"Ah! Sir," said Josiah, "what a mercy that, though we have lost some of our little property, yet we have not lost any property but what was our own. The Lord gave it to us, and now He has been pleased to take it away, but He has not taken all. He has spared more than I expected, and much more than we deserved."

"It will be a long time before you will be able to repair this loss."

"Yes, it will; but you know, Sir, that it is 'the blessing of the Lord that maketh rich.' This trial is sent to moderate our desires after the things that perish, to teach us to walk by faith, and to derive our happiness from communion with Him who is invisible."

As we were conversing together, Mr. Stevens came up, and taking Josiah by the hand, said, "Don't be cast down, I will have the cottage repaired immediately, and till it is finished, you shall have my other cottage at the grove, which happens to be vacant."

"Thank you, Sir, for your kindness; I hope Mrs. Stevens is well this morning?"

"She is not well; she has had a bad night."

Several of the more respectable inhabitants of the village now joined us in their expressions of sympathy; and it was unanimously resolved that a subscription should be made for the benefit of the Hargraves. "Gentlemen," said Mr. Roscoe, "I shall be happy to see you at my house in the evening. In the meantime we shall be able to ascertain the extent of this good man's loss, and then we can adopt some effectual measures to repair it."

There is a kind provision made for the children of sorrow in that sympathy which is implanted in almost every breast. Who can avoid its excitement when an object of distress is seen, or a tale of woe narrated? Yet there are some who will weep over misery, but will make no personal sacrifice to relieve it. They will talk, but they will not give. They will recommend to others the benevolence which they never practise; and profess to admire the virtue which they are not anxious should adorn their own character. "But," says the apostle, "whoso hath this world's goods, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

The loss which Josiah Hargrave sustained by the fire, amounted to about thirty pounds; and Mr. Roscoe consented, at the urgent request of the gentlemen who met at his house, to accompany Mr. Stevens in soliciting the benevolence of the neighbours towards repairing it. They commenced their work of mercy on the following morning, and finished it in the course of the day. The first person they called on was the Rev. Mr. Cole, the rector of the parish, and he refused to contribute, because Hargrave chose to attend the ministry of Mr. Ingleby in preference to his own.

"This refusal," said Mr. Roscoe to his friend, "does not surprise me, but it grieves me. Mr. Cole is an amiable man, but he is, what I once was, a religious bigot; and though he is very charitable to the poor, yet his charity is confined to those who come to his church."

"We may," said Mr. Stevens, "call his charity the charity of bigotry, not the charity of the gospel."

"I was once taking tea with him, when a poor woman, near the time of her confinement, applied to him for relief; but when he found that she attended your chapel, he first reproved her, and then dismissed her without giving her any assistance."

"But perhaps he thought she was an impostor?"

"No, Sir, she brought with her a note of recommendation from your friend, Mr. Stone."

"And is it possible that a man, who professes to be a minister of Jesus Christ, could refuse to assist a poor woman in such a time of need, because she does not attend his church? Then, I suppose, if he had been passing by Josiah Hargrave's house when the fire broke out, his first inquiry would have been, Do you attend my church?—and on finding that he hears Mr. Ingleby, he would have gone on, and left him to perish."

"No, no; I think he would have knocked you up, and sent you to assist him, because his argument is, 'Let those who imbibe the same faith, assist each other.'"

"A similar argument was employed by the priest and Levite, when they passed by on the opposite side of the road, disdaining to do more than merely look on the wounded traveller; but the good Samaritan, whose breast glowed with pure benevolence, 'when he saw him he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.' And are we not commanded to display the same comprehensive benevolence, without standing to consider the character of the sufferer, or presuming to inquire into the orthodoxy of his faith?"

"I was much pleased with a little anecdote which I heard the other day, of your friend Stone. A person applied to him on behalf of a poor man in great distress. He was in a hurry, and had no money with him. 'I cannot,' he said, 'examine the case now, as I have a gentleman waiting to see me; but, if the poor man belong to the household of faith, I will thank you to advance ten shillings for me; if not, advance five. My maxim is, according to the law of the Scripture, to do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.'"

The subscription which was raised by Mr. Stevens and Mr. Roscoe, with the remittances received from the Rev. Messrs. Ingleby and Guion, amounted to nearly fifty pounds, and this was given by Mr. Stevens to Josiah, who was so overcome by this unanticipated expression of sympathy, that at first he could scarcely speak. He modestly requested Mr. Stevens to express his grateful thanks, and those of his wife, to his benevolent friends, assuring them that they would endeavour, by future conduct, to prove how deeply they felt this unexpected kindness.

Within the space of three months Hargrave returned to his cottage, with his family, a richer if not a happier man than before the fire drove him out; and there he lived for many years, respected and beloved by all who knew him.

