"That's true, my dear young friend, but"——

"Pardon me for interrupting you, but I dare not ask for mercy. Justice demands a victim, and I must die."

"But mercy pleads."

"Yes, but she will never plead for me."

"Do try to pray."

"No, I am not disposed to offer a fresh insult to God. He has rejected me. I know my doom. It is irrevocably fixed. I deserve all I suffer, and all I have to suffer."

Mr. Jordan now left him, but called again the next evening, when he found him rather better and more composed, and was gratified to hear that he had written a letter to his mother, informing her of his indisposition, and that she might expect to see him in the space of a few days, as he had been recommended to try the effect of a change of air.

THE WIDOW'S SON RECLAIMED.

To indulge the hope of reclaiming such a youth by the mere force of terror or persuasion, would be a visionary prospect; yet, have we never seen the prodigal return? Have we never heard the parent exclaim, "For this my son was dead, but is alive again; he was lost, but is found?"

George Lewellin left London a few days after he had communicated the state of his health to his mother, and reached her home the following morning; when she saw him, as he was opening the wicket gate in front of the house, she sprang up, ran, fell on his neck, and kissed him. The interview was affecting; and it was some moments before either of them could speak. On raising her eyes to survey the once lovely form of her only son, now emaciated by disease, she could not refrain from exclaiming, as she pressed him still closer to her agonized bosom, "O, George, what's the matter? How long have you been ill? Why did you conceal your illness from me?"

"Be composed, mother; I am better, and have no doubt but relaxation from business, and the fresh air of the country, will be the means of bringing me about again. The porter is waiting with my trunk; I will thank you to satisfy him for his trouble, as I have no change."

During the first week after his arrival he began to mend; and all indulged a hope of his speedy recovery; but disease had taken too deep root in his constitution to be suddenly eradicated; and within a fortnight the fever returned with increasing violence, setting at defiance the skill of the physician, who confessed that his life was in the most imminent danger. He now took to his bed, and said to a young friend who called to see him: "I shall never leave this room till I am carried out by the ministers of death." On the following Sabbath, his mother ventured to ask him how he felt in prospect of death. This question agitated him. He became restless, a sullen gloom was thrown over his countenance, and he remained silent. This silence inflicted a deeper wound in her tender bosom than the most piercing cries of mental anguish; and though she endeavoured to conceal her grief, yet she was unable to do so. "O, George, do tell me. When I lost your father, I had the consolation of knowing that he was gone to heaven; and your dear departed sister said, just before she left me, 'Weep not for me, for I shall soon see the King in his beauty;' and will you die without allowing me to indulge the hope of meeting you in heaven?"

"O, George, do not put from you the words of peace."

"The words of peace, to my soul, are like the dragon's sting or the viper's bite; and the voice of mercy sounds more awful in my ears than the footsteps of vengeance. I know my doom; and if you wish me to have a moment's calm while the respite lasts, talk of earth, of its joys, or of its sorrows; but bring me not near the spot where Mercy died for man."

The fever, which had remained stationary for several days, now raged with uncontrolled violence, without impairing the vigour or acuteness of his intellect, and all expected that a few hours would terminate his mortal career. His mother hung over him, breathing the purest and most ardent affection; but she was not permitted to instil the consolations of religion, and that at length so overpowered her feelings that she was obliged to retire, leaving her only son the victim of despair. His eye followed her as she left the room; and when the door closed, he burst into a flood of tears, exclaiming, "The doom that awaits me would be less terrible, if I could have concealed it from my mother. I have destroyed myself, and plunged the fatal dagger into her breast. O, thou holy, thou righteous God, thou art clear when thou judgest, and just when thou condemnest! Have pity on my dear mother, and support her soul under this awful visitation of thy vengeance!"

