MAN is a social being, and in joy or sorrow, feels a yearning of heart after sympathy. His social nature affords a soil for religion to take root in. There are times in the life of every man, when he feels the want of sympathy, not merely from his fellow-man, but from God. The most abandoned feel thus sometimes, and if any obstacle exists to the gratification of the desire, wretchedness beyond description ensues, and not unfrequently despair.

It is this very want which gives the man professing to be God's special messenger, a peculiar hold on the confidence of his fellows. He may be a Brahmin, with his unshorn locks and filthy visage, his misshapen body and relentless austerity, and yet, such as he is, he can reach hearts which are barred against every other approach. He may be a juggling Indian priest, dancing around his mysterious fire, and mumbling his frenzied incantations, and yet even he, in apparent converse with the Great Spirit, will cast his awe, not only on the heart of the timid maiden, but also of the most savage warrior. And thus it is the world over, among the civilized and the barbarous. who really, or only in pretence, has authority to speak the will of God to man, will have access to hearts which are closed against any other messenger, and will look on the hidden man of the heart as no one else is permitted to look. When such a man comes honestly, in the authority of his God, to give consolation and instruction, the world sees no better blessing; but when as " a wolf in sheep's clothing," he comes, woe, woe to the poor victim rent and killed in God's name.

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I know of but one profession which has such facilities to see the human heart, as the ministerial. The physician necessarily has great opportunities, but his business is with the body, and many are the hearts which are closed against him, only to be opened for counsel from

Heaven, through its own accredited messenger. Could the pastor take you out with him when he goes, and see what he sees, your eyes would fill with tears, and your ears tingle with amazement. And yet many of these scenes must be buried forever in silence. There are some not destitute of interest, which may be profitable for our readers, and which may be detailed without violating the confidence of those long since passed away. It is my intention to give a few sketches of this kind, for the entertainment and profit of our readers.

Many years ago, when one of our large cities was scarcely larger than a town, there was a family whose history proved to be a strange one indeed. The father was a large, fine-looking man, of more than ordinary talents. His wife was an accomplished and beautiful woman, whose personal accomplishments were only excelled by the amiable excellencies of her character. They had but one child, a daughter, whose uncommon beauty attracted the attention of every one. From early childhood she was a wayward girl, whose want of amiability was overlooked on account of the exceeding beauty of her form and face. It was a family to be noticed, and to a pastor with his heart alive to the good of those committed to his care, there was an interest which frequently drew him to share in the sympathies of this peculiar circle.

Upon a certain bitter cold morning, in the streets of that town, might have been seen a woman, evidently clad too thinly for the season, leading by her side a little girl. The mother occasionally coughed in that way so peculiar to one in settled consumption. And yet she was young. The pair found shelter in a public house, and in a few minutes a messenger was dispatched with a note to Mr. W., the gentleman we have already described. In a very short time he was there, his face ashy pale, and his whole frame trembling as with terror. As

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he entered her room, he uttered an exclamation of grief, and covering his face with his hand gave way to tears.

"My sin has at length found me out," he said, with utterance still choked with grief. "Mary, forgive me the wrong I have done you, in a moment of blind infatuation."

The young woman's face was scarcely less indicative of emotion than his own, and yet grief to her had been a school, teaching her to subdue the risings of her heart.

"George, I have not come here to reproach you with my misfortunes, though they have nearly killed me. From the first, my proud spirit scorned to murmur, and I resolved to bury my grief in my own heart, and drag out life supported by my own efforts. I was driven virtually from the door of my home, on which I had brought the first stain, and then among strangers I toiled, subjected to the cold suspicions and sometimes the insults of those among whom I lived."

While she thus spake, her hitherto pallid cheek had become flushed, and she was interrupted by a hard fit of coughing. Mr. W.'s grief became audible as he thus looked on the wreck made by his passion. He was not a heartless man, as his whole life proved, and yet there had been a time when he seemed given up of God to see what he would do when unre strained by Divine Grace. It was during that miserable portion of his life, that he had overcast with darkness all his prospects and his comfort in the world, by ruining one who had given him confidingly all her heart.