If we say that afflictions spring up by chance, or are brought about merely by secondary causes, which are not under the guidance and control of God, we not only reject the authority of the Bible, but deprive ourselves of the consolation which follows from a firm belief that the design for which they are sent is merciful and gracious. If the sufferer should suppose that his afflictions are of such a peculiar nature that they cannot possibly answer any good purpose, I would say, Do not impeach the wisdom of God, nor yet presume to fix limitations to the operations of his power. If you have never yet repented of your sins, nor sought the salvation of your soul through the mediation of Jesus Christ, your trials may be sent to prepare your heart for the reception of the truth, by which you are to be sanctified and saved. As the gentle rain, descending from the clouds of heaven, fits the soil for the seed which it is to nourish for a future harvest, so it pleases God, in the dispensations of his providence, to allow those painful events to transpire, which, imperceptibly, predispose the mind, first, to bow in submission to his authority, and then to seek after the enjoyment of his favour. There is a native independence in some minds, which, in relation to man, is a high and noble virtue, but in relation to God, is a daring sin. When one is made rich, and the glory of his house is increased, he is sometimes apt to think, if not to say, "What is the Almighty, that we should serve him? And what profit should we have if we pray unto him?" What is this but absolute rebellion against Divine authority, which must be subdued; and, if it please Him to employ severe and varied afflictions to subdue it, then "why should a living man complain—a man for the punishment of his sins?" "Should we not," says an admired writer, "principally value that which is morally good for us; that which influences and secures our eternal welfare; that by which the safety of the soul is least endangered, and the sanctification of the soul is most promoted!" Upon this principle many have had reason to say, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted." "Disease," says one, "commissioned from above, sought me out, found me in a crowd, detached me from a multitude, led me into a chamber of solitude, stretched me upon a bed of languishing, and brought before me the awful realities of an eternal world." "I never prayed before," says another; "my life was bound up in a beloved relative; I saw my gourd smitten and beginning to wither; I trembled; I watched the progress of a disease which doomed all my happiness to the grave. In that moment of bereavement, the world, which had won my affections, was suddenly deprived of all its attractions. I broke from the arms of sympathizing friends, saying, 'Where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night?' I entered my closet, and said, 'Now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.'"

Misery seems to possess one of the attributes of the Supreme Being, and is everywhere present, inflicting its anguish in every human breast. No situation in life, however elevated, is above its reach; none, however obscure, is beneath its notice. It goes up to the throne, and disturbs the peace of the monarch; it creeps into the lonely hut, wringing the heart of poverty; nor can the tears of penury, nor the moans of distress, move its pity. It fastens on the babe in the days of infancy; follows him through the various stages of childhood and of youth; becomes a more intimate associate as he advances in life, but often reserves its most poignant inflictions and its bitterest draughts till old age, when the mind is bereft of its vivacity and strength. It lurks beneath the most fascinating objects of delight, and springs out at a season when no danger is expected; sometimes it throws around itself the garb of complacency, and, under the appearance of the truest friendship and the purest affection, disarms suspicion, that it may more effectually entangle its victim.

Where can we find an antidote for human misery? Not in the speculations of philosophy. Philosophy tells us that we must endure our sufferings, because we cannot avoid them; and that it would be visionary to expect an entire exemption from them in a world in which they everywhere abound. Miserable comforter! I need some substantial relief, some prop on which I can lean in the days of adversity. Where shall I find it?—in human friendship? Alas! that is too often a phantom of the imagination, which plays before the fancy while prosperity shines on my pathway, but disappears as the storm arises, and the darkness of the night falls upon me. I need a more stable source of consolation. Where shall I find it? "In sweet submission to thy will, O my God!" Here is bliss. Here I find joy in grief. Here I have the bitter waters of life made sweet, the heavy burden of care lightened, and my strength becomes equal to my day.

A SURPRISE.

At length, while we were silently watching the progress of a disorder which was threatening to take from us one of the most interesting and amiable of women, it pleased the Father of mercies to throw her into a deep sleep, which lasted many hours. In the morning she awoke both revived and composed; and, after asking for Mr. Stevens, she requested some refreshment. Thus the cloud which had been hanging over us with such a lowering aspect, now gradually dispersed; and, in a few days, she was pronounced out of danger. "I thought at one time," she said, addressing herself to her husband, "I should have left you. I felt the parting pang; and it was such a pang as my heart never felt before. I looked into the valley of death; and though the light of life illumined it, yet nature recoiled at the prospect of entering. I had no doubt of the issue of dying, but I dreaded the act of dying. But now I am coming back to life. Oh! that my life may be more devoted to Him who lived and died for me!"

Miss Roscoe had left home the morning after the fire at Hargrave's cottage, to spend a few days with her friend, Miss Holmes, but as soon as she heard of Mrs. Stevens's illness, she returned. "I am happy to see you once more," said Mrs. Stevens. "This is a pleasure which I did not anticipate. How uncertain is life!"

"Life is uncertain," replied Miss Roscoe, "but they who believe in Christ shall never die. They may, in the progress of their being, drop their mantle of mortality, as the insect leaves his shell, when he expands into a more beautiful form of existence; but the soul, redeemed by the blood, and purified by the Spirit of the Lord Jesus, 'liveth and abideth for ever.' I hope your mind has been kept in perfect peace during your severe affliction."