He now became more composed; but on hearing the clock strike eleven, he started up in bed, asked for a large draught of cold water, and expressed an ardent wish to see his mother once more, as he was apprehensive that life was just on the eve of departing. A female attendant went to call her, but she was asleep; and on returning, she asked if she should awake her. After a long pause, he said, "No; let her sleep on, and take her rest, and I will die alone, and spare her the agony of hearing the last tremendous groan, which is to announce my entrance into hell." He then requested that another pillow might be placed under his head; and turning himself on his left side, he laid himself down to expire. In about a quarter of an hour the nurse, who was standing by his side, gently whispered, "I think he is gone;" but on feeling his pulse, she soon ascertained that he was in a profound sleep. He slept for several hours, during which time the fever very much abated, and when he awoke he said, with a firm tone, "I now think I shall recover."

"Yes, my child," replied Mrs. Lewellin, "the Lord has heard my prayers, and answered them, by sparing your life; and I have no doubt but he will answer them further by making this affliction the means of bringing you to repentance, and the enjoyment of fellowship with him."

This appropriate remark made a deep impression; he looked at his mother, but said nothing. His recovery was as rapid as his relapse had been dangerous; and though his strength was greatly impaired, yet he was able to leave his room in the early part of the ensuing week. Being now rescued from the brink of death, and animated with the hope of returning health, as he sat alone musing over the awful scene through which he had so recently passed, he laid his hand on a hymn-book, which was placed on the table, and read the following hymn with intense interest:—

While reading these verses, the determination he had formed to live and die without hope, was shaken; but after a momentary pause, he involuntarily exclaimed, in an under tone of utterance, "It would be an act of presumption for me to indulge a hope of ever feeling the power of 'changing grace.' No, it cannot be; my heart is too hard. I am too impure, too depraved, too guilty." This novel train of thought was broken off by the entrance of his mother into the parlour, who was surprised and delighted by seeing him with the hymn-book, which he still held in his hand. Without appearing to notice it, after a casual reference to the good prospect of his speedy restoration to health, she said, "I hope, my dear George, as you are now able to visit your friends, that you will accompany me in the evening to chapel, where you will hear a most excellent minister."

"I will go to oblige you, but I can anticipate no other pleasure."

"But you may derive some profit, for there the Lord condescends to make the truth effectual to the salvation of them that believe.'

"But I cannot believe, no, I cannot; I would, but I cannot!"

"But faith, my dear child, comes by hearing; and who can tell but this night you may feel the power of changing grace."

After tea, Mrs. Lewellin and her son walked to the chapel; and though there were no splendid decorations to allure the devotee of superstition, nor any sculptured forms to attract the attention of the sentimental worshipper, yet it was invested with unrivalled charms in her estimation, as the place where

The reading, the singing, and the prayer accorded with the general tone of feeling which a select congregation usually enjoy; and though young Lewellin conducted himself with the greatest degree of decorum, yet it was not till after the text was announced that he appeared interested in the service. The preacher was a young man, of a correct taste, strong intellectual powers, and bold and animated address; but the subject which he had chosen for discussion was more adapted to establish the Christian in his faith, than reclaim the sinner from the error of his ways. The text was taken from 1st Corinthians, vi. 17: He that is joined unto the Lord is one spirit. There were no flights of lofty imagination in the composition of the discourse; no powerful appeals to the conscience; no master-strokes of argument, levelled against either the root or branches of infidelity; no terrific enunciations of the Divine displeasure; but a calm and spiritual explanation and defence of the doctrine of our union with Jesus Christ. The service was concluded without having produced any visible effects on Lewellin, who walked away with his mother, and the only remark he made was, "I never heard such a sermon before." She knew not how to interpret the meaning of this ambiguous expression, and made no reply, lest, by coming in contact with his deistical opinions, she should be incapable of persuading him to accompany her at a future time. On entering the parlour, he took a candle and retired to his own room, which gave his mother a private opportunity of imploring the blessing of Heaven on the service of the evening. After waiting a considerable time, she began to feel uneasy, and went to the bottom of the stairs to listen; but on hearing his footsteps as he paced his chamber, she resumed her seat. An hour had now elapsed since she had seen him; the ambulating motion was no longer heard, her fears were strongly excited, and being unable to suppress them, she stole up softly to his door, and listening a while with breathless anxiety, she heard, or thought she heard, an indistinct sound; she then looked through the keyhole of the door, and lo! he was on his knees in prayer. Had she seen visions of God, she might have been more awed, but she could not have been more delighted. She wept as she descended the stairs, but they were such tears as sorrow never sheds. Her heart was full, and she gave vent to her enraptured feeling at the footstool of His throne who had caused grace to abound where sin had been reigning nigh unto death.

