After the party broke up she became somewhat worse; but as there never had been much illness in the family, her parents did not send for medical assistance, supposing that she had merely taken a cold, from which she would soon recover. Her mamma sat by her bedside till midnight, when she left her in a sweet sleep, having commissioned her favourite servant to watch her through the night. About three in the morning she became restless, awoke, and asked for some water, which she drank with avidity, and then slumbered on for the space of another half-hour. She awoke again, and asked for more water; complained of its being bitter, and uttered some incoherent sentences, which induced the servant to call up her parents. She became composed again; slept rather more soundly; but about five she again awoke, and seeing her mother, she said, "I have had a very strange night—I have seen strange sights, and heard strange sounds—I am very ill—I ought not to have gone to the ball—I knew better—I should not like to pass from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ!"

"O, my dear, do not suffer your mind to be so distressed. It was a very unfavourable night; but I hope it will please the Almighty to restore you to health very soon. Your papa has sent William for Dr. Bailey, and we expect him here every minute."

At length, after two hours' long suspense, the trampling of the horses announced the approach of the doctor, who was soon introduced to her by her tender-hearted father. He made a few inquiries—examined her pulse—looked grave—and then abruptly retired below, followed by both her parents, who felt anxious to know his opinion, yet dreaded to ask him for it.

"Miss Matilda," he said, "is very ill—she must be kept very composed. I will send her some medicine, which she must take immediately, and I will see her again about noon."

"Is there any danger, Sir?"

"There is, Madam, always some danger attendant on such a violent seizure; but I see no great reason to apprehend a fatal issue."

The doctor's directions were strictly adhered to; but the fever continued to rage with even greater violence, and she became delirious. Occasionally she gave utterance to half-formed sentences, which indicated that she sometimes thought herself listening to a sermon on the loss of the soul, and at other times enjoying the gaieties of fashionable life. Often did her father, with hurried steps, walk up and down the lane, between the hours of twelve and two, to look for the doctor; and just as he was sending William to hasten his return, he saw him coming. After the second interview with his patient, her mother ventured to say, "Do you think, Sir, the dear creature is dying?"

"Why, no, Madam; she is still very ill, but not worse than when I saw her in the morning. She may recover, and I hope she will; but everything depends on her being kept composed."

"But, Sir, she is at times very delirious, and utters sayings frightful to hear."

"That must not astonish you; it proceeds from the nature of the complaint; it is a painful but not a dangerous symptom. I want to subdue her fever, and if I can do that, we have nothing to fear. I will see her again in the evening."

She continued during the afternoon much the same, but towards evening was more composed; she recognized her mother, and conversed a little with her; complained less of pain and of thirst, and was so much revived that the doctor said, on leaving her, that he had very little doubt that she would recover. During the four following days there was no perceptible change, but on the turn of the seventh day the fever left her. As the doctor had been very particular in recommending her parents to keep up her spirits, to prevent her ruminating on the subject of religion, her mamma occasionally read to her some passages from the most amusing books she could procure, and generally passed away the dull and tedious hours of the evening at cards. But though she had regained her vivacity, and talked with her accustomed ease on the past scenes of her life, and the prospects which futurity opened up to her ardent fancy, yet she gradually became weaker and weaker, which convinced her physician that some incipient disease was undermining the vigour of her constitution; yet he did not despair of her final recovery.

But though for a while some flattering symptoms gave promise of returning health and vigour, yet at length it became evident that death was lurking in ambush, and that the gay and accomplished Matilda must die. One physician was called in after another, and every expedient which human skill could devise was resorted to; but no power could arrest the progress of the flattering yet fatal disorder which was gradually wasting away her life. As soon as she was informed that there was no hope of her recovery, she requested to be left alone till she rang the bell. On this request all went below, and sat for some time weeping together. "She is now," said her father, "making her peace with God; let no noise be heard; this work requires stillness; may heaven bless her in the act." The bell rang; her anxious mother, on approaching her bedside, perceived she was in a state of extreme agitation, and her voice faltered as she said, "I fear, ma', I am not fit to appear before the judgment-seat of Christ. I wish to see some clergyman who will bring words of peace to my soul."

"That's very proper, dear. I'll send for Mr. Cole, who will, I am sure, and with great satisfaction, give you the sacrament, and then you will make your peace with God."

"Yes, mamma; he gave it to Amelia Stubbs when she was dying, and she told me that she dreaded death after she had taken the sacrament as much as she did before it was given to her; she told me that giving the sacrament and absolution to fit a person for dying is a great delusion. I now feel, ma', that I have been living under the spell of a fatal delusion; but I cannot consent to die under it. Will you send for Mr. Ingleby?"