"It has been kept in peace, but not in perfect peace. On the second day, when my disorder assumed a threatening aspect, a horror of great darkness fell upon me. I was compelled to admit the possibility of having deceived myself—of having claimed privileges to which I had no title—of having mistaken the excitement of feeling for the fervour of spiritual devotion—of having indulged prospects which I should never realize. But, just as I was beginning to sink into despair, the light of mercy broke in upon me, and revived my hope. Never, oh! never had I seen such beauty as I then perceived in the verses—

"It is consoling to meet with others who are exercised in a similar way with ourselves. I thought your faith was too strong ever to stagger, and your prospect of eternal life too clear ever to be shaded by dubious uncertainty; but now, I perceive, you can doubt, which encourages me to hope that my faith may be genuine, though it is sometimes involved in perplexity, and sinks into depression."

"Have you," Mrs. Stevens asked, "had any recent conversation with your papa on religious subjects?"

"Not very recently, because he has manifested a more than ordinary degree of reserve when there has been any allusion to them, and therefore I have judged it proper to observe great caution while his prejudices are in such a state."

"But may not this reserve on his part be the solemn musings of a mind deeply impressed by the truth, which has hitherto been either misunderstood or rejected?"

"I should be happy if I could put such a favourable construction on his manner; but I fear not."

"Our favourite poet says:—

Allow me, my dear friend, to offer you my congratulations. Your prayers, I hope, are answered; and you may go home, and embrace your father as a 'fellow-heir of the grace of life.'"

"If I could, the sun of my bliss would never go down; but, alas! I fear that you congratulate me on what we wish to be true, rather than on what actually is the case."

"My dear, I speak what I believe."

"Impossible! Has he made any particular communication to you, which enables you to speak in such a decisive tone?—if so, tell me, my dear friend, what you know. I am impatient to hear it."

"The evening before Josiah's cottage was consumed, your father spent some hours with us, and seemed not only willing, but anxious to converse on religious subjects. At one time, he was affected almost to tears, when he said, 'My dear Sophia has often told me that a Divine illumination of mind is the great secret in personal religion; and on one occasion, when she quoted the words of the apostle, "The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him; neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned," she made an impression on my mind which has never left me.' Thus God has not only subdued the prejudices of your father's heart against the truth, and opened the eyes of his understanding to see its excellence and importance, but has employed you as the agent in the accomplishment of this great work."

After recovering herself from the surprise which this communication produced, she said, "I feel as if enjoying a most pleasant dream—my fancy beguiled and deluded by its own visionary conceptions—not less surprised than delighted to find myself awake—with you—listening to the most joyful news that could be conveyed to my soul." She wept. "And is it possible?—Is it true?—What, my father!—Excuse me; I must go, that I may hear these glad tidings from his own lips."

On the following Sabbath Mrs. Stevens was so far recovered as to be able to go to church, where she expected to see the Roscoes; but she was disappointed. "I fear," she remarked to her husband, as they were returning home, "that Mr. Roscoe will not become a decided character; but I hope he will not neutralize our dear Sophia."

"He will proceed, I have no doubt, very cautiously; examine and re-examine every step he takes; but when the Rubicon is passed, there will be no fruitless attempts to unite religion and the world, but an unreserved devotion of soul to God."

In the evening Miss Roscoe was at the chapel, and after service called at Fairmount to see her friends.

"It is true," she said; "my dear father is at length brought to know that he is a sinner, and to feel the importance of redemption through the blood of Christ. I went with him in the morning to hear the Rev. Mr. Cole, with whose sermon he was not so well pleased as on some former occasions; and he would have accompanied me this evening, had it not been for mamma, who most earnestly requested him not to go."

The evening came when we were to pay our promised visit to the Roscoes, and just as we were about to set out, the Rev. Mr. Guion arrived. When he found where we were going, he proposed returning home; but Mrs. Stevens said, "No, no; you must accompany us. You may be the means of doing some good; and I think your Master has sent you for that purpose."

Mr. Roscoe gave us a cordial welcome; but when the name of Guion was announced, Mrs. Roscoe drew back with a very polite movement, and became unusually reserved. Conversation flagged, till Mr. Roscoe mentioned that he had been reading Buchanan's Christian Researches in Asia, and called our attention to some passages, which had much interested him:—

"I have returned home," says the writer, "from witnessing a scene which I shall never forget. At twelve o'clock of this day, being the great day of the feast, the Moloch of Hindoostan was brought out of his temple, amidst the acclamations of hundreds of thousands of his worshippers. When the idol was placed on his throne, a shout was raised by the multitude, such as I had never before heard. It continued equable for a few minutes, and then gradually died away. After a short interval of silence, a murmur was heard at a distance; all eyes were turned towards the place, and behold, a grove advancing! A body of men, having green branches in their hands, approached with great celerity. The people opened a way for them; and when they had come up to the throne, they fell down before him that sat thereon, and worshipped. And the multitude again sent forth a voice like the sound of a great thunder. But the voices I now heard were not those of melody; for there is no harmony in the praise of Moloch's worshippers.

