"Well, my little fellow, what is your name?" "Jemmy Allen." "And where do you live?" "In the cottage just at the end of this wood." "And how many brothers and sisters have you?" "None, Sir." "And what is your father?" "A ploughman." "And where are you going?" "Up to Squire Stevens', to get a little gruel for mother, who is very poorly." "Can you read?" "Yes, Sir, I can read the Testament, which Squire Stevens gave me." "Can you tell me who made you?" "God." "Who came into the world to save sinners?" "Jesus Christ." "What must you do to be saved?" "I must be sorry for my sins; I must pray to God to forgive me what is past, and serve him better for the time to come."

I proceeded in questioning him, and was pleased to find that he could repeat the whole of Watt's Catechism, and also a great part of that composed by the Assembly of Divines. His knowledge of the Scriptures was extensive, considering his years; and he repeated to me the whole of the commandments, with our Lord's summary of them, as recorded in the twenty-second chapter of the Gospel by Matthew. Having given him a trifle, as a reward for his past diligence, and as a stimulus for the future, I moved on, and soon came within sight of his mother's cottage, which presented to my imagination more powerful attractions than the quarry I had intended to visit. On entering, which I did without ceremony, I beheld an interesting-looking female, apparently very ill, seated in an arm-chair. I apologized for my intrusion, which occasioned her a little embarrassment. After thanking me, as a minister of Jesus Christ, for the honour I had done her, she asked me to take a seat. Her cottage stood alone, almost entirely surrounded by tall elm trees, and seemed, by its sacred furniture, consisting of a Bible, hymn-books, tracts, &c. (the symbols of the Divine presence), set apart as a local habitation for an heir of glory. A few lines, once addressed to a secluded saint, involuntarily occurred to my recollection: "Our Lord has many jewels. Among the number, there are some of such peculiar properties that he does not choose to expose them to public observation. He separates them from the general assemblage, secluding them for his own complacent contemplation, and sets them as a seal upon his heart."

"You have a lovely retreat from the world, but I suppose, like others, you are sometimes disturbed by its cares."

"I have been, but now I have cast all my cares on him who has promised to sustain me."

"Then you have reached one of the highest points of experimental religion, and may look down on this tumultuous scene with an eye of comparative indifference."

"Why, Sir, I would not exchange my situation or my prospects for any other that could be offered me. I have not much of this world's goods, nor yet many wants; but I have an unclouded prospect of future happiness, which reconciles me to my lot."

"But have you been always so highly favoured!"

"O no, Sir. For many years I was kept in a state of spiritual bondage, sighing for liberty which I could not obtain, and praying for peace, but had great bitterness. At length it pleased God to shine in upon my mind 'with beams of heavenly grace;' and the plan of salvation, of which I could previously form no just ideas, was exhibited with such clearness, that the burden of guilt fell off my conscience; and from that blessed hour to the present, I have not had a doubt of my interest in the merits of my Redeemer. The long affliction with which I have been visited has brought me into more intimate communion with Him; my soul is as a weaned child; and I am waiting the summons to depart."

"But what a chasm will your departure make in the happiness of your little family!"

"Yes, my dear husband will feel the stroke; and so will my dear little boy. Nature still yearns over them, but I am enabled to leave them, as a dying legacy, to the Lord of life. My husband, I believe, is on the way to the kingdom of heaven; and my boy, I hope, though very young, fears the Lord God of his parents; so that I die under a firm persuasion that our intercourse will not be destroyed, but only suspended for a season."

"Then you can die in peace?"

"In peace, Sir!" pausing as though her redeemed spirit laboured for some more than common form of expression as the vehicle of her utterance, "that word is not descriptive of my state of mind; I feel a joy which is full of glory, and such an intense longing of soul to be introduced into the presence of my Lord, that at times I fear I am too impatient for the descent of the celestial chariot in which I am to enter through the gates into the city."

"I suppose that, though you live secluded from the world, you are sometimes visited by pious friends?"

