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Dear children, think of the mercy that has made you each" a happy English child." But do not forget that you may have a daily load of temporal benefits, and at last sink in bottomless fire under the load of your sins. You must in this life be brought to the cross of Jesus, or in the next life perish. I must not detain you longer than to subscribe myself, just what I have been for more than twice seven years,

Your willing, affectionate friend,




I WILL now give you a short account of the death of one of my dear pupils, whom I had hoped ere long to see a useful missionary in this benighted land. But God's ways are not our ways. stead of leaving him to labour here, He has graciously taken him to serve in His temple above. I may remark, that we have had lately a season of almost unparalleled sickness and mortality. Our venerable Dr. Carey is gone to God. Our old deacon, Mr. Gordon, and his son, and his son's wife, and two of Mr. Marshman's scholars, and two of mine from the college, besides several others more remotely connected with us, have all been called away. One of my students that died was a grandson of Dr. Carey, Jabez Carey's son Felix. He died of cholera after a few hours' illness. The other was the dear youth that I referred to above---William A Reily, the son of our worthy brother Reily. William was always an amiable boy; but towards the end of last year he became decidedly gracious. From that time I have had

the greatest comfort in him, both as a student and as a Christian. He possessed a superior talent for the acquisition of languages. He entered with delight into the theological studies by which I am endeavouring to prepare my young people for future labours; and young though he was when I went out to the last Churruck pooja, I was pleased to find him and another of his young brethren there endeavouring to distribute tracts among the infuriated multitude. My hopes of his becoming a useful labourer in this vast and needy field were every day becoming brighter, and never were they more excited than on the last day he appeared in our lecture-room. On the Monday of the week in which he died he was in good health, and read me an essay on seriousness. The day after he read this essay he became unwell.

It soon became evident that it was the fever then raging among the young people here that had attacked him. From the beginning of his illness he had an impression that he should not recover. He mentioned it several times to his young friend and brother, William Robinson, but said he was not alarmed; he was willing to go or stay, whatever might be the will of the Lord. On Friday we had little hope of his recovery; he had a good night, however, and early on Saturday morning, when I went over to see him, I found him better, so much so, that we thought the danger over. He rapidly got worse, however, as the day advanced, and in the evening expired. His state of mind, poor dear boy, during the whole of his trouble was truly delightful. William Robinson has been of great use to him ever since his conversion. To him he opened his mind freely; and the accounts he gave me of his views and feelings in the prospect of eternity were most satisfactory.

As his departure drew near, his confidence in Christ increased. Not many hours before his death he sent for me,-told me he was dying,thanked me for all the kindness I had shown him, and bade me an affectionate farewell. He spoke to his young friends; shook hands with them individually; talked with delight of his going to be with Christ, and when his brother asked him what message he had to leave for his dear absent father, he said with great emphasis, "Tell him I died in Jesus." I committed his remains to the dust early next morning. It was the Sabbath, and a solemn season indeed; but the assurance that our young friend had entered on the delightful services of the eternal Sabbath cheered our hearts. I never knew a death more blessed. The dear youth was only thirteen years and six months old!



I CAN readily imagine that some kind parents, if not little gleaners, have shed tears over my last paper; but others have wept-yes, wept bitterly -over, not stories of the past, but facts-hard, stern facts of the present. I know a lad-a bright lad, a lad who had bright prospects-who has this day stood before the Lord Mayor of London to be committed for trial at the coming sessions for having robbed his employers to a fearful extent; and his weeping, widowed mother is almost frantic with sorrow.

Oh, little gleaners, remember all parents are not like the hard-hearted father of Billy C—. I knew a man, I hope a good man, some years ago, a tradesman in the town of who in

his last sickness passed through very deep soultrouble, and who, in addition to his soul-trouble, had the following bitter dregs put into his last bitter cup.

Perhaps it will be only right to say he had been in a backsliding state for a long time, during which his family had been to some extent neglected. But in his last illness he was brought to see the evil of the past, was brought to repentance, and wrote very bitter things against himself.

Well, one day, while passing through this very severe trial, his little boy-if I remember right, his youngest child, of about eleven years—was sitting by his bedside, reading the Bible to him, and while he read he was called away. Yes, he was called away. Who wanted him? The father asked and asked again, who wanted —. What


wanted for? Evasive answers were given, but evasive answers would not satisfy; the truth must be told, though it be to a dying father. He had been stealing something. The policeman had fetched him; he was gone to gaol.

But why tell such gloomy tales as these? Ah, why? Not because I delight to tell them, but to show our little gleaners, if we can, the exceeding heinousness of sin.

Oh, how glad I would be if there were no such tales to tell! How glad if I could be sure I had witnessed the last such painful scene! They pain me beyond what I can describe while I attempt to tell them: but I say I set them before my young friends as beacons to warn them against the many dangers that are strewed in the way. "If sinners

entice thee, consent thou not." Weigh every suggestion before you consent to it, and weigh every action before you perpetrate it. Oh, could you have stood with me beside the bed of the dying

father-could you have stood with me in gaol while I tried gently to answer the heartbreaking question of the weeping child—“ Is my father dead?"—methinks you would have wept with me, as I wept with him, and have exclaimed, "O sin, sin! what a dreadful thing is sin!" But a prison is not the only place to see the sad consequences of sin; no, nor is it the place of all others. Would you see sin in its most dreadful consequences? Then go to Gethsemane, and see the spotless, harmless, loving Son of God sweating, as it were, great drops of blood, and in an agony exclaiming, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt."

We left Billy

But to return to our narration. Cat the ragged school. Next morning my business was to try and find a home for him in some refuge or reformatory. And I sought London through, but in vain : every such place was full, and many, very many more were making application who could not be accommodated. Under these circumstances, I applied to a very benevolent gentleman (and as he no longer lives, I don't know that I need withhold his name). Mr. G. Hitchcock, of St. Paul's Churchyard, was the gentlemen I applied to for counsel and aid; I laid my case before him, and he very kindly entered into it. I need not give our conversation. The result was, he very kindly undertook to pay five shillings per week, to the good man of whom I spoke in my last, for the board and lodging of poor Billy, till I could find a refuge in which he could be placed. And Billy was placed under the care of this good man, who himself had been deserted and sold by a drunken mother. Thus he was safely housed and kindly cared and provided for. And

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