I learned in after times, from a member of her own family. These I shall combine in one connected sketch, so as to enable you to understand at once that which it cost me so many weeks to decipher.

Ellen Talbot was the daughter of one who was enthusiastically devoted to the missionary cause; one who had frequently expressed his regret that his conviction of the importance of the cause had come so late in life that his duties as a husband and father forbade him to take up the Cross and travel into the wastes of Heathen darkness. From her earliest childhood, Ellen had been accustomed to hear her father avow his determination to educate his sons for missionaries, and his daughters for wives to such heralds of the gospel. She had learned to think that such was her vocation, long before girls usually form plans for futurity, and the romance which belongs in a greater or less degree to the character of every woman, in her, assumed the flattering guise of self devotedness. Her piety was sincere, her faith undoubting, but she gave herself up to a life of hardship with the same kind of feeling which, in other lands, induces the followers of another creed to sacrifice themselves to the cloister. Hers was not a clear conviction of duty, such as should alone influence the missionary to set himself to his great task. It was a fervid dream of romantic self-devotion; a girlish zeal to make a great sacrifice of personal advantages.

Far be it from me to rebuke the pious fervour of the missionary. The woman who, strong in the conviction of duty, and relying on the promise that, "as her day is, so shall her strength be," abandons the refinements of civilized society and the endearments of home, to traverse the desert in the cause of Christ, is indeed a "light set on a hill which cannot be hid." If ever the nations of the earth are to be gathered into one fold-if ever the islands of the far seas are to sing the praises of Redeeming love, it will be through the influence of the weaker no less than the harder sex. The arm of man may wield the lightnings of gospel truth-the tongue of man utter the thunders of gospel eloquence, but it is the hand of woman which must drop the manna of Christian charity over the trackless wilderness of Heathenism. Yet she must not be led forward by the ignis fatuus of a romantic temper-a will o' the wisp, engendered by the vapours of a heated imagination. She must be urged to her high task by a clear sense of duty-Religion must be the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, to guide her steps-she must have fortitude to suffer, as well as energy to act, and above all, her dependence must be not upon an arm of flesh, but upon the God of her fathers, whose work she has undertaken to do.

Such was not the case with Ellen Talbot.

Sincere, but misjudging, her home seemed to her quite too limited a sphere, and measuring her duties rather by her zeal than her capacities, she forgot that God never placed mortals in a field so narrow that it may not be sown with good seed and give back a rich harvest.

She was about sixteen when she first met with Mr. Warrender. Her father's wellknown piety rendered his house a favourite resort for Christians of all denominations, especially those engaged in missions, and among others, Mr. Warrender came to spend a few weeks with him, previous to departing for India. He was a widower, of perhaps forty-five years of age, cold, stately, even stern in his manner, and ascetic in all his habits. He was well aware of the need of woman's gentle ministry to aid him in his toilsome task, and Ellen's zeal in the cause, her gentleness of deportment, and her extreme youth, which he deemed would enable her to acquire the language of the country with great facility, were his inducements to select her. Of mere earthly affection he did not dream. His heart, like the lava of Vesuvius, had hardened over the ashes of his early love, and no second city of the affections could ever now arise upon the indurated soil.

In youth, he had possessed very strong passions, and his whole life had been a struggle between right and wrong. At an early age he had formed an attachment to a lady several years his senior, and this passion soon swallowed up all the rest. Yet, even the sweetest founts of tenderness became, in his bosom, like the bitter waters of Marah. The object of his affection, a high-minded, noble-hearted woman, had sacrificed all her worldly prospects to wed the humble missionary, and in the endeavour to repay her for such love, he gave his heart up to the most idolatrous worship of her. "Thou shalt have no other gods before me,' was the awful command upon Mount Sinai, and fear. fully was the denunciation against idolatry brought home to the unhappy man. After eight years of wedded happiness, and par tially successful labours among the western Indians, he one day returned from a visit of duty into the interior of the country, only to find his log cabin a heap of ruins, and to rake from its smouldering ashes the bones of his wife and little ones. A brother missionary had accompanied him on his return, and through his care, Mr. Warrender was brought back to civilized life, but many months elapsed after this dreadful calamity, ere his mind recovered its healthy tone. When he re-appeared to resume his missionary labours, every one noticed the change that had taken place in him. From an ardent, impetuous, affectionate pleader with souls, he had now become cold in manner, rigid in

"Surely you are not afraid to go to that beautiful place, my sweet Lydia."