At supper her son appeared very sedate, absorbed in deep thought; yet there was a serenity in his countenance, and an ease in his manner, which bespoke the composure of his mind. "I think," said his mother, "that the discourse we heard this evening placed the happiness and security of the Christian on such a firm basis, that we might have concluded the service by singing the beautiful lines of Toplady:—

"You might have sung these words, because you are a Christian, but how could I have responded to them?"

"I hope, my dear George, you liked the sermon."

"I never heard such a sermon; at least I never heard a sermon which produced such an effect on my mind. I could have listened till midnight. I felt what I never felt before."

Yes! that night he felt the power of "changing grace," and the change produced in his opinions, taste, and habits, soon became conspicuous; and while it excited the ridicule of some, the gratitude of others, and the astonishment of all, it was as a witness raised from the dead to give a fresh testimony to the divine origin of the truth which had been the means of effecting it. He who had been a bold blasphemer, now became a man of prayer; the intoxicating cup was exchanged for the wine of the kingdom; the Sabbath was hallowed as a day of rest; and the amusements and dissipations of the world were forsaken for the more refined enjoyments of devotion.

As soon as his health was re-established, he began to prepare for his return to his situation in London; and though he recoiled from the prospect of being compelled to associate with his former companions, yet he indulged the hope of being able to reclaim them from the destructive paths of sin. He wrote to his friend, Mr. Jordan, with whom he lodged when he first went to London, to inform him of the change which had taken place, and to request permission to become once more an inmate in his pious family. To this letter he received a very encouraging reply; and the following week was fixed on for his departure.

But he could not consent to leave the place where he had passed from death to life—from the miseries of one world to the sublime anticipations of another—till he had borne a public testimony of his gratitude to the Redeemer, by receiving the memorials of his death. He waited on the faithful minister who had been employed as the angel of mercy to his soul, to express his desire; and on the following Sabbath, with his honoured parent, he sat down at the Lord's table, thus making a public profession of the faith which he once scornfully rejected.

The morning after his return to London he went to the office, and on entering every one arose to offer his congratulations; but Mr. Gordon exceeded all in the ardour of his expressions. "This," said he, "is one of the happiest days of my life, and I adore the fate which has decreed that death shall lose a victim to restore me my friend."

"I adore the mercy," replied Lewellin, "that has spared my life; and I trust, my dear Sir, that my friendship will now be a purer flame than ever burnt on the altar of my heart."

This reply created a little embarrassment to Mr. Gordon; but he soon got over it, and resumed his accustomed vivacity of disposition and ease of manners. In the evening they walked away together, when Lewellin informed him that a material change had taken place in his sentiments and in his taste; and that if he wished for a renewal of their former intimacy, it must be on the express condition of paying a most devout regard to the truths and institutions of revelation.

"What," said Gordon, "are you again enslaved in the trammels of superstition; and do you expect that I shall bow my neck to such an ignominious yoke!"

"What you deem the yoke of ignominy, I esteem the badge of honour; and what you deem a cunningly devised fable, I esteem Divine truth. You won me over to your sentiments, and what did they do for me? They impaired my health. They tore up the foundation of a good constitution, and they plunged me into despair. I lived a sceptic, but I found that I could not die one. I am now restored to health, to truth, to happiness; and it is my determination to consecrate myself to the service of God my Saviour."