"The throne of the idol was placed on a car, about sixty feet in height, resting on wheels which indented the ground deeply, as they turned slowly under the ponderous machine. Attached to it were six cables, by which the people drew it along. Upon the car were the priests and satellites of the idol, surrounding his throne. I went on in the procession, close by the tower of Moloch, which, as it was drawn with difficulty, grated on its many wheels harsh thunder. After a few minutes it stopped; and now the worship of the god began. A high priest mounted the car in front of the idol, and pronounced his obscene stanzas in the ears of the people, who responded at intervals in the same strain. 'These songs,' said he, 'are the delight of the god.' After the car had moved some way, a pilgrim announced that he was ready to offer himself in sacrifice to the idol. He laid himself down in the road before the car, as it was moving along, lying on his face, with his arms stretched forward. The multitude passed round him, leaving the space clear, and he was crushed to death by the wheels of the car.

"A horrid tragedy was acted on the 12th of September, 1807, at a place about three miles from Calcutta. A Brahmin died at the advanced age of ninety-two. He had twelve wives, and three of them were burned alive with his dead body. Of these three, one was a venerable lady, having white locks, who had been long known in the neighbourhood. Not being able to walk, she was carried in a palanquin to the place of burning, and was then placed by the priests on the funeral pile. The two other ladies were younger; one of them of a very pleasing and interesting countenance. The old lady was placed on one side of the dead husband, and the two other wives laid themselves down on the other side; and then an old Brahmin, the eldest son of the deceased, applied the torch to the pile, with unaverted face. The pile suddenly blazed, for it was covered with combustibles; and this human sacrifice was completed amidst the din of drums and cymbals, and the shouts of the Brahmins."

"What horrid rites!" exclaimed Mr. Roscoe. "I fear they have been too long practised to be easily destroyed. I think Christianity ought to be established in India, for the moral benefit of our countrymen. Many of them go out when young—when their passions are strong—and when they have but very faint conceptions of the nature or the importance of religion; and as there are no Sabbaths—no religious ordinances or instruction—they must be in great spiritual danger from the contagion of evil by which they are surrounded."

"I was intimately acquainted," said Mr. Guion, "with a very amiable young man, the son of a pious solicitor, who went to India, where he remained ten years, and then returned. He called on me some time ago, and I derived much information from him; but I was grieved to find, by his own confession, that he had become a deist. I asked him if his deism was the result of any fair and earnest investigation; and he very honestly said, 'No, I found my belief in the Divine origin of Christianity becoming weaker and weaker when I was separated from its ministry and institutions, till at length it became extinct; and though I have sometimes made an effort to recover it, yet I have not been able to do so.'"

"But," said Mr. Roscoe, "though the establishment of Christianity in India might preserve our countrymen from infidelity, yet I do not think we can calculate on bringing over the natives to embrace it."

"Why not? Is the conversion of a modern pagan to the faith of Christ more difficult than the conversion of an ancient one? If Greece and Rome were subdued by the preaching of the gospel, who can despair of India?"

"If we had the same miraculous powers as those with which the apostles were endowed, we might anticipate similar results; but we have not; and I confess that, though I approve of the motive which originates and supports missionary institutions, yet I do not think they will ever prove successful."

"By what means, then, did Paul convert the heathen? Was it by the exhibition of miracles? Certainly not. A miracle may make some impressions on the judgment, by demonstrating the power of a present Deity, and of his direct agency in its production, but it cannot renew the heart, and inspire the soul with the love of God, with a hatred of sin, and a hope of glory. The miracles of the first ages were merely the credentials of the teachers, and were given as a solemn confirmation, once for all, of the divinity of the new dispensation, which they were commissioned to establish; but they were not the ordained means of conversion. The apostle Paul performed miracles but seldom; and when he did perform them, they had not always a salutary effect on those that beheld them. When he wrought a miracle in Lyconia, the people first worshipped him, and afterwards would have put him to death. What, then, were the ordained means of conversion? The same that are ordained now—the preaching of the cross; as the Scripture hath declared, 'Faith cometh by hearing.'"

"If we admit," said Mr. Roscoe, "the concurrence of a supernatural power with the agency of man in teaching and in preaching, we ought not to doubt the possibility of converting the whole population of India to the belief of Christianity."

"Certainly not; and is not this supernatural concurrence promised by Jesus Christ, to his ministers of every age? 'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'"

"My heart often aches," said Miss Roscoe, "when I reflect on the degradation and wretchedness of women in India—where, if they escape an untimely grave in the days of childhood, they are doomed to a state of perpetual ignorance, excluded from all the accomplishments of society, treated as the refuse of the human family, and are often burned along with the body of their deceased husbands. I think every woman ought to make some effort to raise her own sex from this most appalling condition; and as nothing will prove successful but the principles of Christianity, we ought all to become the advocates and supporters of missionary and Bible societies."[10]

"I have no doubt," said Mrs. Roscoe, who was not at home on these subjects, "but the natives of India are as happy with their religion as we are with ours; and if the females do not meet with that respect which we meet with, you know, Madam," addressing herself to Mrs. Stevens, "that they do not expect it. Therefore, as it hath pleased the Almighty to give them their religion, I think we ought not to try to take it from them. We should not like to have ours taken from us. However, I think there is too much attention paid to religion in our days; it was not the case in the good old times of our fathers."