"Mr. Ingleby!" said the astonished mother.

"Yes, ma'; he spoke words of comfort to Amelia Stubbs when she was dying, and he may bring some words of comfort to my troubled soul. Send for him immediately. I have not long to live, and I wish now to turn the current of my thoughts towards the other world."

"I hope," said the weeping father, on Mrs. Denham's entrance into the parlour, "our dear Matilda feels her soul happy."

"O no! she is not happy. Her soul is in trouble. She says that she is not fit to appear before the judgment-seat of Christ."

"What makes her think this?"

"It is the remembrance of some question she once heard Mr. Ingleby put when he was reading his sermon."

"Did she ever tell it you?"

"Yes; many times of late."

"Do you recollect it?"

"Yes; it was this—'Should you like to go from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ?'"

"And who would? Perhaps that question was the Almighty's warning voice speaking to her soul."

"She wishes to see the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, and requests that he may be sent for immediately."

"Yes, I'll send for him at once, since she desires to see him. He is a good man, and has made many happy in their last hours, and I hope he will bring words of peace to the troubled spirit of our dear dying child."

As the news of Miss Denham's approaching dissolution spread through the parish, many wept, and many sent to inquire after her; but none were more deeply affected than the Stevenses and the Roscoes. Though they had often sent, and often called, yet they had not been permitted to see her more than once, and then she was flushed with the high expectation of a speedy recovery.

Mr. Denham at once sent a note to the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, informing him of the dangerous illness of his daughter, and of her desire to see him at his earliest convenience.

Mr. Ingleby was very soon with her; he found her seated in an arm-chair beside the fire, with a Bible open on the table before her; but she was too much excited to do more than extend her hand, sitting for some time nearly motionless, in pensive silence. There was a melancholy cast on her countenance, which formed a strong contrast to the brilliancy of her eye, and the beautiful though fatal hectic which flushed her cheeks. Her parents, after making some delicate allusions to her illness, and the depression of her spirits, withdrew, as she had requested to be left alone with Mr. Ingleby; and after they had left the room, she very frankly told him that she had sent for him to give her the benefit of his instructions and his prayers. "I have lived, Sir, a gay and a thoughtless life, but not a happy one. I have often felt dissatisfied with the sources of my gratification, and envious of the happiness of our friends at Fairmount; but never had resolution enough to abandon the objects of my pursuit, nor to seek theirs. It has now pleased the Almighty to put a stop to my career of folly and gaiety, and I know that in a few weeks, if not days, I shall die, and go into the eternal world; and I am not prepared for such an awful event."

"But what convinces you that you are not prepared to go into the eternal world; and how long have you entertained such a belief?"

"Ever since I heard you preach a sermon on the loss of the soul. Since then I have been unhappy, and often in terror."

"Do you remember any particular passage in the sermon which impressed and affected you?"

"O yes, Sir; one, which is fixed on my memory. It was this: 'Should you like to go from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ?'"

"To pass abruptly from such a scene of gay amusement into the eternal world would indeed be awful, but God in mercy has interposed to prevent it; and your present anxiety on the subject may be regarded as a favourable sign that he is dealing graciously with you. But as many are alarmed in the immediate prospect of death, and pray for mercy when they cannot continue longer in a course of folly and of sin, you will permit me to warn you against grasping at a premature hope, which may prove more fatal, because more deceptive, than the keenest feelings of anguish."

"O, Sir, I have no hope. My soul is deeply depressed; I cannot look back on the scenes of my past life without being amazed at my folly. Had I taken the warning which Amelia Stubbs gave me when she was dying, I had not gone to the theatre or the ball-room again; and then I had not been dying now."

"You knew her?"

"Yes, Sir; and I saw her when she was dying; and she told me she would rather die than live. And she besought me with tears, and in the sweetest tones of solicitude, to flee from the wrath to come. But I was infatuated, and I saw not my danger, nor did I understand the full import of her warning as I do now. I continued to follow the multitude, because custom led the way, and now I must die alone. But I am not fit to die."

"Why do you suppose that you are not fit to die?"

"Because I am a sinner; I always thought I was, when I ever thought on the subject, but now I feel that I am."

"And how long have you felt yourself a sinner?"

"O, Sir," and she wept as she spoke, "not till after I was informed of my danger; and this aggravates my misery, because I fear that it is a dread of punishment which disquiets my soul, rather than a true sorrow for my sins."

"Had you ever any convictions during your gay career that you were acting an unwise and a dangerous part?"

"O yes, often, Sir, very often; conviction would sometimes flash over my mind, with the vividness of lightning; but then it would soon go off again; and though I could not forget the impressions which it produced, yet I soon ceased to feel them."