"Ah, I pity you."

"Pity me! Pity is for objects of misery; and had you seen me when the terrors of death fell on me, you might have pitied me: but now I want no pity, for I am perfectly happy; happy, because redeemed and regenerated; and have the prospect of enjoying a state of endless happiness in the world to come.

"Then, I suppose, in future our office is to become the hot-bed of fanaticism, where the rank weeds of an ancient superstition are to overshade the lovely plants of reason's golden age?"

"As I shall not obtrude my religious sentiments on the attention of others, you may calculate on passing through your professional duties without being annoyed, unless you first attack them; and in that case, I shall certainly stand up in their defence."

"Well, well, that is all very fair. Then, if I do not commence the assault, you will not open your battery."

"It will be my aim to make myself agreeable, and to recommend my religion more by my example than by my arguments; because I know how you will evade the one, but it is not quite certain that even you can withstand the other.

"Ah, I see you resolve to play off upon me in the same way in which I triumphed over you, and I have no objection for the experiment to be tried; but it will not succeed."

The bold and decided manner in which Mr. Lewellin met the sarcasms of infidelity, and avowed his supreme regard to the truth of revelation, cut off from his former companions all hopes of getting him again to join their ranks; and they, as by mutual consent, abstained from either pressing or enticing him to do so. He now pursued his course without much obstruction, displaying an amiability of temper, and a dignified integrity of principle, which gained him general respect; and though some regretted the change, yet all acknowledged that it was beneficial. His mind was too powerfully imbued with the love of the grand and essential truths of revelation, to admit of his cherishing any undue predilection for the distinctive peculiarities of sectarian opinions; and hence he very easily guarded religion against the obnoxious charges to which it is too often exposed, by the dogmatism and intolerance of its injudicious advocates. He was now introduced by his friend, Mr. Jordan, to the Rev. W. C——, of whose church he became a member; and such was the vital energy which he threw into all his engagements, and such the unaffected humility which adorned his character, that he soon rose very high in the esteem of all his religious associates. As a Sunday-school teacher, as a visitor of the sick, and as an agent of the Tract Society, he was equalled by few, and surpassed by none; and he never appeared more delighted than when engaged, either alone or with others, in devising plans for the promotion of the spiritual and eternal welfare of his fellow-men; and in carrying them into execution he spared neither time, labour, nor expense.

FAIRMOUNT.

The villa of Fairmount is situated on the summit of a hill, commanding an extensive view of a richly-wooded and picturesque country. On the evening of my arrival the scene was one of extreme beauty. At the base of the hill flowed a meandering river, stretching away into the far distance, sometimes lost amidst the luxuriant foliage, and again suddenly reappearing; here reposing in cool shadow, there gleaming with the rays of the setting sun. On the right, a small parish church, with its pointed arch and tapering spire, peeped through an inclosure of aged elms and sycamores; on the left, near the public road, a few white cottages, with trim gardens, where children were sporting gleefully. More distant, films of smoke marked the positions of various hamlets; and, stretching far as the eye could reach, the hills of another county rose in purple masses against the evening sky. In the meadow, the cow and the ox were feeding together, and from the sheepfold the bleating of the flock fell softly on the ear. A host of early associations rushed upon me, and filled me with pleasant recollections of days long past, and I felt relieved from the pressure and perplexities of my ordinary avocations.

Mr. Stevens, with whom I was now domiciled, was a very intelligent and pious man. In early life, like many others, he had imbibed the sceptical opinions of the age, but as they were invested with no power to

"Heal the sorrows of the heart, or allay its fears,"

he renounced them when the terrors of death fell upon him, and sought consolation at the cross of Christ. From that hour he became a decided Christian, choosing rather to suffer the reproach which is too often cast on genuine piety, than endure the pleasures of sin, which are but for a season. Soon after his translation from darkness to light, he was introduced to the amiable and pious Miss Bathurst, with whom he formed that sacred union, which has been through life a source of mutual felicity. The first few years after their marriage they were extremely anxious for an heir, but as Providence denied them this gratification, they were disposed to acquiesce in his decision, and to reduce to a practical operation the prayer which they had long been accustomed to repeat: "Thy will be done on earth, even as it is in heaven." Being exempted from the charge and the expense of a family, they were more at liberty to promote the welfare of others; and rarely a day elapsed which did not bear testimony to their benevolent exertions.

