shall be wreathed with his crown of glory, but spared his baptism of suffering?

O, how does the spirit of the Spartan mother cry shame upon such time-serving allegiance, such timid shrinking from the calls of duty! "With this, or upon it," was her heroic farewell to her departing son, as, presenting to him his shield, she urged him to the battle-field for his country's glory. No selfish considerations marred the brightness of her sacrifice.

And, in these modern times, how many a precious offering is laid upon the shrine of Mammon! How many sons and daughters receive the benediction of their parents, as they go to far-distant regions, in the hope of securing wealth! What parting scenes do they pass through, to what toils are they exposed!and yet parental love will not withhold the offering for which Mammon calls. But how few, how meagre are the motives to such a sacrifice, compared with those which the cause of missions presents! How does the grandeur of this enterprise exceed that of all others!

O! it is most noble, in the cause of such a Master, to labor for the benighted of this sin-darkened world,— to bring the tidings of salvation to those sitting in the shadow of death! Will not the souls thus ransomed a thousand times outweigh Golconda's mines and California's glittering sands? Is not the fadeless crown worth infinitely more than all the fleeting treasures of this passing world?

"They that turn many to righteousness shall shine as the stars for ever and ever." Fathers! mothers! would you not have your daughters thus radiant in immortal splendor? It is glorious to be a co-worker with Christ. If rightfully we bear his name, we are born not only to his inheritance of glory, but unto his

baptism of suffering. O, let us not despise our birthright!

"Through cross to crown; and though thy spirit's life
Trials untold assail with giant strength,

Good cheer! good cheer! soon ends the bitter strife,
And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.”

EMBARKATION, PASSAGE AND

ARRIVAL.

STRAITS OF GIBRALTAR

HARBOR OF MILO NARROW ESCAPE BAY OF FOKEA SMYRNA ARMENIAN WEDDING.

"Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea,

Take with thee gentle winds, thy sails to swell;
Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be,-

Fare thee well, bark, farewell!

A long farewell! Thou wilt not bring us back
Those whom thou bearest far from home and hearth.
O! she is thine, whose steps no more shall track
Her own sweet native earth."

MRS. HEMANS.

THE departure of Mr. and Mrs. Hamlin had been so often deferred, that, notwithstanding Henrietta's letter, mentioning the day on which they expected to sail, her friend had not the remotest idea that they would leave at the time appointed. What sorrow was hers when the following note, written with a pencil and in a tremulous hand, told her that she had delayed her farewell visit till it was too late!

"Bark Euromas, Monday, Dec. 3. "DEAR M.: Farewell! Can it be that I shall see your face no more? May we meet in heaven!

"Adieu from

"HENRIETTA."

A letter from her friend was soon following her over the wide waters.

"I have wept with the same bitterness of grief that I should have felt beside your grave.

"Monday passed away; I no more thought of it as being your sailing than your dying day. Tuesday father handed me your note. You can conceive how I felt. Father wished to see it, and then

we wept together. When he could command his voice, he said, 'I always loved Henrietta.' It sounded as if you were dead!" *

From Henrietta's reply we give an extract:

"Your letter was like yourself. It was indeed pleasant to be reading a letter from M. in this far-off country, where there are so few things that seem familiar. And yet it made me weep so much that my husband sent me to my own room. It is good to shed such tears as are drawn from our eyes by the remembrance of friends. * *** I could not believe that I should go without seeing you till the last moment came.. It did seem very hard. But perhaps it was better that we should not meet again."

Mr. Hamlin adds:

"One day, just at dinner-time, Mr. Goodell handed me sixteen American letters, and of course I went home with a palpitating heart. As Henrietta was looking them over, her eye caught your well-known hand, and, exclaiming 'O, here is one from M.!' she almost sprang from her chair. In a moment I saw the tears flowing, and soon she wept so uncontrollably that my Armenian teacher and the servant thought her mother or sisters were dead. I replied, 'No.' 'What is it, then, that makes kokona weep so?' 'Memory,' said I. Ach! kidem, kidem.' (Ah! I know, I know.) And after she had gone to her chamber to weep there, I told them what a home and frie ds she had left."

But we must go back to that memorable day, when, for the last time, Henrietta left the shores of her nati ve land.

Crowds are gathered upon the wharf, to watch the

vessel as she bears slowly away. Upon the deck have been uncovered heads and tearful eyes, for the interceding prayer and the song of praise have arisen upon the air, and been echoed over the blue waters. Severe is the struggle in that affectionate heart, but her purpose is unwavering.

The last words are spoken, the last kiss is given, the tremulous pressure of the hand is exchanged, betraying the sorrow which no words can utter. And now the gallant ship leaves the wharf, and, like a mighty bird, glides over the white waves, separating forever loving and faithful hearts.

"Bark Euromas, Dec. 22, 1838.

"MY DEAR FRIENDS: I love to have so much time to think of you as I do while lying in my berth. I am often looking back to the places and scenes I have left. I have whole mornings, afternoons and evenings, in which to remember them. But it is at the coming on of twilight that I am more especially present with you. Then I commence a circuit of visitings, looking in upon each of the dear circles, until I arrive at that place dearer than all others, the home of my childhood. Here my spirit would linger. The eye cannot be satisfied with seeing, nor the ear with hearing. I sit down where I used to sit, and look about upon familiar things. I go into every room. Nothing is changed. I look out of every window, and enjoy the view peculiar to each. O, I have visions of my home that make me very happy! But when the thought comes, 'You will return to it no more,' there is a faintness of heart I cannot describe. There are struggles which seem too much for the spirit to bear, and yet it endures them. I am not unhappy. 1 would be where I am, tossing upon the ocean which is bearing me far from home and friends, to a land of strangers. I would go and do what I can for those who are sitting in darkness. May the prayers of my friends follow me, and at last, when we shall meet again, may it appear that our prayers and our sacrifices have not been in vain!