"You informed me just now that while you were sometimes dissatisfied at your own pursuits, you often envied the superior happiness of our pious friends at Fairmount; but why did you envy them their happiness, when you could form no just conception of the nature of it?"

"It is true, Sir, I could form no conception of the nature of their happiness, but I knew they were happy—more happy without our fantastic sources of amusement than we were with them. I never retired from their society without being convinced that there was a Divine reality in true religion; and yet I could not imagine what it could be. The only idea I could form of it was going frequently to church, reading the Bible, praying, and living a virtuous life."

"Yes, my dear, there is a Divine reality in true religion, which, I hope, you will live to feel?"

"I cannot live, Sir, and I am not fit to die. My case is hopeless."

"No, my dear, it is not hopeless. I can repeat to you words which have comforted thousands, and I hope they will comfort you—'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

"But, Sir, after living such a vain life, may I venture to rely on his death for salvation, with a hope of obtaining it?"

"Yes, most certainly. Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners—those who feel they are sinners—and as soon as we feel our guilt and our degeneracy, we are not only fitted to come unto him for peace, and acceptance, and eternal life, but invited in the most tender and endearing terms. Hence he says, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

"O, Sir," she suddenly exclaimed, and her eye sparkled with delight, "these are the very words which gave comfort to dear Amelia Stubbs when she was dying, so she told me."

"And I hope they will give comfort to your soul. They are the words which Jesus Christ uttered when he was on earth, and addressed to sinners like you."

"But he does not speak them to me; if he did, then I should have comfort, because then I should have hope."

"He has had them inserted in the New Testament, and there you may read them; and as they are placed there for the comfort of sinners of all future times, you are authorized, when reading them, or hearing them repeated, to believe that he IS speaking to YOU, and as really as though you could hear him giving utterance to them."

"Then I will hope in his mercy and in his power; and yet I am almost afraid to hope. Had I felt some years, or even some months since what I now feel, I should have been preserved from the ensnaring influence of those fascinations which have opened for me a premature grave, and might, in the society of my esteemed friends, Mrs. Stevens and Miss Roscoe, have enjoyed a large share of happiness on earth."

"But you ought to be thankful to the God of all consolation that you have felt, in the eleventh hour, that degree of guilt, and that clear apprehension of danger, which has induced you to run for refuge to Jesus Christ to save you."

"Very true, Sir; and I do feel the emotion of gratitude to him springing up in my heart. It is a new emotion, and it is a very sweet one."

"You have often heard, when attending the services of the church, that Jesus Christ died on the cross to save sinners from perishing; did it never make any impression on your heart?"

"Yes, Sir, I heard it, but it did not impress my thoughtless mind. But now I see it and feel it. O, how wonderful, that the Son of God should bleed and die for such a guilty and worthless sinner as I now feel myself to be! And may I hope, dear Sir, without being guilty of presumption, that he will save me from perishing, and admit me into heaven?"

"You may; indeed, not to do so would be a sin, as it would be an impeachment of his integrity."

"Then I will hope, and will bless and praise his name with all my soul. I have been living under a fatal delusion, but I feel that I am under no delusion now."

"No, my dear, you are now brought into connection with realities,—sublime realities—realities which connect the two worlds, and which explain the mysteries of time, and open a free and a safe passage for the guilty and the worthless into eternity."

"May I now urge my last request, which is this—that ere you leave this house, you will try to impress on the mind of my dear parents the important truths which you have with such clearness made known to me."

The venerable man having given her his pledge that he would attempt to do so, then knelt down and prayed with her, and bade her farewell, yet intending to see her again. Immediately after Mr. Ingleby's departure she retired to rest, and slept the greater part of the night. In the morning, when her father drew near her bedside, and asked her if her soul was happy, she replied, "I am composed, but not perfectly happy. I have a hope that I shall not perish, and that I shall be saved; and this is as much as I can expect, and far more than I deserve. I shall now soon leave you, dear father; but before I go I have two requests to make, which I hope you will comply with. The one is this, that you and my dear mother will go and hear that holy man of God preach, who has brought words of comfort to my troubled soul. He understands what religion is, and will explain it to you more clearly and more perfectly than Mr. Cole can do. I once, in common with others, ridiculed his evangelical views of Divine truth, and turned the edge of satire against those who seek happiness in the consolations of the gospel; but now I am driven for peace and for hope to that very source. My other request is, that you will send my affectionate regards to Mrs. Stevens and Miss Roscoe, and say that I wish to see them as soon as they can conveniently come."

