful doom in eternity: by this precious book we learn the only way of the sinner's escape, and the means to be used. "Faith cometh by hearing." We there find motives for obedience the most powerful; the love of Christ, the shortness and uncertainty of time, the pleasures of doing good, &c. Let us be more active in doing good ourselves, and animating others; and what our hands find to do, do it with all our might. If we have regrets on a dying bed, it will be that we have been so inactive, so supine, while the Lord gave us time and opportunity. The man who is conscious he has neglected his work, and trifled away his time, is more diligent in what remains; let us, therefore, double our diligence, and let the Home Missionaries who are engaged in so glorious a work, be more active and zealous. We want revivals; it is very desirable if we could all have meetings once a month; say, the first Monday of the month, and have two or three sermons preached in the course of that day. I know the difficulty of getting the people out, but one could be in the morning, and two in the evening, and if we could all meet, if possible, together, at a throne of grace, at nine o'clock on Sabbath evening, or ten o'clock on Monday evening. I suggest these hints, and should be glad some plans could be suggested to arouse our villagers. We cannot all meet personally, but we can often meet in spirit, and we can talk to each other by our Missionary Maga

zine. I hail the year 1839, and trust it will be a memorable year in the annals of the Home Missionary Society, and in the sweet experience of each Home Missionary. Is any thing too hard for the Lord? He can open the hearts of the great and wealthy to give out of their abundance. He can open the hearts of the cottagers to receive the word in the love of it; he can level mountains and exalt valleys. If our faith is even as a grain of mustard-seed, we shall be able to remove mountains. Let us be strong in the faith, giving glory to God. Let hope cheer the Committee of the Home Missionary Society, and instead of the dark and melancholy words, "If funds are not raised, we must lessen the number of agents." Let them come forth in 1839, and say, “We are happy to say we have doubled our Missionaries, and we have now 200 active and zealous men." Meanwhile, let us pray, " Thy kingdom come.'

THE HOME MISSIONARY LIGHT

HOUSE.

AN incident has occurred since my last communication, which may be worth naming. One night, contrary to our usual practice, we were induced, by an indefinable impression upon our minds, to keep a light burning all night. I also felt a strong inclination to make up a fire, but resisted it, and retired to rest without doing so. About four o'clock in the morning I was awakened from sleep by loud knocking at the door, and went down stairs. When I opened the door I found two poor seamen, who had very narrowly escaped a watery grave, a short time before. It appeared from their statement, and subsequently from facts, that their vessel had come into contact with another, and immediately sunk, off Blacktoft. The poor fellows had only time to save a few of their clothes, a watch, &c., at the hazard of their lives. When one of them ran down into the cabin for the watch, the water was up to his knees; in a few minutes after she filled and sunk. She was laden with cheese, iron, and wool. The few things they saved, they brought to our house for shelter until they could return to Hull, which they did about ten o'clock. They appeared to be quite sober. I spoke to them of the goodness of God in sparing their lives, and gave them six tracts when they left. To us it appears re.

markable enough that we should be induced to place a light immediately in sight of these poor men, which they saw, though they were at a distance of more than two miles across the water. I felt thankful that the cottage of your

Missionary was for once made a lighthouse to attract the attention of the poor seaman in the midst of his sorrow, and trouble, and danger. A HOME MISSIONARY IN YORKSHIRE.

HONOURABLE TESTIMONY TO A

POOR VILLAGER.

Brownhills, in the county of Stafford, might still have been numbered with the dark places" that disfigure our land, but for the help of the Home Missionary Society. A Missionary was sent, a church was gathered, a chapel was erected, a Sabbath-school, and an Infant-school were established.

The following inscription on a neat tablet in the chapel, interests the stranger, not only as a testimony to departed worth, but also as a record for God, by whose providence a door was opened to the Gospel amidst the dreary collieries of Brownhills:"This Tablet is erected by a poor, but grateful people, in memory of JAMES CADDICK, who, before this Chapel was erected, kindly and gratuitously afforded a room for the preaching of the Gospel in this hamlet, and who was long distinguished for his hospitable reception of the ministers of truth. He died greatly respected, December 6, 1833, Aged 81 years."

HAPPY DEATH OF A YOUNG VIL

LAGER.

Mary Anslow, the subject of this brief memoir, received her first religious impressions at a prayer-meeting held in a humble cottage on Brownhills, by the request of its sick and dying inmate. That anxiety which is common to the awakened sinner, followed; but, at length, by a humble and believing application to the Saviour, she found mercy and grace to help in every time of need.