"The Rev. Mr. Ingleby, the venerable rector of Broadhurst, from whom I received the word of truth, often comes and spends an hour with me. He considers me as the first-fruits of his ministry; and I rejoice, as only the first-fruits, for since it pleased the Lord to call me by his grace, there have been many to whom he has been the instrument of conveying the grace of life. Our hamlet was the land of darkness before that bright light rose upon us; but now it is as the land of Goshen. What a glorious change has been made in Squire Stevens and his lady, who live at Fairmount villa! When they came to live there, they took the lead in all the fashions and amusements of the gay and ungodly; very seldom attended church on a Sunday, and often uttered many hard speeches against Mr. Ingleby; but their prejudices vanished as soon as they heard him, and now they are become the most spiritual and zealous family in our parts. There was a fine stir when they left their own parish church to attend the ministry of Mr. Ingleby, who preaches about a mile and a half off; but they have displayed so much of the superior excellence of the Christian character, and conducted themselves with so much godly consistency, that even the enemies of the cross are loud in their praise. They sometimes call to see me, and when they do not call they often send; and the other day, when I was expressing my gratitude to Mrs. Stevens for the numerous favours I had received, she replied, with an emphasis which I shall never forget, 'The steward should wait in the hall after he has delivered the present; and then return and deliver the note of thanks to his lord who sent it.' I hope, as you are a stranger among us, you will call at Fairmount, where, I am sure, you will meet with a very kind reception."

I made no reply, but proposed reading a chapter and going to prayer. I read the 23d Psalm, on which I made a few appropriate remarks, and then bowed before the footstool of the Divine throne. It is true I had no soft cushion to kneel on, but I felt that the ground was rendered sacred by the presence of the Holy One; I had no prescribed form to aid my devotion, but I felt under the peculiar dictations of the Spirit, who maketh intercession within the saints; and arose, not to lose a recollection of the interview amidst the din of business, or the dissipations of life, but to cherish it as a latent proof of the connection which subsists between the spiritual and material world, and as supplying me with a fresh evidence of the immense value of that scheme of redemption which admits sinners into fellowship with their sovereign Lord.

"Indeed! I never saw a man better than he ought to be."

"Why, Sir, perhaps I made a mistake. I should have said, we have some who pretend to be better than they need be; but you know that a man may pretend to what he a'n't got."

"True; but what sort of persons do you now refer to?"

"To these Methodists;[1] before they came we were as peaceable as a flock of sheep in a fold; but now we are always wrangling; and, in spite of us, they have put down all the little merry-makings which we used to have among us."

"But how have they put down your merry-makings?"

"Why, Sir, we used to have as good a pit of cocks as any in the country; but now the very men who used to breed the best sort are turned Methodists; and when I asked one the other day if he had any young ones hatched yet, he told me that he had seen his wickedness, and hoped never to be permitted to fall into the sin again; as though God Almighty would be offended at the innocent pastimes of a village."

"But do you not suppose that the cocks which fight inflict pain on each other; and can a humane person derive any amusement from the agonies of a dumb animal?"

"True, Sir; some, I know, are against such sports, but I must confess that I have a bit of a liking for them."

"I believe, from what little I know of rural life, that the innocent pastimes of the village usually terminate in scenes of drunkenness, rioting, and lewdness; and pray, farmer, have you never seen the bad effects of them on your friends, and on your servants?"

"Ay, ay, Sir, you now strike home, but what are people to do; they must have a little 'laxation from hard work sometimes."

"But you say 'these things are put down by the Methodists, in spite of you;' what do the people do now?"

"O, nearly all of them are turned Methodists, and Squire Stevens, who lives up at Fairmount yonder, is at the head of them."

"What sort of a gentleman is he?"

"He is very well in his way, only he has too much religion."

"What do you mean by too much religion?"

"Why, he is always talking about it, and giving away little books, and visiting the poor, and praying with them in their houses, and preaching to them in his chapel which he built for them. And some people say he can preach a better sarmunt than parson Cole, who is a regular Oxford man. His wife is a cleverish sort of a woman; she looked in here one day, and talked away at a fine rate about Jesus Christ and salvation by grace; and I have had main hard work ever since to keep my wife from running after this new sort of religion."

"Pray, farmer, have you ever seriously reflected on the worth of your soul?"

"Why, Sir, I have something else to reflect on."

"But have you any subject to reflect on of equal importance? Do you not know that your soul, when it leaves the body, will exist for ever in a state of happiness or misery?"

"So the parsons tell us, but they may be out in their judgment as well as other people. I don't believe all they say. I strike off one-half, and then there's plenty left."

"Do you ever think on the subject of death?"

"No, I don't like to think on such a gloomy subject."

"But why not, when you know you must die soon, and may die to-night?"

"I hope not, for I a'n't fit to die."

"And are you conscious that you are not fit to die, and yet neglect to think about it? Is it possible?"

"Why, Sir, methinks it's time enough to think about it when it comes."

"But it may come suddenly, like a thief in the night, and bear off your soul to the great world of spirits."