Mr. John Ryder, who had been unremitting in his attentions during her illness, and who was nearly frantic with grief in the prospect of parting with her, was waiting below; and when she was asked if he might see her once more, she replied, "I think not, it may disturb me; I am too near an eternal world to suffer my feelings to intermingle again with those objects on which they have been too strongly placed." But after a long pause she added, "Yes, let him come up. The parting scene, though painful, may be profitable." He entered the room, pale and dejected; and though his spirit could brave death in the high places of danger, yet now he was appalled—seeing her preparing for the tomb, instead of the altar. On approaching her bedside she extended her hand, and with a mild look and softened tone, she said, "We now part, but I hope not for ever. Death, which is now removing me, may soon call for you, and then I hope you will find that consolation in the death of a despised Saviour, which it has pleased God, very unexpectedly and undeservedly, to give to me." And then, after a mutual embrace, she drew back her hand, and concealed her face, as though her eyes were for ever closed on things visible and temporal.

The interview with her endeared friends, Mrs. Stevens and Miss Roscoe, gave a fresh excitement to her feelings; but it was one of pure and unmingled satisfaction. They conversed together with intense interest on the love of Christ, and the freeness of his salvation; but when any reference was made to the joys of the heavenly state, she merely expressed a hope that she might be permitted to join the innumerable throng, though doomed to remain unnoticed amongst them. As Mrs. Denham and the nurse were exhausted by excessive fatigue, having had no rest for several nights, Mrs. Stevens's and Miss Roscoe's kind offer to stay with her was accepted. It was evident to all that she could not continue long; for though there had been some favourable symptoms of recruited strength, yet for the last few days the disease had made very rapid progress, and when the physician took his leave, he said, "Be not surprised if a sudden change should take place." She slept through the first part of the night very composedly, but about three in the morning she became restless, and on being raised up in the arms of Miss Roscoe, she swooned for a few seconds, when she gradually revived, and expressed a wish to see her parents once more. She first kissed her mother, and bade her adieu, and then her father, and then her two female friends, and, last of all, her old nurse; and after a long pause she said, "I am dying, but not without hope of obtaining eternal life, through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ." She then gently reclined her head on the bosom of Mrs. Stevens, and breathed her last.

Thus died the once gay and thoughtless Miss Denham, bearing a testimony against the vanities of the world, which had ensnared her, and to the importance and excellence of the faith in Christ, which she had often made the theme of her ridicule. Had she felt the transforming power of the truth which on one occasion she heard fall from the lips of Mr. Ingleby, or had she given heed to the warnings which Amelia Stubbs, when dying, addressed to her, she might have lived, a comfort to her parents in their old age, and an ornament to society; and, at a distant period, she might have descended to the grave laden with the fruits of righteousness, and rich in the anticipations of hope. But as she chose to disregard them, and devote herself to the follies and amusements of gay life, she was called to taste the bitterness of death in the spring-time of her years; yet mercy spared her till she sought the redemption of her soul, through faith in the death of the Redeemer, while many are left in their last hours on earth to seek for enjoyment amidst scenes of folly, and then, when death comes, they pass into the eternal world, for which they have made no preparation. What consternation and horror will then seize them! A ceaseless storm of agony, which never abates, and from which there is no escape. O, reader,

"Be wise to-day, 'tis madness to defer."

THE TRACTARIAN AT FAULT.

"My Dear Sophia,—We are again at home, and in good health; but before I say anything about home, I will give you a short account of the adventures of our journey. We had, for nearly half the distance, two gentlemen for our fellow-travellers—one a Roman Catholic, the other a Protestant—whom I shall call Mr. O'Brian and Mr. Robertson. Mr. O'Brian was a very demure-looking man, with a large head, overhanging brows, and strongly marked with a severe yet self-complacent expression. On taking his seat, he at once opened a newspaper and commenced reading. At length, having wearied himself by the intensity of his reading, or having exhausted the subject matter of his paper, he folded it up, put it on his knee, took off his spectacles, and then placing them cautiously in an elegant silver case, he slightly changed his position, and appeared equally intent in looking at the varied beauties of nature.

"Mr. Robertson requested that he would favour him with the use of the paper. The favour was granted in silence, and with a somewhat haughty bow.

"Mr. Robertson, who sat opposite me, was an interesting and intelligent-looking man, with a bold, yet rather facetious-looking countenance; while reading, I was much struck with his appearance, his features underwent such frequent and rapid changes of expression. It seemed to me that he had met with something which alternately amused his fancy and roused his ire. The paper, I should tell you, was from the Roman Catholic press, and contained some marvellous tales, the description of some gorgeous ecclesiastical ceremonies, and a Jesuitical defence of the Catholic clergy, on whom the editor lavished many praises, for their active benevolence and their earnestness in the grand work of saving the people.