"But, mamma, would you not save a little child from being drowned, or a widow from being burned, if it were in your power?"

"Certainly, my dear."

"Now, mamma, as this cannot be done by force, we propose convincing the people, by a process of fair reasoning, that such practices are sinful and impolitic; and thus induce them, if possible, to abolish them."

"Oh! that may be very proper, but I think that we have nothing to do with it, and therefore, why should we trouble ourselves about it? Why not let things remain as they always have been?"

"I must confess," said Mr. Roscoe, "that I begin to differ from you, and I shall be very glad to see an auxiliary missionary society established amongst us. If we have a purer faith than the Hindoos, and one better calculated to promote individual and relative happiness and improvement, we ought to impart it. To monopolize it would be an act of selfishness and injustice; and though I have hitherto, like too many around me, been guilty of this act, I will go and sin no more."

"But, surely," said Mrs. Roscoe, "you do not intend to become a missionary, and transplant us to some province of India?"

"No, no, my dear; I will not go myself, but I will give some portion of my property to send others."

Had some shapeless figure, of hideous look, suddenly entered the room, and denounced a heavy woe on each inmate of the dwelling, Mrs. Roscoe might have been more alarmed, but she could not have appeared more surprised than when she heard this last sentence.

"What!" she said, in a more lofty tone than I had ever known her assume, "and have you so far forgotten your own dignity as to connect yourself with missionary societies, which go abroad on purpose to disturb other people in their religion, as we have been disturbed in the enjoyment of ours?"

"My dear, you seem strangely excited, as though I was going to do some barbarous or immoral act; when all I propose doing, is to give a little of that wealth which God has given to us, to convey to the deluded and degraded Hindoos the good news and glad tidings of great joy which the holy angels announced to the shepherds of Bethlehem, and which the ministers of Christ proclaim to us. Surely you cannot object to this."

"I do not suppose you would like the Hindoos to send their religion over to us, for our adoption."

"They may if they please; but they would not manage to persuade our widows to burn on the funeral pile of their deceased husbands, or induce fathers and mothers to destroy their lovely children."

"Well, at any rate, I think you ought to stay till they apply to us for our religion as a substitute for their own."

It was now late, and the company upon the eve of retiring, when Miss Roscoe arose, took from the book-case one of the volumes of Doddridge's Exposition on the New Testament, placed it on the table, and said to Mr. Guion, "I know, Sir, that it is your custom to conclude your social visits by reading the Scripture and prayer; and if you will consent to do so this evening, you will greatly oblige us."

"I have no objection, if it be perfectly agreeable."

"Certainly, Sir," said Mr. Roscoe, "we ought not to object to prayer."

The bell was now rung, and the servants were requested to come to family prayer. We waited several minutes, during which time Mrs. Roscoe was very restless. At length they entered, at irregular intervals of time, seating themselves on the corner of the chairs which stood nearest the door, expressing, by their looks, the utmost degree of surprise at this novel service, and occasionally, by the satirical smile which played over their countenance, indicating either their contempt or their disposition to merriment. I needed no one to tell me that this was the first time the family had ever knelt together at the throne of grace; but, knowing that a great moral change had taken place in Mr. Roscoe, I felt conscious that it would not be the last; and could not refrain offering my inaudible expressions of praise to the God of all grace, for permitting me to see that fire enkindled on this newly-erected domestic altar, which has ever since burnt with unceasing brightness.

THE CONSULTATION.

"What is it, my dear? you seem agitated, has anything alarmed you?"

"Nothing more, mamma, than this dreadful report; really none of us seem safe; dear Mr. Cole never spoke a greater truth than when he said there was something of a bewitching nature in this new religion! I am alarmed for myself, and almost wish that we were away from this place altogether. But I must tell you the story. Mr. Roscoe has taken to his daughter's religion, and is now as fanatical as herself!"

"I cannot credit this, my dear," replied Mrs. Denham; "you know how often I have said this is the worst place I know for scandal; you should be careful how you receive these reports; no, no, my dear, I cannot believe such a story as this about Mr. Roscoe; he is too good, amiable, and virtuous a man to be led so far wrong, and too much of the gentleman to stoop to anything so mean and vulgar."

"I hope, mamma, it may be so, but I am afraid it is true; and every one is so distressed and affected by the intelligence, I assure you it has produced quite a sensation."

"My dear, it is impossible; I saw him at church on Sunday, and heard him myself repeat the responses louder than he ever did before; and if you recollect, we talked about it when we got home."

"No, mamma; if you recollect, we dined last Sunday with a large party at Mr. Gladstone's, and did not go to church."

"Then it was Sunday week."

