But, on

tender wisdom to the character of the afflicted. first being brought into the wilderness, the soul cannot see the design, or anticipate the comfort, which shall afterwards be spoken to it. It is the tempted who know how to succour the tempted, and those that have mourned, and had their tears dried by the power of divine consolation, who have acquired the art of opening its treasures to others. Some such purposes were to be accomplished in the present instance. But, meanwhile, we have to deal only with the joyful circumstances. The diary contains brief allusion to it.

March 28.-How varied and important have been the events of this week! It is one never to be forgotten. The hopes of W. W. have been surpassed in his appointment to Urr. To us prospects looked gloomy, but our God has seen it meet to brighten them suddenly. Fears are turned to gladness, and doubt to praise. Since the news came, W. W. has been full of happiness, and says he thinks he cannot again be faithless. Alas! it may require hard lessons to teach that. Since the tidings came I have been oppressed by head-ache. God blends joy and pain in great mercy, but I have felt less able to think, and pray, and resolve. Oh, may He be nigh to-morrow! My heart is dead even under this load of goodness. When shall my life be praise? How easily, by withdrawing health, could God wither earthly joy and hope. He may see it needful, but let me ever keep near him, and then no real evil can come.'

After having been confined for some time by illness, she writes:

'April 3.-The Lord was merciful and raised me up again, and oh! I wish to spend my time for him. We have not yet made a sufficiently serious business of the great change that, within a week, has been wrought in our pros pects; my heart is too frivolously dissipated, but the Lord will teach me! I have been pretty industrious, but not profitably so. My time is not my own. May I use it while it flies!'

'April 16.-[After reviewing the three years that had passed since her beloved father was taken to his Saviour she adds,] 'Oh! that I could be of any use, but here too I have been too much at ease-how shall I look on this at

last? Earth looks so green, so flowery; my skies, far off it is true, yet still often gazed on, are so blue and tranquil, that the fair world of peace is forgotten, and sanctification little sought. God could startle me into a waking of awful anguish in a moment-but great are his mercies. Let me wake now and live in heavenly contemplation. Let me pray much for and with my friend in the few days we still may be together.'

CHAPTER VII.

VENERABLE CHRISTIAN-VISITS TO THE POOR-REV. JOHN BROWN PATTERSON.

FROM Dumfries-shire she went to her uncle's residence in Northumberland, and there wrote to her chosen friend near London on the same interesting subject in this manner: 'Dilston House, May 4.

"Your account of the death bed experience of calls for praise to the Rock of her salvation, who made the dark places bright; her end was peace. Does not everything confirm these words, " all things are yours?" Even death, so dreadful to nature, can be met joyfully by the most timid; or, what is equally wonderful, by the most happy; by those whose earthly prospects might seem too peaceful to be left without a struggle. Those words of hers, "it is the hap piest day of my life," have dwelt upon my mind. She was willing to bid adieu to time and all its pursuits, and to go, in the strength of her Saviour, to the unseen world. And thus it is that Jesus shows himself to be "all in all." Oh! why do we ever seek delight from meaner sources? There is in Him a loveliness which forms the surest refuge of the afflicted. It is more known as other joys are withdrawn. So Cowper felt, when he said,

"Earthly joys no more attracting,

Half the Christian's conflicts cease;

Earthly lights no more distracting,

Thou mayest trim thy lamp in peace."

Since receiving your most touching letter, I have often asked myself, whether I should be quite willing to die, should God recall my spirit soon. Alas! my dear friend, my heart is too much twined with earthly things; and I cannot feel that I wish to go, but rather should like to live long here. Are you not sorry for me? I may be called

at any hour, and yet I desire to stay. I know that strength is sufficient for the day, but I know also that my deceitful heart has laid up too much treasure on earth-has suffered itself to be possessed of too many hopes of future days, and does not gladly and often turn to heaven as the abode where it longs to be! Thus it is that temptations rise out of our best blessings. I can only commend myself, feeble, weak, and needy as I am, to Him who hath led me hitherto, and I know that He will not cast me from Him. But you donot know the difficulty I have in keeping the things of time in due subjection. I spent a few very pleasant weeks at Ruthwell, not idly. While there, my friend received an appointment to a parish twenty-five miles from his father. Some of his friends had anticipated it, but I had been so fully persuaded that he would be longer held in a state of probation, that I had never expected such an issue to the matter, and the surprise was great. The population of Urr is, I believe, large, and the responsibilities connected with it are great and solemn. There is only one source to which to look for requisite grace and strength, and I desire ever to wait upon the Lord, who daily loadeth me with benefits. He is trying me with mercies now. Ah! who can tell how soon He may see it needful to change his dealings! There is no situation more calculated to make its occupant look constantly to Jesus, than that of a clergyman. It is his own work, and utterly unavailing without his blessing.

I am now visiting my kind uncle and aunt near Hexham, and many are my lonely musings here. The woods are extensive and wild; and as I tread the steep and winding paths alone, my thoughts often take a sad and sober turn. I think, for all that passes around teaches me, how vain it is to fix the heart on any earthly object, which may be taken away in a moment. I try to draw near to God in prayer, and find it sweet to commit all that is dear to me into His hands, and to be sure that it is safe and blessed in his keeping. The fist, with all its forgetfulness of Him, returns, and makes me sorrowful; but this quiet time may, by his blessing, be of great use in making me love him more. I have written, my dearest friend, a most selfish letter, and can only plead in excuse your gentle reproach for

I

saying so little of what relates to me. You now see a good deal of my foolish and weak heart, but I hope it will make you pray that I may constantly be taught of God. Are you well now, dear F- ? I wish I could tell you how often I think of you, and what a delight it would be if I could in the least contribute to your amusement, or help you to draw sweetness out of the portion of bitter which God has mingled in your cup. But I can pray for you. This is a privilege which the little flock alone enjoy, and nothing deserves the name of friendship that is not thus cemented. Let us often bear each other's names to the holy place, and then, oh, how shall we rejoice to meet in heaven. should be very much pleased if you could join a little society of Christians, many of whom live distant from each other, who meet in spirit on the evenings of every Friday, to pray for personal increase of grace, and for the outpouring of the Spirit over the world. An hour cannot be fixed because of the various circumstances of the parties, but it is very pleasant and salutary. We should use every means to arouse our souls to prayer. Write very soon, my dear F., and do not spare me. Tell me all you think of my state of mind. Yet how should you, for I cannot represent it to you as it is. Ah, how gently I deal with my own sins! I desire to feel them more, that the blood of Jesus may be increasingly precious.'

A soul, so timorous lest prosperity should deaden its exercises, and accepting a promised blessing with so solemn a consciousness of unworthiness, was not ill prepared for a reverse; solicitude about securing her ultimate hope being ever the paramount sentiment, prosperous and adverse circumstances in the present time, were both modified in their power over her. There is something so graceful and singlehearted in her manner of mingling her enjoyment of nature with the sentiment which, at that period, was most potent in her heart, that we are tempted to extract one or two passages from letters to her future husband, written on the banks of the Tyne, where her soul flor ́ed peacefully in the exercise of the most confiding affection.

• Dilston House, May 5.—When I look at the bright sunshine which, at this moment, gilds the winding glen that stretches itself beneath the windows, I am reminded of