"If it should, then the Lord have mercy on my soul. I suppose he will, as he likes to save sinners, so the parsons say."

I then described to him the frame of mind in which I had left Mrs. Allen—his wife being present the whole of the time. He could not refrain from weeping, though he endeavoured to conceal his tears; and when I had finished, he said that he knew her very well, but as she was a Methodist, he had been prejudiced against her, but added, "If this be a sample of their religion, it is of a better sort than I imagined." And turning to his wife, he said, "Do as you like, I will never oppose thee again."

"That's the best news I have heard to-day. I'll go to chapel on Sunday."

"I hope, Sir, that you will stay and take a pot-luck dinner with us; it will be plainish fare, but a hearty welcome."

"Yes, Sir, do," said his modest-looking wife; "we have just killed a pig, and I have a nice pork pie, and some apple sauce and cream."

I thanked them both for their kindness, but declined accepting the invitation, having engaged to dine with a friend in the neighbourhood.

"Pray, Sir, if a body may be so bold, do I know your friend?"

"You do know him; and perhaps if I mention his name, you will feel a momentary embarrassment."

"I fear no man; and I don't think I have got an enemy in all these parts."

"I am going to dine with Mr. Stevens."

"Hollo! I sometimes talk a bit too fast; the worse luck; however, don't say what I have said. He is a gentleman; I would not offend him for the world. We live on very good terms; and a better man does not exist, and I am sure his wife is the best woman in all the parish."

I told him that he might make himself very easy, as it was not my habit to sow discord among neighbours. I promised to call again before I left, which appeared to give him pleasure.

As I was walking up the hill which leads towards the villa, I met a venerable-looking gentleman, in the costume of a clergyman. We bowed; and, with an air of peculiar kindness, he said, "I presume I am addressing the Rev. Mr. S——s?"

"My name, Sir, is S——s."

"I am happy to see you in these parts; but I shall be more happy by seeing you at the rectory. We are both, I trust, ministers of the gospel; and though we labour in different communions, yet, as we expect to dwell together in heaven, I see no reason why we should shun each other's society on earth."

"Our Lord has broken down the middle wall of partition, but bigotry has been endeavouring almost ever since to rebuild it; and though she has succeeded in raising it up immensely high in some parts of her empire, yet, as she cannot always secure a good foundation, we occasionally find an opening through which we can pass to enjoy the fellowship of the saints."

"Ay, Sir, I often pray, 'Raze it, raze it, even to the foundation thereof.'"

"And to such a prayer I can most cheerfully respond, Amen."

"But do you not think," added Mr. Ingleby, "that the spirit of liberality is gaining ground among us?"

"I hope it is; but there is very much land yet unoccupied."

"True, but there have been some large inclosures made within the last half-century. Your London Missionary Society, which breathes such a catholic spirit, has brought together many of the children of God who were scattered abroad; and the British and Foreign Bible Society has bound them together as with a threefold cord, which the demon of bigotry will never be able to burst asunder."

"I think your remarks are correct; but I want to see more of the spirit of liberality of sentiment and feeling which is often expressed, and often applauded at our public meetings, brought into expression and practical operation in social life. I want to see Christians of every denomination mingling together, not in the costume and with the spirit of their distinctive order, but in their more dignified and exalted character, as disciples of the Lord Jesus. I want to see them disposed to merge the trifling distinctions in the more important consideration of their relative union to each other; and if the spirit of contention is to prevail among us, let it be the spirit which Paul inculcates, when he exhorted the Hebrews to provoke one another to love and good works."

"Your sentiments," replied the pious rector, "exactly accord with my own; and though I do not expect that the spirit of bigotry will die and be buried before I am called to rest with my fathers, yet I hope, when standing on the top of the celestial hills, to witness her interment, and then, in ecstasy, I will respond to the joyous shout which earth will raise, when she exclaims, 'Bigotry is fallen—is fallen!'"

"I have just had the pleasure of an interview with Mrs. Allen."

"Ay, she is an eminent saint. How is she, Sir?—I am now going to see her."

"She appears to be drawing near her latter end, but I do not think there is any prospect of an immediate change; she is in a most heavenly frame of mind."

"When I first knew her, which is now near twenty-five years ago, she came to live with me; but her temper was so violent, and her enmity to the gospel so inveterate, that I was obliged to part with her. After she left me, she went to live with a dissolute gentleman in the neighbourhood, when the seed of the kingdom, which had been unconsciously deposited in her heart, sprang up; and after remaining in her situation for a few months, she returned to my service, and never have I seen a more manifest proof of the efficacy of Divine grace."