"It has happened since then. It happened one night last week; and as I have been at some pains to get at an entire knowledge of this disaster, I will tell you about it."

"Oh! dear," said Mrs. Denham, as she composed herself to listen to the tragical story, "what a world we live in! Really nothing but religion seems to be thought of. Our very servants are becoming religious, and who can wonder at it, when the rich set them the example! And if this should be true about Mr. Roscoe, which I devoutly pray heaven may forbid, there is no saying where the evil will stop."

"Well, mamma, you know that on Tuesday week Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, and the gentleman that is on a visit there, and the Rev. Mr. Guion, all went to spend the evening at Mr. Roscoe's."

"I have always said," interrupting her daughter, "that there is no good doing when such people get together. If I had seen them go, I would have given Mr. Roscoe a hint to be on his guard. He was taken by surprise, I have no doubt. Well, my dear, go on."

"Well, ma', as I was saying, they all went; and when there, Mr. Roscoe said that he would change his religion, and have that which flourished so luxuriantly at Fairmount; and he got Mr. Guion to read a chapter out of the Bible, and to say prayers, and had all the servants in to hear him, and they all knelt down, though I heard that the cook stole out slyly, when they were all upon their knees. She didn't like it."

"I always thought well of that cook; she has a taste above her class in life, I should like to have her; do you think she will leave?"

"I don't know, ma', but I should think she will; I will ask her if you wish it."

"No, my dear, it won't do for you to appear in the matter; I'll speak to John to speak to her. But now about Mr. Roscoe, what is to be done?"

"But, ma', I have something more dismal to tell you."

"I hope not. Why, this is enough to shock the feelings of an angel. Reading the Bible, and prayers, and kneeling down on the floor with servants! I hope Mrs. Roscoe is not gone off."

"No, all this was much against her will, and she is very unhappy about it, and says she shall never be happy again."

"Dear creature, it is impossible; but what else have you to tell?"

"Why, Mr. Roscoe proposed to set up a missionary society, to raise money to send this new religion abroad."

"Well, my dear, this last part of your story relieves my mind. This is a proof of mental derangement. The Chancellor would not want a stronger. It is often the case, when people go wrong in their mind, they profess strong attachment to the things they hate most when they are in their right senses. I now must insist upon it that you never make another call at Fairmount. Really, if you should ever take up with this evangelical religion, I should be tempted to wish myself in heaven, to escape the mortification."

"Indeed, ma', you need give yourself no uneasiness on that subject. I have no predisposition in favour of religion. Indeed, I have my doubts, and if it were fashionable, I think I should profess myself a sceptic, but that would not be lady-like."

Mrs. and Miss Denham, after much long and serious debate, resolved on making a call on Mrs. Roscoe. They found her at home, alone, depressed, and reserved, and though she made an effort to rise to her usual vivacity, yet she could not succeed. Mrs. Denham was very particular in her inquiries after the health of Mr. Roscoe, and was surprised to hear that he was well; and on being informed that he was gone with Miss Sophia to spend an hour at Fairmount, in company with the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, she became greatly agitated.

"Then I fear, my dear Mrs. Roscoe, that it is too true? Oh! I have had no rest since I heard it. What a trial! Really, no one is safe. That such a sensible, and amiable, and virtuous man as Mr. Roscoe used to be, should so far forget himself and all his friends as to change his religion, is very astonishing and affecting. We called on the Rev. Mr. Cole as we came by, to ask if he had heard of the report, and here he is, dear man, coming to condole with you."

"I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Denham to Mr. Cole, as he entered the parlour; "we have been offering our sympathy to dear Mrs. Roscoe—but can't something be done, Sir?"

"Then I suppose there is some foundation for the report. I always thought Mr. Roscoe a very judicious and sensible man, and I still hope, that though he has diverged into this eccentric course, his good sense will, on cool reflection, induce him to return."

"Yes, Sir," replied Mrs. Roscoe, "I hope so too, but it is possible that the influence and example of our daughter may protract, if it do not perpetuate, the delusion under which he unhappily labours; and if so, I shall never see another happy day."

"O yes, you will," said Mr. Cole, "his sun is only passing under a cloud, and when his mind clears up, it will shine with its accustomed brightness. His good sense will preserve him from that fatal vortex into which too many have fallen."

"If, Sir, this were a sudden change, I should be induced to believe that he might be recovered, but it has been coming on for a long time. You know that he does not make up his mind on any subject very suddenly, but when he has done it, you know how firm he is."

"Very true," said Mr. Cole, "but his spirits have been unusually depressed for some months. I remember the last time we spent an evening at Mr. Denham's, that I rallied him on his dulness when we were at play. We must raise his spirits, and then we shall drive away his evangelical notions."

"I have not noticed any particular depression. He has been rather more grave, yet he has been cheerful; and has talked rather more frequently on religious subjects, but they have not affected his spirits."

"Well," said Mr. Cole, "I will come and have a rubber with him, and I will engage to rub these notions out of him."

"Indeed, Sir, he has formally declined playing any more, and has requested me never again to introduce cards."