Strange though it may seem, his own folly stung him to madness; and now his victin was loathsome in his eyes. Had he been a > king's son, he would have acted the part of Amnon. It was one part of his abandonment, that he had no disposition to do what was in his power to save her he had ruined. It was then he took his resolution, and fled to a distant and secluded place, where he might forget the past. It is needless to say the past was written on his memory as with the point of a diamond, and people often wondered at the deed furrows which were traced already on his brow. While there he resolutely applied himself to business, and soon acquired the confidence of all. Ho thrived well, but the worm was in his heart. At last, as a sort of desperate resort, he determined to offer his hand to a most amiable and beautiful lady. It was ac

cepted. But wrong had been done, and the memory of wrong cannot die. Forthwith there sprang up a horrible fear of discovery, which might again blast his hopes. His friends knew nothing of him, and his very name he had changed. Yet lest some untoward circumstance should reveal his history, he determined to remove hundreds of miles further from the scene of his crime. It was in that desire he had located himself in the town in which we first saw him. But that sense of wrong to God and a poor fellow worm, could not be eradicated by any removal however distant. He carried his conscience with him, and amply proved

""Tis but a poor relief we gain,

To change the place but keep the pain."

The work of conscience, with unrepented sin to feed on, was gradually undermining his health. It was a sickness of heart, which no medicine could alleviate but the forgiveness of God.

Having thus given the outline of his history for the benefit of the reader, let us proceed with the conversation. As the poor woman thus detailed her suffering, she was startled by his agonized expressions. "Oh, Mary, the wrong I have done you is unpardonable. Why did I not repair it when I could? but now I cannot. Oh, my poor wife, it will kill her, and an eternal stain is brought on my innocent daughter! My way of transgression has been very hard, and I reap now what I have sowed."

Thus he reproached himself unsparingly; but the young sufferer before him seemed to suffer his agony over again in her own person. At length she became composed enough to

continue:

"When I came here, it was not to inflict such suffering; and could I have done otherwise, never would I have seen your face again. I was telling you my trials. I was among strangers, and the virtuous shunned all intimacy, and some of the vicious made my misfortunes the apology for their base insults. But God showed me a Saviour, and in his strength I endured for the sake of my child. I worked night and day, and barely gained a subsistence, until grief and labor have crushed me. I saw I could not live long, but what was to become of my child ?"

"I will take care of your child and you. I will do anything to repair this dreadful wrong," exclaimed Mr. W., vehemently.

She did not seem to notice his words, but proceeded.

"Beggary and infamy, like horrid phantoms, hungry to devour my daughter, swept across my vision. I loved her, though she was a living monument of my guilt. Yes, I loved her fondly, and to think of her as an outcast wanderer, almost unsettled reason. And then I knelt before God, and agonized for mercy even on a wanderer, and prayed that my sin might not pursue my child."

And as the recollection of that agony was thus recalled, she wept aloud, and it may well be imagined that the emotions of her companion were not less. He seemed heart-broken, and as yet knew nothing of that comfort which a sinner receives from hearing a Saviour say, "Son, thy sins, which are many, are forgiven thee; go, and sin no more." He had attempted to forget his sin by flying away from the place of its commission; a course as absurd as for a leper to fly to some distant spot, instead of seeking some Divine Man who should say with authority," Be thou clean."

By this time the weeping sufferer had composed herself sufficiently to proceed:

"George, I had never heard of your residence, and yet when God forgave me, I prayed that his forgiveness might be extended to you if living."

"You kill me by this kindness," was the agonized exclamation; a dagger driven into my heart would be mercy to this. Curse me rather than speak thus! I cannot endure it!" She regarded him mournfully as she said, "Ah! how could I love that Redeemer who has said, 'Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you,' and yet not pray fervently for the man who cast a shadow darker than death over me? No, no, no; counsel me not thus, but rather teach me more of the blessed spirit of our Divine Saviour. The wrong was ours mutually, and I am not anxious to cast it all on you, or distress you with its remembrance." "But what can I do?" was the sorrowful question of Mr. W. "Must I kill my wife and child, and thus add more victims to the horrid sacrifice ?"

"No," she replied, "I would willingly die, rather than your innocent family should be ruined; but I love my child and tremble for her future. I was speaking of my anguished prayer. I did not dream of any way of deliverance, but

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felt that God is good, and that he would pity About that time a way was opened. An acquaintance had, unperceived, seen you here, and divulged the secret to no one but me, thinking I ought to know it."

"I might have known that concealment was impossible! Would I had been wise in time, but I was abandoned to myself!" Such was the exclamation of the convicted man.