"Religion will sometimes reform a vicious life, and check the evil propensities of the heart, while the temper is left unsubdued. What influence have her religious principles over her temper?"

"I am happy to say that the lion became a lamb, and in meekness and gentleness of spirit she surpasses most. But I perceive," looking at his watch, "that I cannot prolong our conversation, as I have an appointment; and therefore I beg you will do me the honour of a visit before you leave. Come early in the morning, or consent to stay the whole of the night."

I reached Fairmount about half-an-hour before dinner, which gave me an opportunity of recording in my diary the incidents of the morning. As I sat musing on the raptures of the dying Christian, the ignorance of the worthy farmer, and the liberality of the venerable clergyman, the servant tapped at my door, and informed me that the family were waiting. I immediately made my appearance in the parlour, when Mrs. Stevens said, "I have the pleasure, of introducing to you my nephew, Mr. Lewellin." I took his hand with mingled emotions of surprise and joy, offered him my congratulations on the great change which had taken place in his moral and spiritual character, inquired after his pious mother, and then sat down to refresh myself with the provisions of hospitality.

THE HORNINGSHAM SAILOR.

"The heart that is insensible to the charms of nature," said Mr. Lewellin, "must be devoid of taste and feeling."

"True," replied Mr. Stevens, "but how many feel these charms who never hold communion with Him who has invested them with their magic power. They profess to rise up through nature, 'to nature's God;' but their conceptions of His character are essentially defective; they admire His grandeur and His greatness, but there is no recognition of His purity; they extol His benevolence, but are not awed by His justice. I recollect being in company with a gentleman, who was an impassioned admirer of nature, and after an eloquent descant on its magnificent scenery, he concluded by saying, 'The Deity, who has given existence to such physical wonders, would act a very undignified part to stoop so low as to notice the little frailties of humanity; but to suppose he would punish them, would be to offer Him an insult.' Hence they very naturally, from their assumed premises, scornfully reject the remedial scheme of salvation that is revealed to us in the Scriptures."

"Our reception or rejection of the Scripture scheme of salvation," said Mr. Lewellin, "depends on the opinion we form of the character of God; for if his purity and equity be not recognized, the law which commands obedience will be denounced; the distinction between virtue and vice, which the Scriptures mark with such precision, will be confounded; and the whole scheme of Divine mercy will be regarded as a cunningly devised fable. I remember the time when I lived without any habitual reverence for the Supreme Being. I admired the wisdom and the benevolence which I could trace in the construction of the universe; but it neither excited gratitude, nor led to any dependence on God for preservation from evil, or for happiness. It is true when the elements were disturbed, when the tempest raged, when the lightning flashed, and when the thunder roared, I trembled; but no sooner had these commotions ceased, than all was tranquil within; yet it was not peace of mind, it was a moral torpor, a judicial insensibility, the ease which precedes the moral pangs of the second death."

This reference to his former state induced me to ask him to give us an account of his conversion. He complied with my request; but as the more prominent incidents have been already narrated, I need not detail the whole of his statement.

"My mind," he observed, "was in a peculiarly serene frame when I consented to accompany my mother to chapel. I had been that morning on a visit to a friend, in whose society I had passed many hours of pleasant intercourse; and our conversation unexpectedly took a religious turn. 'I have recently,' said my friend, 'had my mind very much occupied and perplexed about the truth or falsehood of Christianity. If Christianity be a cunningly devised fable, we are safe; but if it be a true revelation from heaven, we are undone.' 'It is no fable,' I replied; 'it is too true.' 'Then how can we justify that indifference which we pay to it?' 'To justify it is impossible; but such is the native insensibility of our hearts to unseen and eternal realities, that nothing but an extraordinary dispensation of Heaven can rouse us to a state of proper feeling.' 'Pray, Sir,' said my friend, 'what was the state of your mind in the immediate prospect of death?' 'I was,' I replied, 'in great agony, and its intensity increased as the symptoms of coming death became more decisive. I drew back with horror from the scene which was before me; but yet at times I longed to plunge into the dark abyss, that I might know the utmost of my misery.' 'But could you derive no hope from the consolations which Christianity holds out to man?' 'None; mine appeared a hopeless case. An allusion to mercy had a more terrific effect than the utterance of the tremendous word, Depart!' 'I think,' he replied, 'that religious people are generally more happy than those who are irreligious; and it is certain, if the testimony of the most respectable witnesses can be received, that they are infinitely more happy in the prospect of death.' 'Yes, Sir, they are, and very naturally so. They expect by the loss of life to gain the prize of a glorious immortality. We have no such a prospect!' 'That's true. To us a hereafter is a dead blank, or torments for ever. What a difference!' As I was returning to my mother's cottage, I felt an unusual elevation of soul, for which I could assign no real cause. 'Is this,' I involuntarily exclaimed, 'the first beaming of mercy? Impossible! But why?' The train of thought which now passed through my mind necessarily partook of the singular character of my feelings; and though I could not fix my attention on religious subjects, yet I felt no inclination to dismiss them. After I reached home, as I sat musing over the recent occurrences of my life, I opened a hymn-book which was lying near me, and felt deeply impressed by a hymn to which I chanced to turn, and which was very appropriate to the state of my mind. The same afternoon my mother asked me to accompany her to chapel, which gave me more pleasure than I wished to discover. I was delighted with the fervour of the singing, and the chaste simplicity of the prayer, and a few petitions which were uttered struck me with great force."

