the Lord will have mercy upon me, and make me to understand what I do say. I know I can do nothing without Him; I am so very wicked, and my heart is so hard. It is my sincere wish to be weaned from this world, but it is so alluring that, without His support, I know I can do no good thing. If I could but only pray, then I should be happy; but sometimes I cannot, though I often try.

My dearest sister (who is now for ever happy) is often in my thoughts. She used to say, "How delightful it is to have friends to pray for me, for nothing is so delightful as prayer!" I sometimes wish she was here; but, when I think of the happiness she is enjoying above, it is very wicked of me; but I can say I do really hope and desire to go to her. She has got safely landed out of a world full of snares and troubles. Oh, happy she! I just think I see her lovely face in the coffin. How composed! Do you know, I really wished several times I had been lying beside her. But I must wait with patience; I hope it will not be long. Only to be found in Him-oh, what happiness! I do hope the dear creature's death will be sanctified to me and dear John, for I assure you she is scarcely ever out of my thoughts, and especially her last illness. Her sweet expressions will never be forgotten by me, they are so precious. Oh, that I may understand them! I hope I may be enabled to choose the better part, which shall not be taken away; but of myself I can do nothing good.

My father and I went to Newcastle about ten days ago. 1 assure you it was a most painful task to me. I just dreaded it; but I was wonderfully supported. It was to pack up the dear darling's things. Oh, my dear friend, when I saw the box my heart failed me, and I could not touch it, but I was relieved by a flood of tears; and, when I thought of her happiness, and where she is, I considered it very wrong to fret, so I dried up my tears. I felt a pleasing solemnity in looking at her things, for I thought, "Well, she has got a nobler robe than any of these, and she would not come back for a thousand worlds! Oh, the dear creature! I long to join her, for I did love her so dearly. She often used to say, "Oh, Betsy, you do not know how I love you!" How sweet is the remembrance of the past. She used frequently "If I was sure of dying happy, I would not care how soon I went." I am sure I can say the same, for really, when you view this world in its proper light, it is nothing else but vanity; and I hope to be enabled always to think so. Oh, to consider one's latter end! I wish to consider mine, and I trust the Lord will prepare me for my last great change. It is only He that can change the heart. I often pray for a new heart, and do hope I shall get it.

to say,

Oh, my dearest friend, pray for me, for I am so wicked;

but I hope the Lord will have mercy upon me, and forgive all my sins. I am writing freely to you, as you desired me, and if there is anything amiss, I hope you will pardon me. My head is very bad indeed. It has scarcely ever been well since I came home; but perhaps it is for my real good. Adieu, my dearest Durham mother, and believe me always to remain,

Your ever affectionate and dutiful daughter,

E. S. T.

For some five or six weeks after her dear sister's decease she was serious, much depressed in mind, and very weak in body. But, as my dear John said a short time before his death, "There wants something more than outward means to produce a real and lasting change." Speaking of that change as wrought in himself, and expressing his hope that it was the work of God, for all outward means had been insufficient, he said, "My dear sister's death made such an impression upon my mind that I resolved to read a chapter of the Bible every morning and evening; but, alas! I soon got tired of it, and excused myself in the evening by saying I was too weary; I would read two chapters in the morning. When the morning came, business occupied my mind, and I postponed reading until evening; so it was soon done with altogether." So it appeared with Elizabeth.

About six weeks after the departure of Mary Ann, I was exceedingly grieved to find that she was going on in her old way of making scornful remarks to the servant on some of my friends who had visited us on the Monday evening. On Tuesday, at dinner, I took an opportunity of reproving her in the following manner. I helped all at the table except Betsy. My wife said, "My dear, you have forgotten Betsy." I replied, "I have not forgotten her; but, as she seems to prefer kitchen company to the parlour, I think she had better get her meals there, and be there altogether." This reproof had a greater effect upon her than I either intended or expected. She instantly went into an hysteric fit, which affected me very much; but I felt an inward prompting to carry the concern to God by prayer, and that my soul was not to spare for her crying (Prov. xix. 18). As soon as she recovered she left the table, and retired to her own room; and, when dinner was ended, I went into my study with a variety of feelings. It pleased God to impress my mind with a faint hope— but I did not then know that the impression was from Him—that my dear daughter, notwithstanding her present enmity, had the grain of mustard seed (Luke xiii. 19) in her heart. My bowels yearned for her, but I considered it proper not to speak to her till after I returned from chapel, unless she requested it, or manifested sorrow for her faults.

Though she was much dejected in mind and poorly in body,

she went to chapel in the evening. My text was, "God setteth the solitary in families: He bringeth out those which are bound with chains: but the rebellious dwell in a dry land" (Psa. lxviii. 6). I felt a little hope while I was giving a description of the solitary, that I was describing the state of my beloved daughter. I have reason to believe that I was not mistaken, for, the day after her death, as I was examining her pocket Bible, I found several passages marked, some with a pencil and others with ink, and amongst them the text I took that Tuesday evening. The sight of that passage marked off immediately brought the circumstance to my mind.