"Well, I calmly thought the matter all over. I feared death might overtake me before another spring, and determined forthwith to brave the dangers and see you. I did not come for myself, but my child. Death will soon end my earthly trials, and it matters but little when or how my small remnant of life is spent."

"It does matter much to me," said the repentant man ;" you must be provided for at all risk, as well as your little girl. How it is to be done, I do not yet know, but it must be done."

She shook her head mournfully; and it is not at all unlikely, that now for the first time, she fully comprehended the probable obloquy which might be brought on a family by any unadvised step on her part. Perhaps she wished, as she saw Mr. W.'s pungent distress, not only on account of his victim, but also his family, she had braved the awful venture of leaving her child without a protector in the world.

She seemed to comprehend the dangerous position to all concerned, and then said calmly, "George, can you provide for my child, so soon to become an orphan? Give me that pledge, and I will leave you for ever, and die alone."

In the greatest agitation he was pacing the room, perplexed with fast-thronging thoughts, and harrowed with remorse. How could he plan? He had property to sustain her and her daughter, but how was he to become their protector, without bringing reproach on his own family? For himself he cared not. There was little difference in the alternatives presented to him. In this tumultuous whirl of thought, he stopped suddenly before her.

'Mary, I cannot think to-day. It has broken suddenly on me, and I know not which way to turn; but on one thing I am resolved, that you shall not suffer for want of anything that I can procure or do. Stay here to-day, and give me time to compose myself sufficiently to devise the best way. I have done a grievous wrong, and my heart assures me that I am suffering a grievous recompense; but, so help me God, I will do what I can to atone for it."

The young woman's eyes were suffused with

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tears as hope dawned on her, and she felt she could die in peace, if God would only protect her helpless daughter.

With a hurried farewell, Mr. W. left the room, and who can tell the horrid thoughts which rushed through his mind as he walked toward home? What should he do? What should he say? How could he appear before his wife, on whose innocent head a grievous blow must fall? And yet he must rid his heart of the base secret, and he must confide it to his wife. Perhaps she would spurn him; perhaps she would pity and help him. At any rate, he must tell her, and so he went home like a criminal to the rack. He felt like the "Ancient Mariner:"

"Forthwith this frame of mind was touched

With a woful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale,

And then it left me free."

When he entered his own house his wife turned pale to see the ghastly hopelessness depicted on his face. Perhaps no face ever was more indicative of despair.

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My husband, what can be the matter?" was her rapid interrogation.

But he was sick at heart, and struggled to speak. His tongue refused its aid, and the strong man swooned away. The house was now a scene of agony. What the cause was no one as yet surmised, except the wife; comparing the look of misery which his face wore at times, with the present scene, she was prepared for any development in bankruptcy or crime. From the latter her mind revolted, so pure and noble had her husband ever appeared in her eyes. But Providence will unravel its own mystery.

In the course of a few hours, Mr. W. was so far restored, as to be able to converse. He seemed like a subdued child, determined at all risk to confess his wrong. All left the room, save his companion, and to her, with sobs and tears, he told it all, and then awaited the contempt and reproaches which he expected.

Mrs. W. was a wise woman, and she truly loved him. Her heart bled at the sad revelation, and yet with a woman's hoping heart, she would not give up to despair.

Husband," said she, "you say this poor sufferer is at the public house with her child, and that she cannot live long."

"Yes, it is true, my crime has wrought misI would God I could repair!"

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"But you must not despond thus," she re

plied, for she was a devoted Christian. "There is forgiveness with God that he may be feared. Perhaps this unexpected stroke is designed to lead you back to God as a penitent to seek his forgiveness. This of which you speak has caused heart-breaking anguish to a fellow worm, but then, my dear George, the sin is against God. Oh, let me lead you to your Father, whose Son has died to save even the chief of sinners."

"Yes, yes, I know all this, and thank you for your comfort; but how dare I think of myself while this poor woman is dying of sorrow I brought on her? I dare not go to God until I have done what I can for her."

I think Mr. W.'s heart was already too much subdued with a heart-crushing sense of utter unworthiness to consider his good intentions concerning Mary as meritorious. Perhaps already genuine repentance was producing this good work as its first excellent fruit.