"Do you recollect these petitions?" said Mrs. Stevens.

"I shall never forget them—'Enlighten, we beseech you, O Lord, our dark understandings!—renovate our depraved nature!—deepen the impressions which thy truth has already made on our hearts!—and admit us, through the mediation of Jesus Christ, into communion with thee, the only source of pure and substantial bliss!' Never did words, uttered by human voice, produce a more powerful effect; but it was not till the minister began to enlarge on the condescension and death of the Lord Jesus, that I felt my guilt and perceived my danger. I retired from the chapel with a class of feeling which had never been previously excited within my breast; yet I cannot say whether joy or sorrow most preponderated. I wept as my sins came to my remembrance, but my most sacred tears were shed in gratitude to the Redeemer for the thrilling manifestation of his pity and his love. I felt the change, on passing from a state of spiritual death to newness of life, as consciously as I now feel the action of life in my vital system; nor could any species of sophistry induce me to doubt it—a change which produced an entire revolution in my sentiments and principles; in my habits and in the objects of my pursuit; and though it has called down upon me the sarcasms of the sceptic, yet I am not ashamed to own that it is 'by the grace of God I am what I am.' My mother, when I told her of it, fell on my neck and kissed me; she wept tears of joy, and then knelt down and returned thanks to God for his abundant mercy towards me. Never, till that eventful evening, had I tasted of such pure, such unmingled felicity."

Every one present was deeply affected by this narration. Mr. Stevens was about to continue the conversation, when our attention was attracted by an English sailor, who approached and asked an alms. Mr. Stevens, who was fond of seeing all the varieties of human character, invited him to take a seat, and after inquiring where he had come from, and how long he had been at sea, said, "I dare say you have endured many hardships in your dangerous profession; it would be interesting to us if you would give us some account of your life."

"My life, please your honour," replied the weather-beaten tar, "has been a chequered life. I was born at Horningsham, a small village in Wiltshire. My father had three children. He was very religious, and so was my mother. They taught us to read the Bible and to pray, and took us to chapel every Sunday. But I was always a wildish lad, and so was brother George, who was a year younger than I. One night, when we were about seventeen years old, we set off, unknown to father or mother, to go to sea. We walked all night, and all the next day, till we got to Botley, between Southampton and Tichfield, where we stopped for some refreshment, and to rest ourselves. The next day we were joined by three soldiers, who said they would take us across the fields to Gosport; but when they got us into a lonely place, they robbed us of our watches and all our money. This was the beginning of our sorrows, and we began to repent of our folly; but we did not like to go back home. As we were walking up and down a street in Portsmouth, a gentleman came and asked us if we should like to go to sea. I replied I would like nothing better. He gave us five shillings each, provided a lodging for us, and the next morning we went on board ship. We often wished ourselves at home, but it was no use; so, after sending a letter to father, to let him know what was become of us, we set sail. After cruizing about the channel for some months, we fell in with the Dutch off Camperdown. This was the first battle I ever fought; and it was a desperate one. Many a stream of English blood flowed that day; and, just as we were hailing victory, a spent shot struck my poor brother George (his voice faltering as he spoke), who was standing by my side; he fell; we carried him down to the cockpit, when he took me by the hand, and said, 'Farewell, brother! I am dying. Give my love to mother, and father, and sister, and tell them that I die in the arms of victory.' He scarcely finished the words before he heaved a dismal groan, and died. The shouts of victory gave me no pleasure; for I had lost my brother. Poor fellow, he was thrown overboard the same day; and many a tear was shed, Sir, as we let him down, for he was much liked by the crew."

