Mrs. Boardman's after testimony proves that her residence in Calcutta did not conduce to her spirituality in religion. Whatever might have been her improvement in other respects, she did not make that progress in the wisdom which is foolishness to the men of this world, those advances in the grace of Christ, which her previous course had promised. Delay had brushed the first bloom from her enthusiasm, and though it might give place to something better and more enduring, which was to come hereafter, the present effect was to be regretted. She was a lovely wife, a fond, proud mother, a most attractive companion, and an accomplished lady. It has been written of her that her English friends, at this time, regarded her

as the most finished and faultless specimen of an American woman that they had ever known." She was a Christian, too, preferring in her heart of hearts the service of her blessed Saviour, to any pleasures or distinctions that the world can give; but her position was not favourable to the development of fervent, heart-piety. Worldly prosperity, and idleness, (a kind of spiritual-idleness, I mean; for Mrs. Boardman's hands and head were doubtless busy,) are great enemies to growth in grace, and both of these were incidental to her

position. She was not yet on her own missionary ground, and the people, to whom her heart had gone, were not about her; so, while Mr. Boardman, in his less limited capacity of a preacher and a man, could say, "I never

had so much reason to believe that God was with me, to bless my labours, as I have had here," she was only studying a dry, difficult language, and looking to the future for usefulness. Her love to God, though real, at times fervent, and always sufficiently strong to render her capable of any sacrifice of worldly advantage to duty, had not yet been ripened by long exercise, nor chastened by sorrow. The news of the death of a little brother, for whom she had felt the half-maternal tenderness natural to an elder sister, startled her, for a moment, from a state of spiritual lukewarmness. Pathetic were the appeals made to her other brothers and her sisters, for preparation to meet the lost little one; and pointed and emphatic were her heart-questions. Indeed, constant warnings to the family friends, from whom she had parted, were never neglected from the time she looked her last upon them in the land of her birth, till her failing hand dropped the pen for ever. The following is a

part of a poem, written after the bereavement above mentioned:

"Oh, I remember well the time when thou,
A little child, first lisped thy evening prayer.
Then I was wont to kneel beside thy cot,
And plead for blessings on thine infant head;
And when I'd kissed thy cheek, and wished for

thee

A night of pleasant sleep and joyful morn,
How oft upon my ear thine accents fell,
Plaintive and sweet as is the voice of birds,—
Come back, dear sister, for a moment come,
And tell me more of that dear Saviour's love;
Teach me to shun the dark and dreadful world,
Where wicked spirits dwell in guilt and shame;
And talk to me of heaven, where Jesus is!'
And often now, in fancy, do I see

Thee on thy bed of languishing and death.
I see thee stretch thy weak and wasted arms,
To clasp thine infant sister; hear thee say,
Dear mother, give the baby Sarah's name;
I see thee raise thy glazing eye to heaven,
And hear thee lisp thy simple, dying prayer.
But oh! 'tis fancy all; I was not there,
To hear the gentle pleadings of thy voice,
To smooth thy dying pillow, and to claim
Thy last fond look of love. I was not there,
To soothe thy father's grief, and wipe the tear
From the mild eye of her who gave us birth.

Alas! in sorrow's hour, they looked in vain
For me, their eldest born; but still I know
They were not all alone. Jesus was there;
Upon his breast my brother leaned his head;
His blessed presence softened every grief;
My parents wept, but his kind, soothing hand
Wiped from their eyes the tear, and all was well.

CHAPTER V.

MAULMAIN.

Broad leaves spreading, creepers trailing,
Cast strange, fitful shadows there;
Brilliant blossoms, fruits ne'er failing,
Crimson clouds in azure sailing,

Lade with wealth the slumberous air.

But the hooded serpent's creeping
Where the richest blossoms fall;
From his lair the tiger leaping;
And dark forms, at midnight creeping,
Ghost-like, glide along the wall.

N the 17th of April, 1827, the Boardmans arrived at Amherst; and in two days after Mrs. Boardman was first attacked by the disease which made her an invalid for many years; and which, finally, after a long interval of health, brought her to the grave., How peculiarly saddening must any illness have seemed at this crisis; when, after an absence of nearly two years from her native land, she had just set foot, for