"On returning the paper, Mr. Robertson said, 'I greatly dislike these marvellous tales, because I think them legendary inventions; and I greatly dislike these pompous ceremonies, because they do not harmonize with the beautiful simplicity of the religion of the New Testament; and though I have no doubt but some of your priests are men of active benevolence, yet I do not think they have any more power to save the people than any other men.'

"'Perhaps, Sir,' said Mr. O'Brian, 'you are what in common parlance we call an unbeliever.'

"'No, Sir, I am not; I believe in the plenary inspiration and absolute authority of the Bible; but I have no faith in the infallibility or divinely delegated power of any order of priesthood; pure sham pretensions, Sir.'

"'But, Sir, our priests are the regular successors of the apostles.'

"'They may be, but what then? Do you mean to imply, in this category of their descent, that they are endowed with the same power and authority as the apostles?'

"'Most certainly I do.'

"'Indeed! that is claiming a good deal of what is superhuman. The apostles had power to work miracles; but do these priests of yours ever do such a thing as open the eyes of a blind man, or raise a dead man to life.'

"'No, Sir, they do not pretend to do such things. The power and authority which is delegated to them is spiritual; to act not on matter but on mind; to remit or retain its sins.'

"'The apostles never possessed this spiritual power, or if they did, they never exercised it.'

"'I beg your pardon, Sir, but you are mistaken.'

"'To the law and the testimony; specify one case in which any one of the apostles ever ventured on forgiving any man his sins.'

"'I have not my New Testament with me, or I could prove the truth of what I say.'

"'I know all the facts of the New Testament, and if you will only refer to any one case, I will give it to you with all its details.'

"No reply.

"'No, Sir; the apostles always directed the attention of the guilty, for the remission of their sins, to God, seated on a throne of grace; or directly to Jesus Christ, as a Saviour mighty to save. I certainly will give your priests the credit of acting a very cunning part in one particular, relating to the possession of apostolic powers.'

"'A very cunning part, Sir! in what particular?'

"'Why, the apostles proved that they had power to work visible miracles; but this power your priests lay no claim to, because, if they did, they would be challenged to the proof; but they claim an authority to forgive sins (after certain cash payments are made), which authority the apostles never exercised; and when they are asked for a proof that they possess it, they have none to offer except their own fallible testimony. However, their deluded devotees very meekly hand over the cash, which the priest very gravely pockets, reminding me of the Ephesian jugglers, who said, in justification of their zeal for the great goddess Diana, "Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our living." This, Sir, is worse than mere sham; it is a daring usurpation of the Divine prerogative, which is no less than an act of blasphemy; for who can forgive sins but God only?'

"No reply.

"When Mr. O'Brian left us, his place was filled up by an elderly man, the most profane person I ever travelled with. I watched the changing countenance of Mr. Robertson, the rapid contraction and distention of his brow, his intent and eager look of indignation. Availing himself of a short pause, he said, with a very stern look, and in an authoritative tone, 'If, Sir, you have no reverence for God, I hope you will pay some respect to a lady, and leave off such profane, disgusting utterances.'

"'I suppose, Sir, you are a believer in the Bible?'

"'I am, Sir.'

"'I am not. I don't believe that God takes any notice of what we say or do.'

"'It is very possible, Sir, you may feel the full force of your belief at some future period of your history.'

"'You speak ambiguously; will you explain your meaning?'

"'Why, Sir, it is possible you may feel, when dying, what the generality of your profane fraternity feel—intense remorse and some awful forebodings—and may, as they have often done, cry aloud for mercy; and then you may be made to feel that God takes no notice of what you say or do.'

"'I don't believe in a futurity; I no more expect to live after death comes, than I expect my dead dog to live again, or that a rotten cabbage-stalk will spring up into vegetable life again.'

"'Well, Sir, if you choose to die like a dog, or rot like a cabbage stump, you will permit me to say that I don't admire your taste.'

"'I defy you to prove that I shall live after I am dead.'

"'You need not defy me to do that, for I assure you I have no wish to do so; and really the sooner such profane beings go out of existence the better; if not for their own sakes, yet certainly for the sake of others.'

"This last stroke of caustic severity struck the evil spirit dumb, and he left us very soon after.