"What ship," said Mr. Stevens, "were you on board of?"

"The Venerable, please your honour; Admiral Duncan's ship."

"Did you know Covey, who was wounded in that engagement?"

"Yes, please your honour; I was on deck when he fell. He was as brave a fellow as ever fought; and he was as generous as he was brave."

"But was he not very wicked?"

"He was a good sailor, please your honour, and he was generous to a proverb; but he had no sense of religion, though at times, I believe, he suffered much in his conscience."

"Do you know what became of him?"

"I have heard that he was sent to Haslar hospital after he left the Venerable, and I suppose he died there; and there, I suppose, he was buried. God rest his soul!"

Mr. Stevens rose and left the room, but soon returned with the tract which gives such an interesting account of Covey. He read some passages from it, and while he was reading, I watched the countenance of the sailor, which betrayed alternately symptoms of astonishment, of joy, and of the deepest solemnity.

"I am right glad," said the honest tar, "to hear that my old shipmate is got safe into such a port. He had a roughish voyage; but the storm is over; and from that account,[2] he is now safe landed."

"There is no refuge from the storm but in Jesus Christ," said Mr. Stevens.

"Ah, there is no getting into the port of heaven but through Christ; this I have known for many years; but it han't done me much good; but I hope it will."

"Have you now left the navy?"

"Yes, and please your honour. I was wounded at the battle of Trafalgar, when our Nelson died; and I was sent home, along with many others, to the hospital. After I left the hospital, I went back to sea, but I got my discharge a little more than two months ago. Here it is, and please your honour."

"Where have you been since you got your discharge?"

"I went home to Horningsham as fast as I could travel, to see my father, and mother, and sister; for I had not seen them for many years. I got there about five o'clock in the evening, and when I opened the door, I saw a stranger sitting in the chimney-corner, who turned out to be my brother-in-law; but poor sister Susan was dead. I was afraid to ask about father, for I began to think that death had been on board, and capsized all of them. I saw his stick hanging over the mantle-piece; and after a while (tears falling as he spoke), I asked if he were alive. 'No, William,' said my brother-in-law, 'your father has been dead five years.' 'Is mother alive?' 'She is alive, but I fear she won't live till the morning.' 'Then I'll put on shore, and see her before she goes down.' So I went up stairs, and as soon as mother saw me, she knew me, and she wept for joy to see me back; and as soon as she had given me a salute, she asked if brother George were living; and when I told her of his death, she wept again, but they were not tears of joy. She died in about three hours after I got home; and I staid there a few weeks after she was buried, but the place being deserted by those I loved, I made up my mind to slip my cable and sheer off. I couldn't lay at anchor in such a deserted port."

"Was you with your mother when she died?"

"Yes, and please your honour; I hove to as soon as I saw her, and I did not leave her until she went down."

"How did she die?"

"Just in the same way as I hope to die, when it pleases God to call me. She said, 'William, I am now going to heaven, and I hope you will follow me.'"

"Well," said Mr. Stevens, "I hope you will; but what do you intend to do for a livelihood?"

"Why, please your honour, I don't know what to do."

"Can you work in a garden?"

"I think I can, and I'm willing to try. I used, when a lad, to work in the Marquis of Bath's garden, along with my father, and I have not quite forgot what he learned me."

Mr. Stevens, being in want of an under-gardener, took the sailor into his service, and he long remained with him, a very faithful and industrious servant; an Israelite indeed, in whom was no guile.

After the sailor left the parlour, Mr. Lewellin remarked, that the adaptation of the gospel to man, of every order of intellect, of every shade and complexion of character, of every age and of every country, was to him a most decisive evidence of its Divine origin. Had it been a human invention it would have been incumbered with some local or national customs, and hence it would have discovered some radical defect; but instead of this, the closer it is examined the more its adaptation to the moral condition of humanity is perceived; its rites are such as all may practise; its precepts are as suited to an Asiatic or an African as to an European; and its leading fact, "that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners," is "worthy of all acceptation."

"As you have so recently left the ranks of infidelity," said Mr. Stevens, "let me ask you—Are infidels in general sincere in the opposition which they make to Christianity?"

"They are as sincere as a criminal would be in his efforts to prevent the judge entering the court; but, in general, they have a strong impression that their opposition will be useless."