As we were passing along the road, she gave me the following narration:—"In the cottage to which we are going reside a poor man and his wife, who have had a large family, but all have died in infancy except one beautiful daughter. She, when only sixteen, entered the family of a respectable farmer in the adjoining parish, where she continued four years, and would, in all human probability, have continued there till now, had it not been for a dashing London servant, who, when on a visit to her own father, got acquainted with her; and by telling her of the high wages, and the little work which town servants have, made her dissatisfied with her place; and, in opposition to the advice of all her friends, she gave notice to leave, and actually went to London to try her fortune. When she arrived there she called on her friend, who had promised to procure her a situation; but was informed that no good one had yet turned up. She was recommended to take a lodging, for which she would have to pay only two shillings a-week, and no doubt, if she made proper inquiry, she would hear of something that would be for her advantage. Thus thrown on the world, without a home, and without a friend, she would have fallen a victim to her folly, had not Providence interposed to protect her. As she was passing along the Strand, with her bundle under her arm, a lady, who had once seen her at my house, recognized her, and asked her where she was going. The poor girl related her mournful tale, and implored pity. This lady took her to her own home, but as she was not in want of a servant, she could not retain her; yet she procured for her the best situation in her power. But, instead of high wages, she had not so much as when in the country; and her work was much more laborious. Thus disappointed, and having too high a spirit to return home, she gave herself up to grief; and taking a severe cold, which she neglected, her strength soon wasted away, and she was obliged to throw up her situation, and go into lodgings for the recovery of her health. But disease had made too great progress to be arrested; and after parting with nearly all her clothes to defray the expenses she had incurred, she was reduced to the alternative of dying for want or returning home. She wrote to her father, telling him she was very ill, and did not expect to live, and desiring as a favour that he would permit her to come home, and die in the room where she was born. As soon as the old man received her letter he hastened to our house; never did I witness such a burst of feeling. 'O Madam! my dear Harriet is very ill; she has sent us this——, and wants to come home, she says, to die.' He wept, like the old patriarch, when he saw the bloody coat instead of his darling son. I endeavoured to console him as well as I could, and immediately made an arrangement for her return. In the course of the next week, the grief-worn parents had the melancholy gratification of embracing their child. She was obliged to take to her bed on the very day of her arrival. I saw her the day after, and received from her a faithful narrative of her life. The wreck of beauty was still visible amidst the ruins of her constitution; and the hectic flush gave, at intervals, a superhuman expression to her countenance. I felt conscious that she was hastening to the grave; and this circumstance deeply depressed the feelings of her pious parents, who were fearfully apprehensive that she was not prepared for death and the final judgment. I requested them to leave us alone together, when I began to converse with her on the value of her soul, and on the only way of salvation. She wept, and said that she was fully aware of her danger and desert; but added, 'I hope that the Friend of sinners will have mercy on me. My conscience has often smote me; the anguish of my mind I cannot describe; but I lay myself at His feet, and cry, God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' I have," added Mrs. Stevens, "regularly renewed my visits almost every day; and I hope that my feeble efforts have been made the means of leading her to the Saviour."