"No, dear mother, not afraid, but I shall want you in Heaven with me," was the reply of the dying child.

Mrs. Warrender looked towards me with an expression I shall never forget, then imprinting a kiss upon the fair child's brow, and motioning me to take her place by the bed side, she rose and left us for a few minutes. When she returned she was calm, but a deadly palor had settled upon her face which never again left it. Two hours after the child had uttered those few words so thrilling to a mother's heart, her pure spirit had departed.

Mrs. Warrender's physical strength was unequal to the fearful struggle of feeling. She was conveyed to bed insensible, and a succession of fainting fits seemed to threaten the most alarming resu'ts. But towards evening she recovered sufficiently to rise, and taking her seat beside the body, never again left it till the last sad offices were performed. The intense heat of the weather rendered it necessary to bury the dead as early as possible on the following morning. Attired in one of her little night dresses, with a simple cap only half concealing her bright curls, Lydia looked as if she had only lain down to sleep. Never, never did death wear a more lovely aspect. But when we assembled on deck just before sunrise, the beautiful child lay in her coarse shroud, and her sweet face no longer visible to our mournful gaze.

I will not describe to you the solemnity of a funeral at sea. You have heard its details often before now, and this differed from others only in the peculiar interest which had been excited by the little creature who now lay stiff and cold before us. The mother leaned upon me while my husband read the beautiful service for the dead; her gaze was fixed upon the body as if her eyes could pierce the rude envelope which concealed her treasure from her view. But when the sailors, brushing a tear from their rough cheeks, raised the grating, every heart sunk as the sudden plash of the water struck upon the ear; and the wretched mother, uttering a piercing cry, sunk upon her knees. We bore her to her berth, and she never again quitted it till we arrived at New York. A breeze sprang up about an hour after the child's body had been consigned to the pitiless waters, and we were spared the pain of feeling ourselves moored above the grave.

My whole time was now devoted to the suffering mother. She was evidently sinking fast, and I could not help attributing her resignation to her consciousness of the approach of death. I once spoke to her of it, and her reply was very impressive :-"When I first learned my child's danger, I prayed, that if it were consistent with the will of Providence,

she might be spared to me. When I found that God had decreed my darling should be taken from me, I made a solemn contract, in my own heart, that if she were saved from the physical bitterness of death, I would never murmur, however I might weep. She died as gently as a rose falls from its stem, and I dare not fail in my promise to my Maker. He has mercifully given me strength, by affording me the hope of soon rejoining her in Heaven. Her last words are never absent from my thoughts, and I cannot help mingling earthly feelings with my aspirations after a better world. I picture to myself her little hands extended to clasp the mother, who so long delays to meet her, and the hour of death will be to me more welcome than the hour that gave her birth."

It was a strange, but beautiful fancy, which thus led the mother to feel that she held communion in thought with her lost darling. It may be, that some will censure this blending of earthly affections with heavenly hopes; but she who has ever wept above the bier of a beloved one, will have charity for this weakness. If there be any thing which can make the hope of Heaven dear to the worldly-minded, it is the belief that it is peopled by the heart's lost treasures. The vanity of self-knowledge-the pride of life-the pomps of the world-may all work together to make us indifferent, in the heyday of life, to the vague ideas of a Heaven of bliss, but let the affections be once fastened there, as to the abode of a God of Love, and the home of our dearest objects of tenderness, and it becomes the haven of our every hope.

When the ship arrived at New York, Mrs. Warrender was too ill to reach her father's house, which was about two miles distant from the city.

She was removed to our house, which had been for several weeks prepared for our reception; and there, surrounded by her family, who had been summoned to her sick bed, she spent the few re maining days of her life. She expressed a wish to be buried in her native village. "My mother lies there," said she," and methinks I should like to rest beneath the same sod." Tears came in her eyes as she spoke, and I knew she was thinking of the moaning waves where her daughter's little form reposed.

In the churchyard of N--, is a modest tomb of white marble, bearing the name of "Ellen Warrender, aged 21 years;" and the moss-pinks planted on her mothers grave, are fast spreading themselves over her own.

ON MODES OF INTERMENT, AND ON THE DISINTERMENT OF SOME KINGLY RELICS.

