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Spread of Primitive Christianity.

"I saw another messenger flying through the midst of heaven, having everlasting good news
to proclaim to the inhabitants of the earth, even to every nation, and tribe, and tongue, and
people; saying with a loud voice--Fear God, and give glory to him, for the hour of his judgments
is come; and worship him who made heaven, and earth, and sea, and the fountains of water"






TIME, that great revealer of secrets

that brief but solemn span which divides the Past from the Future, and in which is involved consequences so momentous to man- that ever-flowing stream, on which we are being constantly and rapidly conveyed from one state of being to another-Time has, by the upholding hand of God, enabled us to cross the boundary line of the eventful, and in some respects calamitous year, ONE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND FORTY-NINE. The grand purposes of God, entombed in the mysterious future, are unfolding and ripening every hour. But man, vain man, noble though he be, is nevertheless ignorant, thoughtless, and comparatively unconcerned regarding his future prospect and final destiny in the creation of God.

The past year exhibits to a thoughtful mind the impressive fact, that myriads of the human family who, at its commencement, were in the enjoyment of health of body, and vigour of mind, with the bright prospect of longcontinued life and happiness, have been unexpectedly laid silent in death. Pestilence and disease, famine and war, with all their attending evils, spread through the world with fearful rapidity, carrying dismay and death in their train. As in every age since sin entered the world, so now the record stands true, that "The whole creation groaneth and travelleth in pain together."

January, 1850.

"How many feel this very moment, death

And all the sad variety of pain:

How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame: how many bleed
By shameful variance betwixt man and man:
How many pine in want and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air and common use
Of their own limbs: how many drink the cup

Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery sore pierced by wintry winds:
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty: how many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,--
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic Muse."


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