STORY OF RUTH.

"And it came to pass, when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the city was moved about them, and they said, is this Naomi?"-Ruth i. 19.

Now what was there peculiar in the character, or eventful in the fortunes of this woman, to excite such a general commotion in one of the most populous cities of Judah? Probably she was a lady of exalted rank; perhaps a king's daughter; or some unfortunate empress, whose woes, like those of injured Antoinette, claimed the pity not only of a city, but of the world. Thus, impatient curiosity, art thou wont to hurry to erroneous conclusions. I am weary of conjectures. The book of Ruth shall end them.

Ah, the book of Ruth-But what can be learned from a tale so simple, which Thomas Paine has called an idle, bundling story? Believe me, ye among my readers who have heads of fancy and hearts of feeling, that notwith

standing the deistical effrontery, and impious vulgarism of that renegado, the book of Ruth is a specimen of fine writing, and of amiable morality, not often to be found. It is a drama too; and trust me that neither Euripides, nor Sophocles, nor even the magical Shakspeare, ever conceived, or expressed scenes more tender, than the wife and daughter of Elimelech personated in the highway of Moab, and among the reapers of Boaz.

During the judicial administration of Judah, a famine compelled a man of Bethlehem, his wife and sons to migrate to Moab. The wife soon became a widow. This forlorn female, alone, in the land of strangers, her little estate impoverished, seeing the partner of her cares and the hope of her age extinct, and hearing that the fields of Bethlehem were once more fertile, prepared to return, in a state of mournful expectation, to her native land. And was there no kind hearted and sociable spirit to attend thee, O Naomi, in this thy pensive pilgrimage; to lend thee a supporting arm, and to wipe the tears of a poor widow? Was every Moabite so inhumane as to be unmindful of an unfortunate stranger? Could not thy drooping

age find at least one staff from the remnants of the broken house of Elimelech? Yes; there was an ORPAH to kiss away the tears of dejectionthere was a Ruth to follow, wherever a mourn ing mother should lead.

Now, although, in the days of my youth and fantasy, I have wandered whole nights, delighted, among the fairy fictions of the Arabian tales; although I read ten times the adventures of Don Quixote, lunatic knight, and of Guliver, sober faced seaman; although I have followed with anxious eyes, John Bunyan's Christian, whether rising the hill, Difficult; or wading the slough, Despond; yet never have I read a novel of more interest or purer simplicity, than this oriental historiette.

The affectionate maiden, whose name is the title of the story, "clave" to Naomi, and insisted to be her fellow traveller, notwithstand ing her most eager and earnest remonstrances. Their contests were friendly; and pleasant will it be to narrate them. To dissuade Ruth from this journey, Naomi employed forcible arguments addressed to the passions of a young woman, addressed to vanity and to love. She told her that, as her sister Orpah chose to remain in

Moab, it would be better to abide there as her companion. In her own country, Ruth could meet many lovers and friends; in another, every face would be a strange one, and probably, every heart would be cold. But neither the expostulation of an experienced matron, nor the dread of poverty, nor of beauty neglected, could frustrate the benevolent purpose of this amiable young woman. For she said, intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: For whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.

Such a determination must be approved by a fond parent; that it was so appears from the expressive silence of Naomi, and from the context, for "they two went until they came to Bethlehem." This was verily a sentimental journey; it might be intitled, the Travels of the Charities, and be likened unto the kissing of righteousness and peace.

But, in such a journey there could be but few incidents. The hearts of Naomi and of her daughter were too full for utterance; if I were disposed to record the language of their looks I might protract a prolix sermon. It is need. less. Every son of sensibility knows what kind

of dialogue would pass between maternal affec tion and filial gratitude.

However silent these pilgrims might be themselves, it seems that others talked, and loudly too, at the sight of virtue and beauty in distress. For we read, that it came to pass, when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the city was moved about them, and they said, is this Naomi?

This brings me to a main design of this discourse. My impatient readers, fretting at the desultory Lay Preacher, think, doubtless, that I have wandered from my way. Perhaps this is a correct opinion; but all, except Dutch divines, will leave the narrow and strait path of method, for the sake of a ramble with such agreeable personages, as I have been describ. ing.

"All the city was moved about them, and they said, is this Naomi?" What, a whole metropolis commiserating the distresses of two obscure females! Then it seems, that men can flock together, in the market place for other purposes, than those of gain. A city was in commotion, but not from eagerness to resort to