"Your uncle took no notice of any occurrence during the whole of the journey; he entered into no conversation, but appeared deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, and since his return he very rarely leaves his study, except for his meals, and these he often takes in almost total silence. An incident occurred on Saturday week, which, when viewed in connection with the strange alteration of his habits and manners, induces me to hope that his religious opinions, like my own, are undergoing a decided change. He said to me, 'I shall read the service to-morrow, and my curate shall preach;' assigning as the reason for such an unusual arrangement, that he could not select a sermon to his mind; adding, 'I must get a new set.' What spiritual influence that visit is now exerting over him, time alone will show; but as it relates to myself, I assure you, my dear Sophia, I shall never forget it; and I hope the vivid impressions of the superlative importance of personal piety which I received, will never become obliterated. The idea which most forcibly struck me was one which came out incidentally at our interview with the excellent Mrs. Stevens—that genuine religion was a source of mental bliss; it takes its rise in the heart, and brings us into contact with a living Saviour. As soon as this grand idea took possession of my mind, I saw the absurdity, and I may say the impiety of deifying the ceremonies of religion, by ascribing a regenerating power to baptism, an absolving power to confirmation, and a saving power to the priesthood of any church. O! how often have I uttered, in conjunction with others, when in church, the following prayer: 'O God the Son, Redeemer of the world, have mercy upon us, miserable sinners.' But I never felt myself a miserable sinner till now. I never felt the need of mercy till now. I uttered the prayer quite mechanically, not from the heart; but now I feel its appropriateness and its urgent necessity; and I begin to hope he will have mercy on me and on my dear husband.

"You are aware that my sister, who is an eminently devout woman, is also a Dissenter; and hitherto, when she has visited us, we have felt some objection to her staying over the Sunday, because, having no sympathy with your uncle's style of preaching, she could not go with us to church; and we both felt a reluctance to tolerate an inmate of the rectory going to a Dissenting chapel. But the other evening, when alluding to her expected visit, he said to me, 'I hope she will remain with us some weeks; and I see no good reason why we should object to her attending the Dissenting chapel, as we know she prefers it. The apostle commands us to be courteous; and hence we must not suffer any of our ecclesiastical antipathies or predilections to set aside the law of Christian politeness.' This first budding of liberality was hailed by me with more delight than we feel when gathering the first snow-drop of spring; in itself a proof that our visit has thawed away the ice-bound antipathies of a frigid ecclesiastical formalism. Remember me most affectionately to your papa and mamma, and believe me to be, my dear Sophia, your most affectionate aunt,

"A. R."

Soon after receiving this letter, Miss Roscoe wrote to her aunt, in the following terms:—

"My Dear Aunt,—Yours of the 14th more than delighted us; it excited our gratitude to the Author of all good desires and all holy counsels; and both mamma and papa have consented that I should come to you as soon as I can conveniently get ready. I often prayed, while you were with us, that your visit might prove a spiritual blessing to us all; and I now indulge the hope that the Lord is answering my prayers. To see you and my dear uncle moving out of dull, monotonous formality, into newness of life, and to hail you as fellow-heirs of the grace of life, will be indeed the consummation of bliss. With united affection to you and yours,

"Sophia."

The Rev. Mr. Roscoe had not preached for many Sundays, leaving this part of his clerical duties to be performed by his curate; and one evening, when in conversation with his family, he made a communication that startled them. Alluding to the discussions which had taken place at his brother's mansion, he said, "They have altogether unfitted me for my ministerial functions. I cannot preach now, for I do not know what to preach. I am compelled to renounce my former belief, and I see no alternative but to adopt the evangelical faith; and yet I do not clearly understand it. It is at present enveloped in a thick mist, which may possibly clear off as I pursue my inquiries; and yet I scarcely know how to pursue them. However, I have decided on one important step, which I have no doubt will startle many, and may bring upon me some opprobrium, and that is, I have engaged an evangelical preacher to succeed my present curate, who leaves next Sunday, having obtained preferment. My new curate may prove to me a counsellor and a guide." The effect of this unexpected announcement was electrical, and some tears were shed, as an homage of gratitude to the God of all grace.

"I hope, Sir," said Mrs. Burder, "the Divine Spirit is gently leading you out of the darkness of theological error, into the marvellous light of pure, evangelical truth; and though for a while a thick mist of obscurity may envelope some parts of its harmonious theory, yet if you follow on to know the Lord, the pathway of your inquiry will become clearer and brighter, till in the progress of time you will comprehend, by practical experience of its power, what the apostle designates the height and the depth, the breadth and the length of the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge; and then you will have both joy and peace in believing."

"It will, indeed," said Mrs. Roscoe, "be a delight to my soul to hear pure evangelical truth proclaimed in our church, in which a cold and frigid Tractarianism, which I never very well liked, has long been in the ascendant."