"Really," said Mrs. Denham, "this is very affecting. Not play again! Not suffer cards to be introduced? Then I suppose he intends to break off connection with all his old friends, and take up with the evangelicals; but I hope you have too much firmness to yield to him."

"It has been my maxim through life to sacrifice everything for the sake of domestic peace. I cannot oppose Mr. Roscoe, and I must confess that he has manifested the utmost degree of affection and kindness."

"The apostle St. Paul has predicted," said the Rev. Mr. Cole, "that in the last days perilous times should come, and indeed they are come. The church once enjoyed quietude, but now she is rent into divisions; not so much by the Dissenters who have seceded from us, as by the evangelical clergy who are admitted within her pale. Their eccentric notions, and their extempore and familiar style of preaching, operate as a charm on the minds of their hearers; and wherever they go, some stir is always occasioned about religion. In general, the poor and the illiterate become their admirers; but sometimes we see men of sense and learning beguiled by their artful sophisms. I can account for their success among the lower orders, but when I see an intelligent man brought over to their belief, I confess I am puzzled. But still I won't give up Mr. Roscoe. I will, in the course of a few Sundays, preach a sermon which I will procure for the occasion."

"You will greatly oblige me if you will, Sir, but you must do it soon, for I dread the idea of Mr. Roscoe going to hear Mr. Ingleby while he is in his present state of mind."

"But you have no idea of his leaving my church?"

"Why, you know very well," Miss Denham remarked, "that none of the evangelicals think you preach the gospel. I have heard Miss Sophia say so many times, and you may be sure that she will try to make her papa believe it, and if he is become an evangelical, he is sure to believe it; for I have noticed that what one believes, they all believe. Really, Sir, there is so much ado made now about the word gospel and evangelical preachers, that the subjects are become quite offensive."

"Yes, to persons of intelligence and taste."

"Exactly so, Sir; you will excuse what I am going to say, but I often think that you are rather severe, too much so I know for some of your hearers; but I have no idea how any people of sense can go and hear such preaching as Mr. Ingleby's. I heard him once, on the loss of the soul. I could not sleep after it—and even now, at times I think of it. But, Sir, you know we have nothing to do with such subjects till we die, or till after death."

"Such preaching," said Mr. Cole, "is as offensive to pure taste, as it is revolting to our feelings."

"Exactly so; you know we are to be allured to a brighter world—not frightened there. Pray, Sir, shall we have the pleasure of meeting you and Mrs. Cole at Mr. Ryder's on Tuesday? By the by, I wonder you do not cure Mr. John of his scepticism. There is to be a large party, and rather a gay one."

"I don't think," replied Mr. Cole, "that Mr. John Ryder has any more scepticism than does him good—it keeps off the gloom which a belief in the Bible almost necessarily brings over the youthful mind. No, I shall not be with you. I have an engagement with a few friends who are going to Bath, to see Romeo and Juliet."

"How dull and insipid is a religious service when compared with a play. What a pity that our Maker requires us to be religious. I have not seen a play for some months, and when I was hearing Mr. Ingleby, I really thought that I should never have courage to see another. Oh, how he did denounce the theatre! He really said that it was the pathway to hell."

"Yes," said Mr. Cole, with high disdain, "that man would interdict us from every social enjoyment; would batter down the temple of the muses, or change it into a house of prayer; and bring before our imagination the awful realities of the eternal world, with so much force, as should compel us to think, with perpetual awe, on death and the future judgment."

"Oh! dear, they are awful realities indeed. When I heard him, he alluded to dear Miss Patterson, who took cold on returning from the play, and died, you know, Sir, a few weeks afterwards? Oh! she was a lovely creature. She was too good to live on earth. Had she been religious, she would have been a saint. But she often used to say that her grandpapa left his religion to her aunts, and his fortune to his grandchildren. Mr. Ingleby, after condemning plays, &c., as impure and sinful, made a long pause, and then proposed his questions with so much solemnity, that my pulse began to beat with feverish rapidity.—'Should you like,' he said, and he looked while he said it so stern and solemn, 'to pass from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ? Should you like to leave the gaieties of this world, to associate with the awful realities of another?' There was so much stillness in the church as he went on in this strain of awful eloquence, and so many people were overcome by what he said, and such a serene smile on his countenance when he began to speak about our Saviour, that I do really think, if I had not been very firm and decided, I should have become as religious as any of them. It was, I assure you, very difficult to withstand his fervour."

"I hope," said Mr. Cole, "you will never go again, for evil communications corrupt the best of hearts."

"Go again!" exclaimed Mrs. Denham, "not if she have any respect for her own happiness, or ours. Why, to hear this about the sermon is enough to frighten any good Christian; what must it have been to have heard the sermon itself! One thing puzzles me when I think about it—why do our bishops consecrate such men?"

"Oh, unluckily we have some evangelical bishops."

"A bishop evangelical! don't you consider that a great wonder, Sir?"

"I consider it a great calamity to our church."

