Her parents were at this time from home; but they returned just on the arrival of the letter, and partook of the pleasure its contents were likely to convey. She was with the family during the June vacation, and by her conduct evidenced the truth of her conversion. Indeed her whole deportment exhibited the genuineness of the divine change she had experienced; and in nothing so much as in her solicitude for the spiritual welfare of her sisters. They could not but observe the pleasing fact that Mary had been made a subject of the grace of God; nor was she wanting in the faithful discharge of affectionate duty in aiming to secure their salvation. She ardently desired that her sisters should drink into the same spirit, and partake of the same joy as herself; nor were they less willing to listen to the expression of her feelings, or to receive counsel at her hands. When again she left home for school she gave to each a little note. These effusions of her pious zeal are so expressive of the state of her own mind that an extract or two may be interesting and profitable. Addressing one, she says, "My dear Sister,—I think we all appear to feel more at the idea of parting than we used to do; which is a proof that the ties of religion are stronger than those of nature: but though we are about to part in body, our minds will continue one, and we shall labour to enter into that rest where no separation can take place. Let us watch and pray time steals away. If we get safely to heaven at last, we shall not think that too much of our precious time on earth was spent in prayer and praise to God. No; if in the heavenly world we could feel any degree of sorrow, we should rather feel it when we consider how little fruit we brought forth in the vineyard of the Lord. Let me entreat you never to rest satisfied till you find the pearl of great price: it is not the will of God that we should go mourning on account of our sins all our days. No; he is now waiting to pardon you: only believe in Jesus Christ. You cannot dishonour the Lord more than by disbelieving him.” To another she writes, "My dear Sister,-Endeavour to overcome every obstacle that hinders the work of grace in your heart; especially guard against that which you think is your besetting sin. If you give place to that, others must follow. Never grow weary in well-doing: in due season ye shall reap, if ye faint not. It is only those who endure unto the end, that will be saved. The nearer you live to God here, the happier you will be hereafter. Always remember the prize is at the end of the race; and those that patiently bear the cross, will be the glorious wearers of the crown." When Mary became decided for the Lord, she united herself, from principle and love, to the Methodist society. Her feelings did not continue so joyous as at the first: it was thought she suffered from her great backwardness to speak of her state; but her friends saw no difference in her deportment; and there is every reason to believe she walked with God. In November, 1831, she showed appearances of fever; was course to medical aid; but the disorder, though for a while arrested, was not subdued. She, however, continued to walk out, and complained but little, when serious indisposition again appeared, and gave her kind medical attendants and her friends cause for apprehension as to its result. On the 15th of February, she was confined to her bed, which she never left alive. Her surgeon requested that a Physician might be consulted; but he did not encourage hope; and before the domestic circle were aware, they had the painful prospect of losing her. Under these circumstances her friends were anxious to know the state of her mind; yet her extreme weakness precluded much conversation. On being informed of the Physician's intended visit, she began to suspect her danger. After a few minutes of silence she asked one of her sisters to read a portion of Scripture; which being done, she burst into tears, and exclaimed, "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" She continued to speak pleasingly and satisfactorily on spiritual subjects. On the same day she was visited by the Rev. R. Sherwell; who said to her, "What a comfort it is to have a God to go to in affliction!" She replied, with great emphasis, "It is indeed, Sir." "You can approach him, then, with confidence!" "Yes; I can. I view things in a different light now from what I did in health. I find it difficult to keep my thoughts stayed long on one subject." On another day, a sister expressed a hope that she might yet be restored. She meekly answered, "I am not anxious. It is sweet to lie passive in His hands, and know no will but his." A day or two after, she said, "I find the promise,' My grace is sufficient for thee,' to be my support and comfort every day." On the Sunday previous to her death, she was asked, "Can you trust yourself with Jesus?" "Yes." "If you had your choice what the Lord should do with you, what would you say?" She closed her eyes, and after some time opened them, and said, "I would rather not choose." During the last few days of her life her mind wandered; a natural consequence of feverish debility; but not a word escaped her that was in the least degree improper. She sunk rapidly until March the 10th, when her weeping friends gathered around her bed to receive her last breath. So easy was the spirit's departure, that it brought to recollection the lines, "Summer evening's