"And to hear it proclaimed by my dear uncle," said Miss Roscoe, "will be as joyous to my heart as the coming up of John the Baptist out of the wilderness, proclaiming the speedy appearance of the Messiah, was to the devout Jews, who were waiting for the consolation of Israel."

"Your father, my dear Sophia, has been the means of effecting a thorough revolution in my theological opinions and belief; but had there not been another power presiding over our discussions, more powerful than his cogent arguments, my haughty spirit would never have yielded to him the palm of victory. Yes, and I am not ashamed to avow it, 'by the grace of God I am what I am.' I have always loved my brother as my brother, but now, henceforth, I shall love and revere him, as my spiritual father in Christ."

"Do you recollect, uncle, what part of the discussion made the first and the deepest impression against your Tractarianism, and in favour of evangelical truth?"

"Yes; I felt staggered by the case of Simon Magus,[19] as a self-evident proof that baptism is not regeneration. The argument rising out of the possible loss[20] of a parish register I felt to be very powerful. I was also, more than once during our debates, very solemnly impressed by your father's serious and intense earnestness; but one expression he uttered, when replying to some observations of your aunt, went to the core of my heart, and I could not extract it."

"Do you recollect the expression?" said Miss Roscoe.

"Yes, and its accompaniments, and the long train of reflections it gave rise to. It was this:—'All false religions take man as he is, and leave him essentially the same; but in genuine religion the man changes,'[A] and I saw an illustration and confirmation of this in your papa. I recollected the time when he was as decided a Tractarian as myself, equally averse to evangelical truth, and more intolerant in his spirit against others. The conversion of Saul of Tarsus did not excite more astonishment amongst the Jews and the disciples of Christ, than I felt at the change which had taken place in my brother. In him I saw a living proof that the man changes,[21] and I saw also that the change brought him into a nearer spiritual conformity to the primitive disciples of Jesus Christ. Then the emphatic exclamation of your aunt helped on this new process of thinking and feeling, and my spirit instinctively responded to the truthfulness of her utterance, 'I must have the religion of principle—that of mere form has no life; it does not bring me into contact with a living Saviour.'"

"I often felt," said Mrs. John Roscoe, addressing her niece, "when associating with your friends, that I was with persons of a new order, very diverse in spirit and in style of speech to our Tractarian neighbours,—advocates for the same ecclesiastical ceremonies, but regarding them merely as the external medium for the conveyance of Divine truth and grace to the mind; not magnifying them, as endowed with any mysterious, self-contained power to operate by their own immediate agency. But the point of difference which struck me most forcibly, was their constant reference to the absolute necessity of a supernatural renovation of the soul, and the infusion of a new and spiritual life."

"And, my dear aunt, was this the only point of difference which you discerned between us and your Tractarian friends?"

"O no. Perhaps if I refer to a passage in a sermon which I heard the venerable Mr. Ingleby preach, it will give you an idea of the other point of difference I perceived. It was contained in a sermon from John iii. 14, 15, and was to this effect: Jesus Christ stands in the same relation to us which the elevated brazen serpent did to the bitten Israelites—every one who looked to it was healed. We, as sinners, are thus addressed: 'Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth; for I am God, and there is none else' (Isa. xlv. 22). 'You are not,' he said, with intense earnestness, 'to look to your virtues for salvation, nor are you to look to your religious ceremonies for salvation; but you are to look to Jesus Christ, symbolized by the brazen serpent of the Hebrew camp, a living Saviour, and one mighty to save.' This was a beautiful passage, beautiful from its simplicity and its adaptation to our condition. I have been baptized, confirmed, have taken the sacrament many times, and have passed through the entire process of ecclesiastical training, but I now find I am not spiritually regenerated, and that I need a Saviour just as much as any unbaptized heathen."

"Tractarians," said Miss Roscoe, "neither deny nor repudiate Jesus Christ; they maintain his original dignity, and often depict, in strongly exciting language, his humiliation and his sufferings. They also extol him as the perfection of moral dignity, combined with personal excellencies of the purest order; but they do not give to him that prominence as a Saviour mighty to save, which the inspired writers and which the evangelical clergy give to him. His substitutional work they virtually reject, as we do the legend of baptismal regeneration. He is, in their ecclesiastical domain, more as the spectre of the Christian faith, moving silently in dim twilight amongst its established forms and lifeless ceremonies, than as the ever-living Son of God, giving life to the spiritually dead, healing the moral disorders of fallen humanity, and saving the chief of sinners from everlasting woe."

On Sunday afternoon they all went to church, and heard the curate deliver his farewell sermon, which, like most sermons of the same school, was a pompous eulogium on the church, its apostolic orders, and its sacraments. Jesus Christ was visible in the remote distance, but not drawing the people to himself by the virtue of his death; the efficacy of the attractive power was deposited in the laver of baptism, and the absolution of the priesthood.