"Exactly so; then I suppose we shall always be annoyed with these evangelical clergy if the bishops sanction them. I hope you won't turn evangelical."

"Not while I retain my reason. When that is gone, I may go off too."

My readers who are but superficially acquainted with the religious habits and style of conversation which prevail in the higher walks of life, may be induced to imagine that I have given a strong colouring to some parts of my narrative, but I assure them that I have not. Indeed, had I quoted the epithets and the phrases which, I know, are sometimes employed, when a certain class of fashionable Christians, with their anti-evangelical pastors, venture to discuss religious subjects, and animadvert on religious people, my pages would be too disfigured to pass through the hands of the pious reader.

It is to be lamented that many intelligent and amiable persons, who occupy very prominent positions amongst us, and who are admired and esteemed by all who know them, are as ignorant of the nature and the design of Christianity as the ancient Scythian or the modern barbarian. They imagine that they are Christians, because they are born in a Christian country; that they are very good Christians, because they sometimes go to church; and that they are safe for another world, because their conscience does not condemn them for the practices in which they now indulge themselves. And if any one, in the most guarded way and the kindest tones of speech, venture to suggest the possibility of self-deception, they are offended, or take refuge in the belief that their hearts are too good to be guilty of such a mean vice. They keep to the religion in which they were born and educated; and this to them is the ark of safety.

Yes, you are a Christian in Britain, as you would be a Mahometan if you had been born in Turkey; but search the Scriptures, and examine if the design of Christianity has ever been accomplished in you. Have you been born again? No. That subject you ridicule, because you do not understand it. Have you had repentance towards God, and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ? No; and if these subjects were pressed upon your conscience with the affection of apostolic compassion, and ardour of apostolic zeal, you would retire displeased, if not disgusted, with the minister who dares to enforce them as essential to your safety and happiness. Are you crucified to the world by the moral influence of the death of Jesus Christ? Crucified to the world! The very phrase, though scriptural, grates offensively on your ear! Crucified to the world! O no. You are devoted to its pleasures, its follies, its amusements. Shut up the theatre, abolish cards, interdict the assembly and the ball, and how would a large portion of our modern Christians be able to support life?

You may imagine that you are a good Christian, because you sometimes go to church; but an occasional visit to a material temple will not produce that moral transformation of the soul which is essential to fit you for the holy exercises and enjoyments of another world. You may reject these questions which I now propose to you; but before you reject them, permit me to urge you to search the Scriptures, and then you will see that they have a paramount claim on your attention. Can you be a Christian unless you possess the spirit, and are in some degree conformed to the image of Jesus Christ?

But it ought not to excite our astonishment, though it may our tenderest sympathy, to see the great majority of those who move in fashionable life passing away their time amidst the gaieties and follies of the world, when they are sanctioned, if not encouraged by the clergy, who ought to teach them better, both by precept and example.

We have ministers of religion who do not hesitate to hold up to ridicule and contempt the essential doctrines and self-denying precepts of their own faith; and attempt, as far as the influence of their example can extend, to banish all serious and devout piety from the social circle. They see no harm in customs which the spirit and even the letter of the Scriptures condemn; and sanction by their presence those scenes of human folly and gaiety which have captivated and ruined thousands, who were once the ornaments of their fathers' house.

Such ministers not only sanction the customs of the world, but they discountenance all serious piety, and declaim against their evangelical brethren as disturbers of the peace of the church. If Christianity be a cunningly devised fable—if the life of faith and of practical devotedness of the soul to God be mere fancies—if heaven and hell be the conceptions of romance, brought into the pulpit to terrify the credulous and please the sanguine—I should not hesitate to pronounce a heavy censure on those ministers who bring forward these subjects so often, and who enforce attention to them with so much ardent and impassioned eloquence.

But if Christianity be true—if the final happiness or misery of the human soul depend on faith in Christ—if the glories of heaven and the terrors of hell are realities which exceed the power of man to describe—then even the most sceptical must admit that the ministers of religion ought, with great boldness and impassioned earnestness, to rouse their hearers to a serious and immediate attention to these great, these awful subjects; and ought they not to teach by example, as well as by precept? and by the purity of their morals—by their religious habits and style of conversation—give strong and unequivocal proofs that they preach what they believe, and believe what they preach?

But let no Christian, whatever rank he may hold in social life, or whatever degree of reputation he may have attained for intelligence, or good sense, or for amiability of temper, presume to hope that he will ever be able to make a scriptural profession of religion (after he has felt the power of it) without exciting the displeasure, if not the opposition, of his irreligious relatives and friends. They will not object to the religion of forms and ceremonies; to the religion which is confined to the temple, or to the bed of sickness; to the religion which allows of a conformity to the gaieties and the follies of the world, and which frowns from its presence all references to death, to judgment, to heaven, and to hell; but the religion which consists in the moral renovation of the soul, which identifies man with a living Saviour, and which raises his anticipations to the glories of the invisible world, they despise, and cast it from them as a strange thing, and then ridicule it as contemptible.

THE DARK VALE ILLUMINED.