I well remember that, when I came from chapel, I found she was gone to bed. After supper I went into her room, to ask her how she was, and to wish her a good night; when she threw her arms round my neck, kissed me most affectionately, and with many tears exclaimed, "Oh, my father, I can never love you half enough!" I was exceedingly pleased, and, with great affection and tenderness, pointed out the impropriety, as well as the great sinfulness, of joining with a servant in ridiculing her parents' friends. She expressed her conviction of the evil of it, her sorrow for what she had done, and her hope that she should be preserved in future from doing the like again.*

Soon after this she appeared so dejected, was so subject to hysteria, and so very weak in body, we thought a change of air might be beneficial to her. In the summer I took her to Helmsley, and left her for a few weeks with the friends there. The following is an extract from a letter she wrote to her mother, a short time after my leaving her :

Helmsley, August 5th, 1824. MY DEAR MOTHER,-I must inform you about my health, which, I am happy to say, is much improved. This air agrees with me so well. I feel considerably stronger in iny body, but my head does not seem to get much better. I hope it will in time. I have only had one fit since my dear father went, and that was on Sunday evening, when I was at chapel. It was occasioned by their giving out that favourite hymn of our dear Mary Ann's. When they came to those two nes

"Did Jesus once upon me shine?

Then Jesus is for ever mine,"

* We could wish that many children of godly parents, who lightly esteem and make jest of some of the Lord's ministers and saints, might, instead of being encouraged therein by the spirit evidenced by some, be brought under affectionate reproof, and by it to a sense of their sin, a was E. S. T.

I could not sit any longer. It had such an effect upon me that I just thought I saw the dear girl singing it. I was not able to go into the chapel again. It was the second hymn they sung. Ah! my dearest mother, it is astonishing what an effect that dear creature's death has on me. But, as you say, if it be sanctified to me, it will be a great mercy. But I am afraid, for I am so exceedingly thoughtless and wicked; yet I do hope the Lord will have mercy upon me, and preserve me, for there is no real happiness in this world. It is a great mercy to be convinced of our sinfulness. That is a beautiful passage you quoted, "My son, give Me thine heart." But my heart is so hard. I hope the Lord will give me a new heart, to love and praise Him, for it is impossible to love Him without that.

I hope, my dear mother, you will not be backward in writing to me, &c.

(To be continued.)

“THE LORD SHALL PRESERVE THY GOING OUT AND THY COMING IN."

WHEN reading the book on "Wonders of Divine Providence," a circumstance was brought to my mind which occurred to me some fifty years ago, and which proves how the Lord's preserving mercy is often made manifest to sinful worms.

I had been staying some weeks in London, seeking for a situation there, but was at last obliged to leave for the country. Before leaving by the coach, it was impressed on my mind to take no more money with me in my pocket than just what I should require for the day. I accordingly took, I think, about three pounds from my purse and put into my box.

I went safely by coach as far as Dale Gate, getting there about four o'clock, then, there being no conveyance beyond, I had a walk of about four and a half miles to reach Henfield. At that time it was a most lonely road, and myself a most timid person, but I was obliged to set out. After having paid for a cup of tea, I had just one shilling left in my purse. I set out on my walk with much fear, but met no one until I got on to the common, when I saw two men come on at the other end. We met about the middle, when they stopped me, and said, "Times are so bad that we are compelled to stop females on the high road." One was a very tall man, and what I may call ill-looking; the other was rather short, and each had what they call in the country a hedge-stake. I had with me an umbrella, a muff, and a basket with a flat lid. What was so surprising to me, after all the fear and trembling in which I had come thus far, I had courage given me in this time of need; and so, setting down my basket, I put my foot on it and

leaned on the umbrella, and began to talk to the men about the times, placing myself, as it were, in sympathy with their distress. I agreed with them about the times, telling them I had been staying in London trying to get a situation, but could not, and so was going home to my friends.

I well remember that the Reform Bill was about passing at the time, and I said, "There is much talk about this Bill. I don't know if it will make it any better for us." When I had talked to them some minutes, I took out my purse, but not in any hurry. It was a long crimson silk purse, with rings, and I took care to hold it so that they could see I had taken all the money out, and gave them the shilling without any remark. They thanked me and passed on, to my great relief, and I went the remainder of my journey without further hindrance.

I heard afterwards that a poor woman was met in the same way a short time before, and was used very, very ill.

Among my friends once more, I soon found employment; and a few days after, when sitting down at work, with a prospect of getting a living, I was so overcome at the goodness of the Lord to unworthy me, that I began blessing and praising His great name, telling Him I was undeserving of the least of all His mercies, being so black, &c., when' that sweet verse came with power, "Thou art all fair, My love; there is no spot in thee." I was calling myself "black;" the dear Lord called me "all fair." I told Him, if I was fair in His sight, it was from the comeliness He had put upon me. That was a happy time. Oh, this hard heart! Why do I not believe? "O thou of little faith, wherefore dost thou doubt ?" H. B. VINALL.

COURAGE OF LUTHER.

As Luther drew near the door which was about to admit him into the presence of his judges at the Diet of Worms, he met a valiant knight, the celebrated George of Freundsberg, who, four years later, at the head of his German lansquenets, bent his knee with his soldiers on the field of Pavia, and then charging to the left of the French army, drove it into the Picino, and in a great measure decided the captivity of the king of France. The old general, seeing Luther pass, tapped him on the shoulder, and shaking his head, blanched in many battles, said kindly, "Poor monk! poor monk! thou art now going to make a nobler stand than I or any other captain have ever made in the bloodiest of our battles. But, if thy cause is just, and thou art sure of it, go forward in God's name, and fear nothing. God will not forsake thee." A noble tribute of respect paid by the courage of the sword to the courage of the mind.-D'Aubigne.