"I am devoutly thankful," said Mrs. Roscoe, as they were returning from church, "that this is the last sermon of the Tractarian school we shall have from this pulpit."

"I think," said Miss Roscoe, as they were chatting together after tea, "we shall be guilty of no offence against any law of our statute-book if we go together to the Dissenting chapel this evening, as we have no service at church."

"I shall not object," said Mr. Roscoe, "to your going; but if I go, now that I have appointed an evangelical curate to do duty at church, a report may be raised that I am going to turn Dissenter. This would most likely operate to my prejudice. However, I intend to hear the sermon, which I can do very easily by walking in the garden alongside the chapel, where I have of late heard many of Mr. Davis's sermons, and have more than admired them; I have felt them."

"My uncle! you progress in liberality rather rapidly. I hope this is not a sign that you will soon be taken from us; choice fruit sometimes gets prematurely ripe."

"O no. I am not meet for heaven as yet. But now that I begin to know and feel the real power of the truth on my heart, I shall throw off the mantle of bigotry; it never sits gracefully on a true believer in Christ. One faith ought to produce one spirit—the spirit of love and Christian fellowship. We shall all be one in heaven, and why not all one on earth?"

The text for the evening sermon was part of the 29th verse of the 34th chapter of the prophecies of Ezekiel—"A plant of renown." After a concise exposition of the prophecy, Mr. Davis remarked, "It is not my intention to give you a lecture on the future restoration of the Jews to the land of their fathers, but rather to fix your attention on that glorious One who is announced in my text under the beautifully appropriate image of a plant of renown. That it refers exclusively to Jesus Christ I shall take for granted, and the following is the leading question I mean to discuss—What is the primary cause to which his pre-eminent distinction and celebrity may be attributed? That there are some subordinate causes which have contributed to it, I readily admit, such as his miracles, his teaching, and the moral grandeur and social loveliness of his character; but these, though brilliant and imposing, are not enough to account for the unparalleled celebrity which he still maintains in universal estimation. For suppose, after performing the miracles which he did perform, and after conveying the knowledge of spiritual truths which he did convey, and after developing the character which he did develope, he had suddenly disappeared, like Enoch or Elijah, doing nothing more in behalf of man, what an impenetrable cloud of mystery would hang over the design of his appearing on earth? We should, in that case, be reduced to the necessity of believing that the greatest, the wisest, and the most benevolent being that ever appeared in the human form, came and went away without accomplishing any purpose commensurate with the moral grandeur of his character, or the vastness of his resources for practical utility. He would flit before our imagination as a wonderful being, but a being of no essential importance to us. His history might live in our recollection without exciting an emotion of gratitude or of love, or it might pass from our recollection without our sustaining any perceptible loss, proving a vast brilliant mirage in the dreary desert of humanity; or, like some splendid night-dream, leaving at the dawn of morning its romantic incidents feebly and uselessly imprinted on the fancy. If, then, his splendid miracles, his sublime revelation of spiritual truth, and his unique character, blending in equal proportions the perfections of divinity with the excellencies of unfallen humanity, are insufficient to account for his unfading and ever-increasing celebrity, and for the absolute dominion he holds over the thoughts, the admiration, and the supreme affection of his disciples, of every tribe and every grade of the intellectual and social world, to what other cause are we to attribute it? To what other cause! to his death, and the relation in which he stands, by virtue of his death, to the great family of man. He came to give his life a ransom for many; his life he gave, laying it down of himself; he suffered, the just for the unjust; he died for us.

"Death severs all relative connections; but the living survivors can derive no benefit from the departed, because all intercourse is broken off, and the medium of communication destroyed. But here is an exception to the universal rule; by giving his life as a ransom for sinners, he became the Saviour of all who believe in him, and his death is the mystic power which brings them into a close and indissoluble union and fellowship with him. John Bunyan, when incarcerated in Bedford jail, was building up his fame as one of the most sagacious moral philosophers of his age; his genius, having gauged the depth of human sorrow, discovered and made known the source of its alleviation and relief—by an allegorical form of representation, which charms the imagination while it touches the heart. His Pilgrim leaves the City of Destruction with a heavy burden on his back, and he groans beneath its weight through every stage of his progress, till, on ascending a little eminence, he suddenly and unexpectedly descries the cross, when in a moment the straps of his burden snap asunder; it rolls off and disappears. This was to him a joyful discovery; and he exclaims, 'He hath given me rest by his sorrow, and life by his death.' Yes, brethren—