"I see that I have not given my question precisely that form of meaning which I intended. Do you think that they really disbelieve the truth of Christianity?"

"We have many in this country, as there are many in all other countries, who are as ignorant of the nature and design of the Christian faith as they are of the science of astronomy or of medicine, and they disbelieve it, if it be proper to say a thing can be disbelieved which is not known; but I do not think that any really disbelieve it who have received a proper religious training. They will, when together, cheer up each others' spirits, and affect contempt for the religion of the Bible; but I have seen a whole company disconcerted by a clap of thunder, and retire, not to enjoy the pleasures of reflection, but, if I may judge from what I have felt, to writhe beneath the agonies of anticipation."

"Do you know if your conversion to the Christian faith produced any good effect on any of your former associates?"

"I recollect on one occasion, when several of us were spending a Sabbath evening in an hotel, after I had delivered a speech at some length in favour of Deism, and against Christianity, I was so much applauded, that they clapped me, and said, 'Well, Lewellin, if you ever turn, there must be something in it.' After I did turn, or rather after I was turned, the majority reproached me as a hypocritical fanatic; but one came and congratulated me on having escaped the destructive snare in which he was entangled; but added, 'My doom is irrevocably fixed, and it would be only an aggravation of my misery to indulge a hope of salvation.' Poor fellow! he was hurried on, even against the strong convictions of his judgment, and the reproaches of his conscience, through almost every scene of dissipation, till at length the strong arm of death stopped his progress. As soon as I heard of his illness, I went to see him. I never shall forget the interview. It brought to my recollection my own state of misery, when the terrors of the eternal world, like the vivid lightning, were playing around my distracted spirit. On entering his room, he endeavoured to avoid seeing me, by concealing his face under the bed-clothes. I approached his bedside, and spoke, but he was dumb with silence. I endeavoured to rouse him by the kindest expressions of friendship, and at length he uncovered his horror-struck countenance, and said (as nearly as I can remember), 'I don't doubt your kindness; it is indelibly impressed on my callous heart. But why come to torment me? The damned cannot be saved!' 'But,' I added, 'the chief of sinners may.' 'Not after their doom is fixed. I have passed the line which divides the saved from the lost; and I cannot retrace my steps.' 'But,——' 'But, Sir,' interrupting me, 'excuse my abruptness; I feel as though I were now riding on the elements of woe; the voice of peace I cannot hear. My soul is in a whirlwind of despair! The storm will ne'er subside! The clouds of the Divine displeasure are highly charged; they are gathering blackness! and soon—yes, I feel death now creeping up to strike my heart!—soon, very soon I shall be cast into outer darkness!' 'But,——' 'But spare me!' 'But, do listen—I may be the means of distilling consolation; for I have suffered all you now suffer, and yet have obtained mercy.' 'Yes, you have, and I am glad of it for your sake; but that feeling aggravates my agony. Distil consolation! Yes, you may; but every avenue of my soul is filled up with anguish; it cannot enter. Tell me not of a Saviour, for I have slighted him! Tell me not of his compassion, for I have made it a subject of ridicule! Tell me not of heaven, for I shall soon see it, but at an immeasurable distance! Death is come, my heartstrings are breaking! I lie down in misery, to rise——' He could add no more. I left him in the agonies of despair, and soon after he died."

"How awful!" exclaimed Mrs. Stevens; "was it not too much for your feelings?"

"Too much!" replied Lewellin, deeply affected, "I scarcely knew how to remain, or how to move; and, had it not been for the nurse, who entered the room just at this crisis, I think that I should have sunk. It has left a horrifying impression on my mind, which reflection increases; for he was the only son of a pious father, who was ignorant of his character till he came up from the country to attend his funeral. The good man waited on me before the rites of sepulture were performed; and though I suppressed the strong descriptive language of his son, yet it was not in my power to alleviate his fears. He wept aloud. He paced backwards and forwards in my room, like a man bereft of his senses. 'Had I lost my property, I had merely lost what will melt in the general burning; but I have lost my child, who will never see——. Woe is me!' I went to see the good man a few months ago, but his countenance has never since worn a smile—his food is the wormwood, and his drink the gall."

"What anguish," said Mr. Stevens, "does an irreligious child often inflict in a parent's breast! I have often grieved because I have not had a family, but I am sure that I shall never grieve again."