Mrs. W., seeing how strongly his mind was fixed on doing justice so far as he could to Mary, forthwith applied herself to relieve his anxiety. I have said that she was a Christian, and my remark will be amply verified. She saw from her husband's recital, that Mary's heart must be impressed with the image of Christ, and that was an ample reason to give her more than a cup of cold water. Besides, she intuitively saw that in her own family she might conceal a deed, committed in a moment of ill-considered passion, which might affix a terrible stigma to their only child. It might be a trial so severe as to endanger life, if Mary should be exacting and disposed to use her knowledge in terror over them for her own purposes. She did not believe this, but still how could she help fearing it? And then to have her own Anna, her only daughter, associated day by day with the young stranger-her mother's heart was agitated with great anxiety as to the issue of it all. I mention these things to place the nobility of this woman's character in its true light.

The young Roman burning his hand off in the presence of Rome's great enemy, was nothing to this fiery trial, through which she cheerfully resolved to pass. She did not shrink, but seeing the path of duty, she followed it with all its rugged roughness, and prospective trials. These thoughts were trooping through her mind, and her husband was regarding her with intense anxiety. She had spoken to him of the bleeding Saviour, for which he was grate

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'My dear George, we are all frail beings, and God forbid that I should now reproach you. May God forgive you, and give us both grace for a duty which may be very painful. This stranger must come here, because here we can bury the wrong if anywhere, and being an invalid we are bound to take care of her. Come, take courage, and go with me to her. I will treat her as a sister, if Heaven will give me grace sufficient !"

Mr. W. looked bewildered, like one who doubts his senses, and struggles to comprehend the meaning of what he sees and hears. It was no delusion. His noble wife had really said what his ears had heard, and completely overcome, he burst into uncontrollable weeping. It was long before he could compose himself sufficiently to sob forth:

"God bless you, Catharine, for these words. I am unworthy of you, and can only do what I can to undo my crime and die."

Hope in

God rather, and all will be as well as is possible in the case. We cannot undo our actions, but we can repent and do works meet for repentance. But come, now, compose yourself and let us go and bring her here."

It was a painful meeting, but the heroic Christian woman acted so that her husband's heart lost much of its pungent anguish, and Mary, a poor invalid not destined to live long, cheerfully turned aside into the asylum which Providence had pointed out for her to die in.

The whole history was kept a profound secret, and the community only knew that Mary was a friend in whom the family were deeply interested. Mrs. W. placed the orphan, for such I may call her, on an equality of privilege with her own daughter, and gave the invalid the most devoted care. That invalid had already become refined by sorrow, so that she reflected back the Great Refiner's image beautifully, and soon she was to be taken out of the fire. Her sufferings, her piety, and her perfect meekness, drew out the love of Mrs. W., so that what she looked forward to as a trial, be

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came a pleasure; and she verified the saying concerning Mercy :

"It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed:
I blesseth him that gives and him that takes."

But I am dwelling too long. From that day Mr. W.'s countenance wore a settled sadness. He had found forgiveness with God, and at the eleventh hour had done all that lay in his power to make comfortable one on whom he had brought so much suffering. And yet the past was recorded in letters of fire, and memory was true to her office. He had sowed and must reap. The Psalmist had wrung from his own anguished heart the Fifty-first Psalm, as a kind of atonement to the Holy Being against whom he had sinned. And now again was the scene repeated in the life of this man, whose sick heart and awakened conscience were eliciting from him also a penitential psalm, not expressed in words, but scarcely less touching and mournful.

About six months after the scenes already described, the pastor stood by the bed of Mary to cheer her last hours. She was wasted to a shadow, and yet her face indicated no despondency. To her the "promises were yea, and in Christ amen, to the glory of God the Father." Her words were cheerful, and to hear them was a great privilege. A stranger and an outcast from home, she was dying happily. The goodness of God subdued her as she spake of it. Her cup of blessing was running over, and she felt unutterable comfort at the near prospect of entering the upper sanctuary of joy, whence she should no more go out.

"As you look back on your life, how does it now appear?" asked the pastor.

"Full of sorrow," she replied; "but goodness and mercy infinitely overbalance the sorrow." "Full of sorrow, do you say? Does it seem to you that you have suffered enough to deserve

mercy?"

"Oh, no," she replied, turning her expressive eyes up to her pastor with a look of pain. "I have no deserts but those of ill; I am a wonder to myself, that God could stoop to rescue me, the chief of sinners. I can speak only of grace, and yet it is the sweetest of words, imparting a comfort more than I can describe. I would not change that word, sir, for any other if I could for it is full of the love of Jesus, and of the hope of heaven for one who has sinned."

"But do you not feel an inclination to mur