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supernatural, the extremities of his body being cold in death, and his visage wearing a death-like appearance, addressed his brother, sisters, and father. To his father he said, "You will soon follow me-but perhaps you may live to be an old man. Preach the gospel, and, I hope, God will bless your labours, so that you may be the instrument of the salvation of many precious souls." To his brother, he said, George, do you pray! You have been a kind and an affectionate brother, but do you pray to God." Receiving no answer, he whispered to his father, "George does not say that he prays, and it grieves me." He then turned to his sisters, asking each of them the same question, and entreated those who did not pray to begin that night, before they closed their eyes to sleep, lest they should awake in eternity. He then said, "If you don't know how to pray, I will tell you a nice short prayer," and then repeated, with a loud voice and an impressive tone, “God be merciful to me a sinner." He then stated how happy he felt in his mind. "The ways of religion," he said, are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. He will show me the path of life; in his presence is fullness of joy, and at his right hand there are pleasures for evermore."

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"There shall I bathe my weary soul

In seas of heavenly rest:

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast."

He then clasped his hands and prayed for all present in a most interesting manner. This being done, he next, with his own hands, distributed three Bibles and many other books and articles, giving suitable advice to the recipients of his bounty. Nearly three hours were thus occupied, whilst the dear child, at the same time, was in the arms of death: and what was very remarkable, he was not interrupted by his cough, although before and after it was very distress

ing. He then desired to be laid down and left alone, and for about a quarter of an hour seemed to enjoy a sound sleep; on awaking he had a very bad coughing fit, but again revived, and for nearly two hours talked as well as he could (his voice having began to falter) to his relations who came to see him, pressing upon the attention of the young, in a most earnest manner, the importance of religion, and telling them how happy he felt in the prospect of death. In the evening he was removed to his own bed, and seemed to lie very composed. About ten o'clock his father kissed him, supposing he was asleep, when he whispered, "Father, pray with me.' After prayer the family retired, thinking he wished to sleep, leaving him under the care of the nurse and a servant. About two o'clock the nurse informed his father that the spirit was fled. She said that after the family retired she gave him something to drink. She asked him if he was still happy? he said, "Yes." "Is Christ precious?" "O! yes!" He kissed her, and in a short time appeared to be dozing. After a while she listened to hear him breathe, but the spirit was gone. The precise time when he died she could not tell. The family assembled around the corpse, and the father gratefully acknowledged the divine goodness to the departed child, and commended the living to his care.

FIRST GRIEF.

FOR A DEPARTED BROTHER.

THEY tell me, first and early love
Outlives all after-dreams;

But the memory of a first great grief
To me more lasting seems;

The grief that marks our dawning youth
To memory ever clings,

And o'er the path of future years

A lengthened shadow flings.

Oh, oft my mind recals the hour,
When to my father's home
Death came-an uninvited guest-
From his dwelling in the tomb!
I had not seen his face before-
I shudder'd at the sight;
And I shudder still to think upon
The anguish of that night!

A youthful brow and ruddy cheek
Became all cold and wan-

An eye grew dim in which the light
Of radiant fancy shone.

Cold was the cheek and cold the brow,
The eye was fix'd and dim;

And one there mourn'd a brother dead,
Who would have died for him!

I know not if 'twas summer then,
I know not if 'twas spring,
But if the birds sang on the trees,.
I did not hear them sing:

If flowers came forth to deck the earth,
Their bloom I did not see-

I look'd upon one wither'd flower,
And none else bloom'd for me.

A sad and silent time it was
Within that house of woe,
All eyes were dull and overcast,
And every voice was low!-
And from each cheek at intervals,
The blood appeared to start,
As if recall'd in sudden haste,
To aid the sinking heart.

Softly we trode, as if afraid

To mar the sleeper's sleep,

And stole last looks of his pale face,

For memory to keep.

With him the agony was o'er,

And now the pain was ours,

As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose Like odours from dead flowers.

And when at last he was borne afar
From this world's weary strife,
How oft in thought did we again
Live o'er his little life!

His every look-his every word-
His every voice's tone-

Come back to us like things whose worth
Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away,
And joy has been my lot;

But the one is oft remember'd,

And the other soon forgot.

The gayest hours trip lightest by,

And leave the faintest trace,

But the deep deep track that sorrow wears,
No time can e'er efface!

NOBLE GENEROSITY.

MANY instances of noble heroism and generous benevolence have been recorded. The following is remarkable. A great inundation having taken place in the north of Italy, owing to an excessive fall of snow in the Alps, followed by a speedy thaw, the river Adige carried away a bridge near Verona, except the middle part, on which was the house of the toll-gatherer, who, with his whole family, thus remained imprisoned by the waves, and in momentary expectation of certain destruction. They were discovered from the banks, stretching forth their hands, screaming, and imploring succour, while fragments of the only remaining arch were dropping into the impetuous torrent. In this extreme danger, a nobleman, the Count of Palverini, who was a spectator, held out a purse of 100 sequins as a reward to any adventurer who would take a boat and save the unhappy family. But the risk was so great of being

borne down by the impetuosity of the stream, or being dashed against the fragments of the bridge, or being crushed by the falling of the heavy stones, that not one of the vast multitude of spectators had courage enough to attempt such an exploit. A peasant passing along, was informed of the promised reward. Immediately leaping into the boat, he, by amazing strength of arm, gained the middle of the river, and brought his boat under the pile, and the whole terrified family descended by means of a rope. Courage!" cried he, now you are safe!" By a still more strenuous effort he brought the boat to shore. "Brave fellow!" exclaimed the Count, holding out the purse to him, "there is your promised recompense." "I shall never expose my life for money," answered the peasant, "my labour affords a sufficient livelihood for myself, my wife, and children; give the purse to the poor family who have lost all.”

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NEW ZEALANDERS.

ONE of our natives constantly carries a slate in his hand, and whenever we halt to rest, he amuses himself by working sums in arithmetic; he is now lying at full length in the fern, busily engaged with a calculation that Forsaith has set him; and my lad, E. Pera, is reading aloud from a native testament, extremely fast. Not only do the young people, in this way, improve themselves in education, but they are very fond of teaching others; and many individuals in the interior, who had no instruction whatever from the missionaries, have acquired the arts of reading and writing by aid of these native instructors, who have a pride in communicating their new acquirements.

ANGAS.