Streets, is the most beautiful edifice of the kind I have yet seen. The interior arrangement is excellent, both for its beauty and its convenience. Over the pulpit, on a well executed representation of the sea, rides at anchor a beautiful ship, fully rigged, and finished as tastefully as any on the ocean. This admirable ornament was sold for $500 by the builder; but afterwards returned into his hands, and was presented by him to the trustees of the church for the place which it now occupies.

But what is the Tabernacle without its Shekinah? What was all the magnificence of Solomon's Temple, till the glory of God filled the house on the day of its dedication? "The best of all is, God is with us!" The congregation is large and serious, and many have already been converted through the labors of the faithful chaplain, the Rev. Mr. Taylor.

Christians! let me appeal to you in behalf of the "Tribe of Zebulon." They are men of peculiar privations, peculiar temptations, and peculiar sorrows. No other class can establish so strong a claim upon your sympathies and your gratitude. They are the brave defenders of your coast, and the enterprising agents of your commerce. They convey your missionaries to Africa and India, and return with tidings of their triumph or their fall. They gather for you the luxuries of every clime, and pour at your feet the gems of every continent, and the pearls of every sea. If they have sown for you carnal things, let them reap your spiritual

things. Give them places of worship that they can Give them the gospel,

call their own.

"A beacon on the stormy sea,"

a chart and a compass to guide them "to the desired haven!"

Who ought to be more interested in this enterprise than the Methodists? Where was Methodism first preached on the American Continent? In an old sail-loft in the city of New York. Where did our seraphic Summerfied commence his ministry of love? Along the wharves, and on board the ships, in one of the ports of Ireland. Do we not glory in our character as a missionary church? This is preëminently a missionary work; the most economical, the most important, and the most successful missionary work of the age. Every converted sailor is a missionary; the best of missionaries; moving with the velocity of the winds and the energy of the waves that bear him. Do we want missionaries who can endure hardships? Here they are, just coming into port; the men who have melted under a tropical sun, frozen to the yard-arm in northern seas, and clung to the fragment of a demolished boat for many a weary hour! Let us seize them in the name of the Captain of our salvation; seize them, as prisoners of war, captives of grace and love; press them into Emanuel's navy, and send them out to the conquest of the world!

XVI. THE BULBUL AND THE ROSE.

(1847.)

COME, Felicia, sit down and be silent, while I tell you a story. If it does not rival the Arabian Night's Entertainment, it will serve very well to while away an evening for a little girl like you.

Well, you know, in the East, they call the nightingale the bulbul; and you know too that they say it sits and sings all night long to the rose; and now I will tell you why.

There once lived in a beautiful valley, somewhere in Asia, a little girl named Zara. Did it never seem to you that Asia was nearer to heaven than we are? It does to me; for there the sun first awakens the earth with his morning kiss, and there are those blooming flowers, and singing birds, and bright green vales, that look like fragments of the garden of Eden which sin has not quite swept away, that look as if they might be the faint footprints of angels that used to wander among the groves of Paradise.

It was just in such a place that Zara dwelt, and Zara was just such a little girl as one would suppose ought to live there. Her eyes had drunk in their light from the stars, and she had learned to warble of heaven from the little birds, and the leaping rill had taught her to bound over the earth; and life was a joy to her. When she saw the sun

go down, and the red mantles of the angels fluttering around him in the sky, she knelt down, folded her little white hands together, and thanked God that she had been born amidst such beautiful things. She tried to please God, and that always made her feel glad.

One evening, as she sat among the shady trees, weaving a crown of flowers, a bird commenced singing above her head. She had heard many sounds of music, but nothing like that before. At first she thought it must be one of the red-mantled angels that had come to sing to her, and she held her breath for joy; but directly the bird came lower down on the branches, and she saw him. Running to the house, she filled one hand with seed, and in the other she held a crystal goblet of water, and she said: "Come hither, little songster; I will not harm you; I only wish to smooth down your feathers, and repay you for that sweet song." The bird seemed to understand her, for he came nearer and nearer, and at length nestled on her arm, as she held it to her bosom; and he ate the seed from her hand, and drank of the water, and looked up into her star-like eyes as if he said, "I thank you!" and from that time they were friends. Every evening, as she gathered flowers, or sat on the mossy bank, with her feet plashing in the bright waters of the brook, her pet was near her, pouring into her ear the heavenly melody of its notes, and every evening she brought him the seed and the water. And thus quietly her life

passed along; and though they say sorrow comes to all, it seemed that it had forgotten her, or thought that so bright a being belonged not to its domain. But one evening, when she came forth to listen to her bird, her cheek was flushed, her eyes were heavy, and there was a mournful cadence in her voice, like the sad tones of earth.

The next evening she came not, but lay in a white dress upon her bed. Her casement was open, and the perfume of the flowers came upon the breeze, mingled with the song of the bulbul. He no longer remained in the trees, but nestled in the honeysuckle near the window, and the melody he poured forth was like the music of another world, but it could not charm away the fever-spirit that hung over her. The third day came. The angel of death laid his hand upon her fluttering heart, and it was still. The burning heat in her veins was cooled, and her sweet eyes closed upon earth to open

upon heaven.

They laid her down to sleep in the chill bosom of the earth. It was a strange, lonely place, very unlike the soft, white pillow to which she was accustomed. But they call it " a place of rest," and there are some hearts so weary they would rather repose there than elsewhere. They piled the mould up over her; and O, what a pity it seemed to shut her out from the sunshine! Then there was nothing to be seen but a little hillock, and around it the cypress trees murmured mournfully in the breeze.