We now alighted from the carriage, and entered the cottage. Its cleanliness and order bespoke the presence of taste and religious feeling. As soon as the poor girl heard that there was a minister of the gospel in the house, she expressed an ardent desire to see me. When I approached her bedside, she exclaimed, "'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief.' My pious parents impressed this fact on my memory in the days of my childhood, yet it never reached my heart till since I have been confined in this chamber. I have spent the prime of my days in vanity and sin, neglecting the means of grace, and disregarding the remonstrances of my own conscience; and, had not an invisible hand arrested me in my progress, I should have gone on till I had lost my soul. But here I am, a monument of mercy; a sinner saved through the blood of the Lamb. That kind lady is the best earthly friend I ever had. She has been the means of making known to me the way of life; and now I can say, 'I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day.'"

I expressed the pleasure I felt at hearing these joyful tidings, mingled my tears of gratitude with those of her relatives and friends, and after commending her soul to the care of the Lord Jesus, I bade her adieu, till we meet in that world where no disease will invade the constitution, where death will never burst asunder the bonds of social union, and where

"Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown."

As we rode back to Fairmount, I congratulated Mrs. Stevens on the honour which God had conferred on her, in employing her as the instrument of saving this dying girl from the pangs of the second death.

"It is an honour which I prize more than gold and silver, and which imparts a purer joy to my mind than ever heaved the bosom of a mere earthly philanthropist; it invests the eternal world with a fresh charm, as I expect to embrace my Harriet, as my own child in the faith.

"I have often thought, that if the infidel could perceive the sources of pleasure which Christianity opens to the pious mind, he would be less disposed to reproach her as hostile to human happiness."

"Yes, but such is the degree of his mental aversion to pure Christianity, that her more sublime doctrines are turned into themes of ridicule; the spirit which she inspires in her friends is regarded as the wild-fire of fanaticism, and our efforts to save a soul from death are stigmatized as a paltry manœuvre to gain a proselyte to our party; and though we may attempt to justify our conduct on the admitted principles of social benevolence, yet we can but rarely succeed."

Our conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by a gentleman, who stepped out of his garden, and informed Mrs. Stevens that the poor widow was worse, and was not expected to live through the day. This communication very deeply affected her. She paused, and then said, "Do you think that I may be permitted to see her?"

"Why, Madam," replied Mr. Roscoe, "the medical attendant has given express orders that no one be allowed to see her except the nurse. I hear that she has made her peace with God, and is not afraid to die. It will be a happy release for her."

"I hope Mrs. and Miss Roscoe are well; you will make my compliments to them, and say that we hope to see them at Fairmount very soon."

"Mr. Roscoe," said Mrs. Stevens, "is our nearest neighbour, but I fear that he has no just perception of the nature of true religion; though he is, in his own estimation, a very religious man. He is so amiable in temper, so kind in disposition, and so benevolent in spirit, that every one esteems him who knows him; but I fear that he substitutes this exterior amiability in the place of the atonement of Jesus Christ; and thinks that nothing more is necessary for salvation except an attendance at his parish church. But I feel for the dying widow. I saw her at the commencement of her illness; but when I told her that she was a sinner, and that she could not be saved but through faith in the merits of Jesus Christ, she told me that she had never done any harm in her life, and that she did not doubt of the mercy of God. I have called several times since; but, as I attempted to disturb her peace in her dying moments, I have not been permitted to see her again; and I understand some very severe remarks have been made on what is called my cruel conduct."

"Yes, Madam," I replied, "the spirit of the world will often forbid the herald of mercy entering the chamber of affliction, and will wrap up the departing soul in the winding-sheet of self-security before it enters the valley of the shadow of death. The language of Jesus Christ in reference to such a state of mind is very, very awful: 'Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name; and in thy name have cast out devils; and in thy name done many wonderful works? And then I will profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me ye that work iniquity.'"

"I grant," said Mrs. Stevens, "that prudence often renders it necessary to exclude even intimate friends from the sick chamber, lest the patient should have too much excitement; but to exclude friends merely because they are religious, and who may be disposed to say something in relation to that tremendous scene which eternity opens on the disembodied spirit, is a crime of no ordinary magnitude; and if the spirit were permitted to step back, after that scene has been beheld, in what indignant language would she condemn such an act of fatal cruelty."