THE progress of all organized beings is towards decay. The complicated textures

which the living body elaborates within itself, begin to fall asunder, almost as soon as life has ceased. The materials of which animals and vegetables are composed, have natural laws and irresistible affinities, which are suspended during the period of life, but which must be obeyed the moment that life is extinct. They continue to operate, until the exquisite fabric is reduced to a condition, in no wise different from that of the soil on which it has once trodden. In certain cases art may modify, and accid nt may retard, the approaches of disorganization, but the exceptions thus produced are too few and imperfect, to invalidate the certainty of the general law.

If we take a comprehensive survey of the progress and mutations of animal and vegetable life, we shall perceive, that this necessity of individual destruction is the basis of general safety. The elements which have once moved and circulated in living frames, do not become extinct, nor useless after death -they offer themselves as the materials from which other living frames are to be constructed. What has once possessed life, is most assimilated to the living character, and most ready to partake of life again. The plant which springs from the earth, after attaining its growth, and perpetuating its species, falls to the ground, undergoes decomposition, and contributes its remains to the nourishment of plants around it. The my riads of animals which range the woods, or inhabit the air, at length die upon the surface of the earth, and, if not devoured by other animals, prepare for vegetation the place which receives their remains. Were it not for this law of nature, the soil would be soon exhausted, the earth's surface would become a barren waste, and the whole race of organized beings, for want of sustenance, would become extinct.

Man alone, the master of the creation, does not willingly stoop to become a participator in the routine of nature. In every age, he has manifested a disposition to exempt himself, and to rescue his fellow, from the common fate of living beings. Although he is prodigal of the lives of other classes, and sometimes sacrifices a hundred inferior bodies, to procure himself a single repast, yet he regards with scrupulous anxiety the destination of his own remains; and much labour and treasure are devoted by him to ward off for a season the inevitable courses of nature. Under the apprehension of posthumous degradation, human bodies have been embalmed, their concentrated dust has been inclosed in golden urns, monumental fortresses have been piled over their decaying bones; -with what success, and with what use, it may not be amiss to consider.

We have selected a few instances, in which measures have been taken to protect

the human frame from decay, which will be seen to have been in some cases partially successful, in others not so. They will serve as preliminaries to the general considerations which are connected with the subject.

One of the most interesting accounts of the preservation of a body, the identity of which was undoubted, is that of the disinterment of King Edward I. of England. The readers of English history will recollect that this monarch gave, as a dying charge to his son, that his heart should be sent to the Holy Land, but that his body should be carried in the van of the army till Scotland was reduced to obedience.

He died in July, 1307, and, notwithstanding his injunctions, was buried in Westminster Abbey in October of the same year. It is recorded, that he was embalmed, and orders for renewing the cerecloth about his body were issued in the reigns of Edward III. and Henry IV. The tomb of this monarch was opened and his body examined in January, 1774, under the direction of Sir Joseph Ayloffe, after it had been buried 467 years. The following account we extract from a contemporaneous volume of the Gentleman's Magazine.

"Some gentlemen of the Society of Antiquaries, being desirous to see how far the actual state of Edward I.'s body answered to the methods taken to preserve it, obtained leave to open the large stone sarcophagus, in which it is known to have been deposited, on the north side of Edward the Confessor's chapel. This was accordingly done on the morning of January 2, 1774; when, in a coffin of yellow stone, they found the royal body in perfect preservation, enclosed in two wrappers; one of them was of gold tissue, strongly waxed, and fresh; the other and outermost considerably decayed. The corpse was habited in a rich mantle of purple, paned with white, and adorned with ornaments of gilt metal, studded with red and blue stones and pearls. Two similar ornaments lay on the hands. The mantle was fastened on the right shoulder by a magnifitent fibula of the same metal, with the same stones and pearls. His face had over it a silken covering, so fine, and so closely fitted to it, as to preserve the features entire. Round his temples was a gilt coronet of fleurs de lys. In his hands, which were also entire, were two sceptres of gilt metal; that in the right surmounted by a cross fleure, that in the left by three clus. ters of oak leaves, and a dove on a globe; this sceptre was about five feet long. The feet were enveloped in the mantle and other coverings, but sound, and the toes distinct. The whole length of the corpse was five feet two inches.

This last statement, it will be observed, is the only point in which the narrative appears to disagree with history. We are generally