MISSIONARY VISITS.

BY MRS. A.W. CURTIS.

We were going out for a ride, a pleasure ride, a mission of mercy to the sick and afflicted, to carry them spiritual and physical comforts.

We have no missionary horse and buggy, and it was not an elegant equipage standing before our door. Our steed was a very lank, bony, long-eared mule, and the vehicle a rather disreputable looking old delivery wagon, kindly loaned to us by our grocer; but we were thankful for anything that would take us safely. We soon came to a deep, ugly-looking ravine, that must be crossed. I walked over the log that spanned it, while Dominie "rattled his bones over the stones," down the steep descent, and up the farther side in safety, thanks to the sure-footed mule. Just beyond was a small rude cabin. The old chimney had tumbled down, leaving nearly the whole of one side entirely open to the weather. Inside, upon a bed that nearly filled the small room, lay a woman who was paralyzed. A little child was her only attendant. Some kind neighbor, however, had made her clean and comfortable for the day. The poor woman could not move, but her dark eyes beamed with delight at the sight of us, and the poor drawn face expressed the joy she could not speak. We talked of the dear friend Jesus, whom she loved and trusted, sang together a song of faith, and commended her to heaven's mercy and kindness, in prayer.

On we went again, over the hills, the sun climbing higher and growing hotter every moment. Then we turned off into some dim cool woods, picking our way through rough ravines and blind tracks until we reached another little cabin home. We had to bend low to enter the door of the rough, rude house, yet the one low room, with loft above, sheltered a family of nine persons.

Upon a bed, the dear old grandmother was dying, but the dark cabin seemed illuminated by the shining face of the happy saint.

"You are almost home, Auntie?"

"Yes chile, almost home!"

"And you find Jesus dear and precious, now?"

"Yes! yes! dear and precious."

I held her cold, almost pulseless hands in mine, while her minister read comforting words of hope from the blessed Word. Then we sang for her, closing with—

Her dark face was fairly radiant. She lifted her hands toward heaven, and though our eyes were holden that we could not see, we felt that the Lord and his angels were glorifying that humble abode, making it the gateway of heaven. Holding fast to our hands as we knelt beside her bed, she murmured responses to our prayers.

With uplifted hearts, we said our last good-bye, and went away rejoicing in her triumph over the terrors of death and at the thought of the glory that awaited her. As we passed out of sight, she entered within the gates, with that radiant look upon her face; and the next day at sunset we laid her away to rest.

From this "Beulah-land," we hastened on to visit a man who was in the last stages of consumption. We had been for some time doing what we could that he might be prepared for the great change that was drawing near. In the low doorway, sat an old hag-like woman, who stared at us with a look of rage, as we passed by her into the room where the sick man was. Sultry as was the day, there was a hot blaze in the cavernous fireplace. Over it hung an iron kettle, from which most sickening odors emanated. The sick man was in a heavy stupor. We tried in vain to arouse him, even for a moment. His wife looked unusually cheerful, as she assured us that he "was a great deal better; that he did not cough at all, and rested mighty easy."

We understood the situation at once. The poor woman was densely ignorant, and believed her husband had been "conjured." The old hag in the doorway was "a witch doctor," who had promised to cure him for ten dollars! How the poor wife with her five little children to support managed to raise it, God only knows; but she had done it, and was pouring down that unconscious man's throat, hourly doses of a villainous compound of most loathsome things, over which the old hag muttered her incantations, and worked her Satanic spells. She watched us with her evil eye as we looked pityingly upon the poor sufferer, and glared menacingly when we told the poor wife that he was no better; that the end was near.

That very night the death-like stupor was broken by agonies of torture which racked the wasted frame for many hours. There was no respite for a prayer, or for a thought of the eternity into which his poor soul was hastening. The witch doctor fled in haste, unable to endure the sight of the tortures she herself had invoked. It was an unutterable relief when those shrieks of agony were hushed by the awful silence of death.

To us, there came an added burden of care as we realized how many of this people are still in bondage to these heathenish customs and superstitions. Nothing but the light of a pure gospel and the elevating influences of education, will lift them out of their degradation. It will take years of time, and patient labor, and will cost something; but these souls are precious to God. They are "the heathen at our door." There are millions of them! They will soon be a mighty power for good or evil in our nation. Which shall it be?