liberty is best understood and most perfectly enjoyed, where intellect shoots forth in its richest luxuriance, and where ali the kindlier feelings of the heart are constantly seen in their most graceful exercise; point us to the loveliest, and happiest neighborhood in the world on which we dwell, and we tell you, that our object is to render this whole earth, with all its nations, and kindreds, and tongues, and people, as happy, nay, happier, than that neighborhood. We do believe that "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Our object is to convey to those who are perishing the news of this salvation. It is to furnish every family upon the face of the whole earth with the word of God written in its own language, and to send to every neighborhood a preacher of the cross of Christ. Our object will not be accomplished until every idol temple shall have been utterly abolished, and a temple of Jehovah erected in its room; until this earth, instead of being a theatre, on which immortal beings are preparing by crime for eternal condemnation, shall become one universal temple, in which the children of men are learning the anthems of the blessed above, and becoming meet to join the general assembly and church of the first born, whose names are written in heaven. Our design will not be completed until “One song employs all nations, and all cry, 'Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us;' The object of the missionary enterprise embraces every child of Adam. It is vast as the race to whom its operations are of necessity limited. It would confer upon every individual on earth all that intellectual or moral cultivation can bestow. It would rescue the world from the indignation and wrath, tribulation and anguish, reserved for every son of man that doeth evil, and give it a title to glory, honor, and immortality. You see, then, that our object is, not only * affect every individual of the species, but to affect him in woe. the momentous extremes of infinite happiness and infinite And now, we ask, what object, ever undertaken by man, can compare with this same design of evangelizing the world? Patriotism itself fades away before it, and acknowledges the supremacy of an enterprise, which seizes, with so strong a grasp, upon both the temporal and eternal destinies of the whole family of man. And now, deliberately consider the nature of the missionary enterprise. Reflect upon the dignity of its object; the high moral and intellectual powers which are to be called forth in its execution; the simplicity, benevolence, and efficacy of the means by which all this is to be achieved; and we ask you, Does not every other enterprise to which man ever put forth his strength, dwindle into insignificance before that of preaching Christ crucified to a lost and perishing world? CHO-CHE-BANG AND CHI-CHIL-BLOO. AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE. Away, far off in China, many, many years ago,— In the hottest part of China, where they never heard of snow, There lived a rich old planter in the province of Ko-whang, Who had an only daughter, and her name was Cho-cheBang. The maiden was a jewel, a celestial beauty rare, With catty-cornered eyebrows and carrot-colored hair; One foot was scarce three inches long, the other knew no bounds, She'd numbered fourteen summers, and she weighed three hundred pounds. On the dreary shores of Lapland, 'mid its never-melting snows, Where the Roly-boly-Alice in her ruddy beauty glows, Lived a little dwarfish tinker, who in height stood three feet two, And from his endless shivering, they called him Chi-chil Bloo. The crooked little tinker, as he dragged his weary way From hut to hut to ply his craft, scarce seemed of human clay; His eyes were like to marbles set in little seas of glue, Now Chi-chil-Bloo, though born in snow and reared upon its breast, Loved not the bleak and dismal land in which he knew no rest; He bid adieu unto the scenes of never-ending storm, And traveled forth to seek some land where he might keep him warm; He trudged two years his weary way far from the land of snow, Inside the walls of China, to where strangers seldom go; When wearied with his pilgrimage he halted at Ko-whang, And there became acquainted with the father of Che-Bang, The old man heard his wondrous tale of sights that he had seen, Where nature wore a winding-sheet, and shrouded all things green, And pondering o'er within his mind if wonders such could be, At last engaged poor Chi-chil-Bloo to cultivate his tea. It had always been the custom of the fairy-like Che-Bang, She stepped from out her palanquin, and then dismissed her train, With instructions that an hour past they might return again; She then upraised the filmy veil that hid her charms from sight, And poor Chi-chil-Bloo beheld a face to him surpassing bright; He gazed transfixed with wonder,—to him surpassing fair Were her rounded-up proportions and her salmon-colored hair, He lingered in a dreamy trance, nor woke he from his bliss Till her loving arms entwine him and her lips imprint a kiss! She led him to a bower, and beside the dwarf she kneeled, When looking down the distant vale the sun's fast fading sheen Fell faintly on the gold of her returning palanquin. "Yonder come my slaves," she cried, " and now, Chil-Bloo, we part; My father, though my father, has a cruel, flinty heart, He has promised me to Chow-Chow, the Croesus of Kowhang, But Chow-Chow's old and gouty, and he wouldn't suit CheBang; Oh! come beneath my window at a quarter after three, When the moon has gone a bathing to her bath-room in the sea, And we will fly to other lands across the waters blue But hush, here comes the palanquin, and now, sweet love, adieu!" They placed her in her palanquin, her bosom throbbing free, While Chi-chil-Bloo seemed busy packing up his gathered tea; As rested from his weary rounds the dying god of day, They raised her on their shoulders and they trotted her away. At the time and place appointed, 'neath her lattice stood the dwarf; He whistled to his lady, and she answered with a cough; She threw a silken ladder from her window down the wall, While he, gallant knight, stood firmly to catch her should she fall; She reached the ground in safety, one kiss, one chaste embrace, Then she waddled and he trotted off in silence from the place. Swift they held their journey, love had made her footsteps light, They hid themselves at morning's dawn and fled again at night; The second night had run her race and folded up her pall, When they reached the sentry's station underneath the mighty wall; Che-Bang told well her tale of love, Chil-Bloo told his, alas! The vile old lecher heard the charge, the tempting maiden eyed, Then feigning well a burning rage, in thunder-tones he cried, 'You vile misshapen scoundrel, you seducer, rascal, elf, I sentence you to prison, and I take Che-Bang myself." He took her to his harem, and he dressed her mighty fine, He sent her bird's-nest chowder and puppies done in wine; But she spurned the dainty viands as she spurned to be his bride, She took to eating rat-soup-poisoned rat-soup-and she died. In a dark and dreary dungeon, its dimensions six by four, Lay the wretched little tinker, stretched upon the mouldy floor, The midnight gong had sounded, he heard a dreadful clang, And before her quaking lover stood the spirit of Che-Bang. Arise, Chil-Bloo, arise!" she cried, "lay down life's dreary load, 66 Let out thy prisoned spirit from its dark and drear abode, And we will roam the spirit-land where fortune smiles more fair Arise," she cried, " and follow!"—then she vanished into air. On the morrow, when the jailer served around his mouldy beans, The only food the prisoners got except some wilted greens, He started back in horror-high upon the door-way post Hung the body of the tinker, who had yielded up the ghost. There's a legend now in China, that beneath the moon's bright sheen, Ever fondly linked together, may in summer-time be seen, Still wandering 'mid the tea-plants, in the province of Ko whang, The little Lapland tinker and his spirit-bride Che-Bang. -Graham's Magazine. THE CHILD OF EARTH.-MRS. NORTON. Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, |