I now observed: God often employs the religious education of children as the means of their conversion; but when they leave their father's house, if they are not placed in a pious family, they often turn out the most depraved. Hence we derive an argument for our encouragement, to train them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord; and also a beacon to warn us of the danger to which we expose them, when we introduce them into situations where they are under no religious control. This good man demands our pity; but, perhaps, if we knew the whole history of his conduct to his child, we should be disposed to blame him. And what a warning is this fact to the youth who has received a religious training. He may indulge himself in a course of sin, but conscience will rebuke him; he may suppose that his father is ignorant of his conduct, but he cannot conceal himself from the eye of God; and he may presume on a future day for repentance, but that day may be a day of darkness, of lamentation, and of woe.

"Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes; but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment."

THE RECTOR OF BROADHURST.

"Most certainly," said Mrs. Stevens; "to meet Mr. Ingleby and Mr. Guion together will be a great treat; they are both men of superior intelligence and piety, and of great conversational powers."

"I do not know Mr. Guion," I remarked, "but I have a very high opinion of Mr. Ingleby; he breathes a fine catholic spirit, and preaches the gospel with great simplicity, purity, and power."

"I think," said Mr. Stevens, "I know a few who excel our venerable friend in some separate ministerial qualifications and attainments; but in that rare union of excellencies which meet in him, he stands, in my opinion, unrivalled. He has a voice which is clear and powerful, his action is natural, he commands attention, and he always rewards it; for, by an extraordinary aptness of manner, he compels his hearers to believe that he is addressing them individually. And I have often been astonished by the extraordinary fertility of his mind; for while he is perpetually exhibiting the same truths, the modes of their exhibition are perpetually varying; his arguments, if they are not always new, yet they are always put in a new form; and his figures of illustration, which are beautifully chaste, have, if I may use such an expression, the freshness and fragrance of novelty upon them."

"But, after all," said Mrs. Stevens, "much as I admire him when he is in the pulpit, it is in the parlour and in the walks of private life that he unconsciously unfolds the entire of his real character. He appears more amiable and lovely in the undress of social intimacy, than when attired in the costume of his order. In my opinion, he approaches nearer the perfect and upright man of the Bible than any clergyman I know."

I had heard much of Mr. Ingleby since I had been a visitor at Fairmount, and I now looked forward with great pleasure to the prospect of being more fully acquainted with him. I shall here introduce some particulars of his history, much of which I afterwards learned.

On his leaving college, where he was greatly beloved by those who were admitted into his intimacy, Mr. Ingleby went into Yorkshire, and took the curacy of a country parish; and there he exhibited in faint miniature the fine character which, in after-life, he more clearly and broadly developed. To this spiritual cure he was much attached; and it is probable that he would have continued in it, but he married a niece of the gentleman who had the living of Broadhurst in his gift, and who presented it to him on the day of his marriage. To this living he was inducted in the year 1796; and though he subsequently had several offers of preferment, yet he declined them, preferring contentment and the affectionate regards of the attached and devoted people amongst whom he laboured, to the greater honours and emoluments which were held out to him. When he commenced his ministerial labours, he found the church in a most dilapidated condition; its steeple had fallen; its walls were rent in several parts, and overgrown with rank vegetation; the rain oozed through its roof; the grass had grown high on every walk which led to its antique doors; and though the face of the clock was partly visible, the clock itself had long ceased to tell the hours. Almost the whole parish was living in a state of absolute ignorance and moral barbarism. His heart sunk within him as he surveyed the moral waste which he was appointed to cultivate; but recollecting that he was not appointed to labour in his own strength, he resolved to consecrate his life to its improvement. Having formed this resolution, no offer, however flattering, could for a moment shake it. The first thing he attempted was, not to raise the tithes, which he knew would inflame the prejudices of the people against him, but to get the church repaired. He called a meeting of the parishioners, stated his wish, and urged them, in such a mild and persuasive manner, to comply with it, that the utmost degree of unanimity prevailed; and they retired congratulating each other on the residence of a clergyman amongst them who seemed to manifest a concern for their spiritual welfare. Though the parsonage house was, if possible, in a more dilapidated state than the church, yet he prudently declined alluding to it, which gave a few of the leading men such a high idea of his disinterestedness, that they called another meeting, and resolved that the house and the church should be repaired at the same time. When the church, thoroughly repaired, was reopened for divine worship, there was such a concourse of attendants that it was not large enough to contain them. The clerk, who had grown old in the service, having repeated the Amen within its walls for nearly half a century, said to his rector, while he was assisting him in putting on his sacred vestments, "There is a main lot of people come, Sir, to see our beautiful church; one should almost think that the dead had got leave to come out of their graves to see it."