"It is a most momentous event in the history of a human being, when he passes from one world to another; when he steps out of time into eternity; but how perilously awful to make the passage when unprepared to go. I recollect going to see one of my hearers who was dangerously ill; but on recognizing my well-known foot-tread as I entered his chamber, he concealed himself under the bed-clothes, and we spoke not for several minutes; no sounds were heard, but his heavy sighs and piercing groans. He put out his hand, which I took, and gently pressed; we still remained silent, both being too highly surcharged with mental emotion to give utterance to what we felt. At length he threw off the bed-clothes, looked on me with intense earnestness, and exclaimed, 'O Sir, I am lost; I shall be in hell before the morning.'"

"What a terrific vision! were you able to speak any words of peace to his soul?"

"I did speak words of peace, but they gave him neither peace nor comfort."

"Did he die, Sir?"

"Yes, he died the very next day; and his last words were, 'I am lost; lost for ever!'"

"How very awful!"

"In such a case the tremendous catastrophe is expected; but now, let us think for a moment of a person passing out of one world to another (as many alas! do) under a delusive expectation of going to heaven; but on stepping out of time into eternity, he finds himself in hell. What must be his surprise; his terror-struck anguish; his fearful, his terrific exclamations of agonized woe; his condition, bearing some analogy, though infinitely more tremendous and appalling, to that of a culprit tried and cast for death, when in a trance, knowing nothing of the process or the issue, till he feels the minister of death adjusting the rope on the fatal platform; awakening up to a state of consciousness just before the drop falls. While in a trance, he might be moving amidst the congratulations of his family and his friends, to take possession of a newly bequeathed inheritance; with what terrific consternation would he, on recovering the use of his reason, find himself under the gallows of infamy, tied to its cross beam, the executioner by his side, stepping back to draw the bolt which is to give him to death struggles and to death."

"Your illustration is terrific; but it is not equal to the tremendous reality—a soul lost, when, under a fatal delusion, expecting to be saved."

We now came in sight of Fairmount, and that turned the current of our conversation to a more interesting theme. I remarked, "that I thought the country more favourable to devotional feeling than the city. The gaiety and the bustle of the one distract the mind; whereas the quietude of the other composes it."

"True, Sir, but the spirit of devotion would soon languish beside the murmuring stream, or beneath the silent shade, unless invigorated by the unction which cometh from above. If we, who live in the country, have fewer temptations than those who live in cities, yet in general we have fewer religious advantages; and though not altogether deprived of the society of Christian friends, yet it is but seldom that we are surrounded by a sufficient number to admit of making a selection."

On entering the parlour, Mr. Stevens soon joined us, and seemed much interested by the report of our morning's excursion. Having partaken of a plain dinner, he and I adjourned to a sequestered arbour, at the extreme point of his shrubbery, where we sat conversing the greater part of the afternoon. "Mr. Roscoe," he observed, "to whom you were introduced this morning, is a most interesting companion. He is a man of very extensive reading, of deep and close reflection, of a fine taste, very benevolent in disposition, of strict integrity, and very religious in his own way. He is rather too fond of disputation, and there is no subject which he likes to discuss more than the subject of religion, though I think he does not understand it so well as he does many others."

"Is he fond of introducing religious subjects in conversation?"

"Very."

"Does he introduce them merely for discussion, or in relation to their practical tendency?"

"Why, his uniform design, if I may be permitted to judge of his motive, is to excite a general feeling of disgust against what he calls the Methodistical or Calvinistic delusions of the age, which he regards as more injurious to our national character, and more destructive to our happiness, than even the spirit of infidelity itself."

"Then I presume that you are not very intimate."

"O yes, we are. We often protract the debate till our wives interfere, and request us to remember the hour."

"But are not some of his prejudices against the demoralizing tendency of the Methodistical delusion (to use his own phraseology) shaken by your conduct?"