Little did Mary think that her "time of need" would come so soon. It was in the spring of the year 1836

"when the lilacs were in blossom," as she used to say, that the malady attacked her, which terminated in death. Not a murmur escaped her lips during two years of severe suffering. About twelve months before her release, she lost the use of her left side, which afterwards was partially restored. It was at this time that the writer first visited her. "I did pray," she said, "that if it were the Lord's will, he would restore the use of this arm, that I might be able to hold my Bible." Her Bible was, indeed, her companion; awake, she was generally reading it, and, "I think I could not sleep," she said, "if my Bible were not under my pillow."

Mary Anslow was then about nineteen years of age, with a countenance singularly pleasing. "I never beheld a sweeter smile," said a constant visitor, "her features seemed to be irradiated by the peace of God which passeth all understanding." But when asked if she did not feel it hard to be cut off in youth, she replied, "Oh no, life is beset with dangers. I would rather die and be with Jesus." The same sentiment I find expressed in the following lines, which she dictated, in anticipation of her happy change:

""Tis done, the scene is closed, the conflict o'er;

The Saviour calls, and Mary is no more: Transported now to climes where cloudless skies

Smile ever, and eternal fountains rise;
She bids adieu to sorrow, sin, and pain,
In youth and health, immortal there to
reign;

She stands before her Great Redeemer's throne,

And tunes her harp to strains on earth unknown;

By grace peculiar, not ordained to brave
The perils of life's dark, tempestuous wave;
But lost in extasy, the depths to prove,
Of bliss unmingled, and eternal love.
Religion was not meant the heart to steel,
Bereaved friends, both may, and ought to
feel,

But not to murmur. Then no more complain,

Your loss is Mary's great, eternal gain."

Mary Anslow was tenderly attached to her relatives and friends. Not unfrequently did she warn the impenitent among them, and beseech them to be reconciled to God. On one occasion, she observed to the writer, "I could cheerfully die to save them."

Every separation of friends is a kind of death," says one. There is this melancholy difference, however, the separation which death makes, does not admit of correspondence. Mary seems to have felt this difference, having dictated from her dying bed several affectionate farewell addresses, requesting they might be delivered after her decease. By the following extracts, she, being dead, yet speaketh.

To one, she says, 66 My face you will see no more. Yet do not grieve, all is well beyond the grave. I hunger no more, neither do I thirst any more, nor does the sun light on me, nor any heat. May the remembrance of the Lord's gracious dealings with me, urge you forward in your heavenly race. To another, 66 I have left all earthly friends behind me, but I now enjoy the friendship of one that sticketh closer than a brother. Be not cast down, therefore. If ye loved me, ye would rather rejoice. I am no more gazing from Mount Pisgah, but have crossed the Jordan, and rejoice in the heavenly Canaan. May the same redeeming grace which has brought me hither, bring my dear friends also."

From the following, it appears that the kindness of friends was not, I may say, is not, forgotten by Mary Anslow.

"MUCH RESPECTED LADIES, When you receive these lines, my spirit will have escaped from this world of sin and sorrow. I hope you will accept the grateful thanks of your dying handmaid, for all your kindness to me in my affliction, and to our family, from time to time. The Lord prolong your lives for the comfort of the orphan, and to make the widow's heart sing for joy. May the blessing of him that is ready to perish, rest upon you. I trust, my dear

friends, I shall have the honour to congratulate you on your arrival in

the realms of light, where we shall meet to part no more. "Farewell,

"MARY ANSLOW."

P. S. Mary Anslow died October 25, 1838. Her end was peace.

PROGRESS OF THE GOSPEL IN A

VILLAGE STATION.

I remember one severe winter's even

ing in the early part of the year 1823, the ground, in the language of the poet, was covered with

"A velvet robe of stainless white."

A few, very few of the cottagers had assembled together at the "Meetinghouse," with the expectation of bearing your Agent, Mr. EThe good schoolmaster had kindled a large fire, and after waiting awhile, we were gratified to see the minister arrive; he had come from a place called Ca village about six miles distant.

After warming himself at the fire, and congratulating the few present, the service commenced. We raised our hymn of praise to Him who, in the language of the Psalmist, "Giveth snow like wool, and scattereth his hoar-frost like ashes," cxlvii. 16. Mr. Estated, that as so few persons were present, he sincerely hoped that those who had come were truly hungering and thirsting after righteousness; and therefore he would address us as such. Having read a chapter, and prayed, he took for a text, Heb. xiii., "Let your conversation be without covetousness, and be content with such things as ye have, for he hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." And truly I may say, that severely cold as was the weather, yet our hearts burned within us while he discoursed to us, and opened to us the Scriptures. The word of the Lord was precious in those days.

At the close of the sermon we sung the hymn in Dr. Rippon's selection beginning

"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, Is laid for your faith in His excellent word."

The good minister had travelled to our village on a white pony, which he kept to carry him from place to place, and on one of his visits, the poor horse was turned loose into the lanes to find a lodging, and a meal. On the following morning it was found to have