latest sigh, The chief features of Miss Jenkin's character were retiredness and sincerity. She was always afraid of being brought into notice. She had a good understanding, a retentive memory, and was fond of improvement. She collected for the Missionary cause, and regularly distributed tracts among the poor. The last place she was at was the Sunday-school, six weeks before her death. She loved little children, and had great partiality for the Ministers of the Gospel, whose company and conversation she always enjoyed. POETRY. TO THE MOON. BY MISS JANE TAYLOR. WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night, O why should I gaze with such tender delight What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrows beguile, Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile, The tear that looks bright in thy beam as it flows, The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose, And yet thou dost sooth me; and ever I find, A moonlight composure steals over the soul, I think of the years that for ever are filed; Of joys that are wither'd; of hopes that are dead; I think of the future, still gazing the while But ne'er dost thou grant an encouraging smile, To answer the mournful appeal. Those beams which so bright through my casement appear, To far distant scenes they extend; Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear, And sleep on the grave of my friend! Then still I must love thee, mild Queen of the Night! Since fancy and feeling agree To make thee a source of unfailing delight,' course to medical aid; but the disorder, though for a while arrested, was not subdued. She, however, continued to walk out, and complained but little, when serious indisposition again appeared, and gave her kind medical attendants and her friends cause for apprehension as to its result. On the 15th of February, she was confined to her bed, which she never left alive. Her surgeon requested that a Physician might be consulted; but he did not encourage hope; and before the domestic circle were aware, they had the painful prospect of losing her. Under these circumstances her friends were anxious to know the state of her mind; yet her extreme weakness precluded much conversation. On being informed of the Physician's intended visit, she began to suspect her danger. After a few minutes of silence she asked one of her sisters to read a portion of Scripture; which being done, she burst into tears, and exclaimed, "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" She continued to speak pleasingly and satisfactorily on spiritual subjects. On the same day she was visited by the Rev. R. Sherwell; who said to her, "What a comfort it is to have a God to go to in affliction!" She replied, with great emphasis, "It is indeed, Sir." "You can approach him, then, with confidence!"' "Yes; I can. I view things in a different light now from what I did in health. I find it difficult to keep my thoughts stayed long on one subject." On another day, a sister expressed a hope that she might yet be restored. She meekly answered, "I am not anxious. It is sweet to lie passive in His hands, and know no will but his." A day or two after, she said, "I find the promise,' My grace is sufficient for thee,' to be my support and comfort every day." On the Sunday previous to her death, she was asked, " Can you trust yourself with Jesus?" "Yes." "If you had your choice what the Lord should do with you, what would you say?" She closed her eyes, and after some time opened them, and said, "I would rather not choose." During the last few days of her life her mind wandered; a natural consequence of feverish debility; but not a word escaped her that was in the least degree improper. She sunk rapidly until March the 10th, when her weeping friends gathered around her bed to receive her last breath. So easy was the spirit's departure, that it brought to recollection the lines, "Summer evening's latest sigh, The chief features of Miss Jenkin's character were retiredness and sincerity. She was always afraid of being brought into notice. She had a good understanding, a retentive memory, and was fond of improvement. She collected for the Missionary cause, and regularly distributed tracts among the poor. The last place she was at was the Sunday-school, six weeks before her death. She loved little children, and had great partiality for the Ministers of the Gospel, whose company and conversation she always enjoyed. POETRY. TO THE MOON. BY MISS JANE TAYLOR. WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night, O why should I gaze with such tender delight What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrows beguile, Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile, The tear that looks bright in thy beam as it flows, The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose, And yet thou dost sooth me; and ever I find, A moonlight composure steals over the soul, I think of the years that for ever are fled; Of joys that are wither'd; of hopes that are dead; I think of the future, still gazing the while But ne'er dost thou grant an encouraging smile, To answer the mournful appeal. Those beams which so bright through my casement appear, To far distant scenes they extend; Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear, And sleep on the grave of my friend! Then still I must love thee, mild Queen of the Night! Since fancy and feeling agree To make thee a source of unfailing delight,' |