"O no; he has, like many others, an ingenious expedient, by which the force of individual example against his sweeping charge is repelled. He says that our superior good sense, and our superior virtue, prevent these delusions from operating on us as they operate on others. So you see that his complaisance nullifies the argument which he cannot refute; and the mine which Christian consistency springs beneath an erroneous opinion, is countermined by the artifice which friendship employs."

"Is he very dogmatical in conversation?"

"Rather so; but he never loses his temper. Indeed, he is a most valuable man; and if it should please God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, to shine into his heart, to give him the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ, he would, I have no doubt, carry the attainments of the Christian character to the highest point of excellence."

"Is Mrs. Roscoe of the same way of thinking with her husband?"

"Why, Sir, I do not think that she ever thinks on the subject of religion. She goes to church, reads the Week's Preparation, takes the sacrament, feeds and clothes the poor, and says that, in her opinion, nothing more is required of her. She sometimes listens, it is true, to our discussions, but it is more, I apprehend, from the respect which she feels for the laws of politeness, than from any interest which she takes in the subject. Miss Roscoe, who is a most amiable creature, ventures occasionally to make a few observations, and sometimes to ask a few questions, but she is very guarded. Mrs. Stevens presented her with a copy of Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul the last time she gave us a call; and from the spirit in which she received the present, and the assurance she gave that she would read the book, we entertain some hope that the light of truth will lead her to the well-spring of true happiness."

"From a remark which Mrs. Stevens made to Mr. Roscoe, when we parted with him, I hope that I shall have the pleasure of spending an hour or two in his company before I leave Fairmount."

"Yes, he and his family dine with us next week; but you must contrive to hide the colour of your cloth if you wish to draw him out in conversation, especially religious conversation, for you Dissenting ministers do not stand very high in his esteem. He thinks that you have obtruded yourselves on an office which, for want of learning and episcopal ordination, you are not qualified to fill. He can relish none but Oxford or Cambridge men."

Mrs. Stevens, accompanied by a little niece, who was a weekly boarder at a ladies' school on the other side of the hill, came to invite us to tea in the alcove. We took a circuitous route through the shrubbery, till we entered on the lawn, at the bottom of which nature and art had combined their skill in the beautifying of this rural retreat. While sitting there, receiving the refreshment which the hand of an indulgent Providence had provided, and listening to the sweet harmony of the feathered tribe, the servant, who had just returned from the neighbouring town, delivered to his master a newspaper and a packet of letters. Mr. Stevens, having apologized for his rudeness (as he called it), proceeded to open the letters, and, to neutralize my displeasure, he placed the paper in my hands. "My dear," addressing himself to Mrs. Stevens, "I have some good news to tell you. Mr. Lewellin has accepted our invitation, and will be here, if Providence permit, next Thursday."

"One mercy, like one affliction," replied Mrs. Stevens, "seldom comes alone." Addressing herself to me, "I hope to have the pleasure of introducing to you a nephew, who has recently felt the power of the truth, which he once affected to despise."

"The society of Christian friends is always animating, but particularly the society of those who have recently passed from death to life, who have just been redeemed from the dominion of Satan, and brought into the glorious liberty of the children of God. There is usually such an expressive animation in their look and in their utterances; they have the freshness of their new life glowing upon them; and when speaking of what they know, and testifying of what they have seen and felt, they do it with a simplicity and earnestness which has a fine and powerful influence over our spirits. We glorify God in them."

"My nephew is the only son of a pious mother, and she is a widow. He was permitted to run to great lengths in the paths of evil, but the Lord has had mercy on him, and his conversion is, in my opinion, as great a proof of the divinity of this Christian faith as the conversion of St. Paul."

"Pray, is he the son of Mrs. Lewellin, who lives in the village of Stenmoor, that you refer to?"

"Yes; do you know him?"

"I have the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Lewellin, but not her son, only by character. To meet with him will be no small addition to the gratification I feel from my visit to your lovely villa."

A MORNING'S RAMBLE.