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it imparts a sweetness to the disposition, and an amiability to the temper, which cares and anxieties will not impair.

"And though, my young friends, I cannot cheer you with the hope of being able to pass through life without coming into contact with its temptations, its disappointments, and its bereavements, yet He in whom you trust, and to whom you have both devoted yourselves in the spring-time of your life, will never leave you nor forsake you, but will be a very present help in every time of trouble. If you are spared till the time of old age, I trust you will be 'like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.' And if you should be removed in early life, you will be transplanted to that celestial paradise, where you will flourish in undecaying strength and glory for ever. It is but a little while that I shall live on earth as a spectator of your bliss; but if spirits are allowed in their disembodied state to visit, though unseen, the abodes of mortals, I shall often be with you, 'joying and beholding your order, and the steadfastness of your faith in Christ.""

AN OLD FRIENDSHIP REVIVED.

FTER a delightful tour through the west of England, and part of South Wales, Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin arrived at Malvern, where they intended to remain for some time previous to returning home. On the Saturday after their arrival, in ascending the hill behind the town, they passed two ladies, when Mrs. Lewellin said, "I think I know the tallest; she appears to be an invalid, and, to judge from her fixed look, I should infer that she had a faint recognition of myself."

They turned back to pass them again, if possible, but they lost

sight of them in the little crowd of fashionables enjoying their morning promenade. As they were sauntering along on their return to their hotel, they passed what appeared to be a small place of worship, and on making inquiries, they found it was a Dissenting chapel.

"We ought," Mr. Lewellin remarked, "to be devoutly thankful to Divine Providence for raising up so many of these unobtrusive little sanctuaries-they are the retreats of the gospel, when it is driven out from the Established Church, as is too often the case." "To me,” replied his wife, “any place is a Bethel, if its walls echo to the name of Jesus."

The next day was the Sabbath. They were seated near the door of the chapel, when they saw the two ladies enter whom they had observed on the preceding day; but as they passed on to occupy a pew near to the pulpit, they could not get a sight of the face of either of them. The service was conducted as usual with extreme simplicity-singing, without the aid of any instrumental music, and extemporary prayer, free, however, from monotony or tautology. The sermon was short and impressive, setting forth the grand truths of revelation in a simple, earnest manner, and enforcing them in tones of mild, persuasive, yet commanding eloquence. The text would be considered by many a very commonplace one, yet it is one which embodies the whole theory of Divine truth-"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief" (1 Tim. i. 15). When the two stranger ladies were walking up the passage, after the close of the service, Mrs. Lewellin contrived to be standing with her pew door partly open, but drew it back as they were in the act of passing. The eye of the invalid lady caught hers; she paused, and exclaimed with emotion-"And is it you, my dear Miss Roscoe?"

"Not Miss Roscoe now," replied Mrs. Lewellin, waving her hand towards her husband; "I have exchanged it for Lewellin. And is it you, my dear Miss Rawlins?"

"Yes, still Miss Rawlins, your old friend. How marvellous that

we, who were once two such giddy girls, should meet after so great a lapse of time in a Dissenting chapel!"

"The God of grace often works wonders."

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"And does my dear Miss Rawlins feel herself to be a sinner?

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'Yes, and one of the chief.

no one can be more worthless."

Some others may be more vile, but

"Is this an illusion, or a reality? Am I in some fairy land?" "I do not wonder at your exclamation. It is more like romance than reality."

They walked away from the chapel together, and when parting, Mrs. Lewellin said, "If you are at the chapel in the evening we will sit in the same pew."

"O yes, my dear; we greatly prefer the chapel to the church. There we have the pomp of religion; here its beautiful simplicity. At church we hear the Church itself and its ceremonial rites held up to us from day to day; here the Saviour himself is placed before us as the Alpha and Omega of the service. We are more partial to the substance of the truth, than to shadowy forms."

In the evening a minister officiated, who was on a visit to Malvern for the improvement of his health. He was a fine looking man, though much emaciated, and preached as one whose eye was turned away from the vanities of time, contemplating steadfastly the glories of eternity. His text was strikingly appropriate to his own condition and to ours:-"The fashion of this world passeth away" (1 Cor. vii. 31).

"The context to this passage," said the minister, “tells us, my brethren, what experience confirms-that our abode on earth is short. St. Paul, therefore, exhorts us, and we will do well to attend to his exhortations, to guard against too fond an attachment to any relation or possession in life. You who weep, and you who rejoice, should moderate the intensity of your emotions; as you will soon be far removed from the influence of the causes which produce those feelings, and the possessions which you now hold on the most secure

tenure will soon be claimed by others. Set not, therefore, your heart on this world, which you must so soon leave. Its appearance is attractive, like the shifting scenes of a theatre, or a gaudy pageant in a public procession; but it will soon vanish from your sight, to amuse and beguile others in like manner. There is another worldmore splendid, more glorious, and more durable-towards that you should turn your attention, and seek with the most intense ardour of soul to be prepared to enter it. Otherwise, when you depart from this world—and you may very soon depart—you will go into outer darkness, and be lost for ever."

"I hope, my dear Mrs. Lewellin," said Miss Rawlins, on the following morning, when they were promenading by themselves in a retired walk, "you will forgive me for not replying to the last letter I received from you. Indeed, I have often reproached myself for not doing it. It has been the occasion of bitter grief, and some tears, especially of late.”

"I can very easily forgive you, dear Miss Rawlins; but will you permit me to ask you why you did not reply?"

"It was, at that period of my life, absolutely unintelligible. I concluded you were become a mystic; and I foolishly imagined you were contemplating taking the veil, and that I should soon hear you had entered a convent. You will not be surprised at this when you advert to the foolish letter I wrote to you about religion.”*

"If agreeable to you," said Mrs. Lewellin, "I should like to hear by what means you were brought to see and to feel your real character and condition in relation to God and the eternal world."

"My history is a very singular one-abounding with incidents that illustrate the workings of the special providence of God. You know, my dear, in what a gay circle I moved. The concert, the drama, the ball-room, card-parties, and novels absorbed my whole soul. I lived in a perpetual whirl of excitement and gaiety. But I was not happy, and often felt disgusted with my own frivolous pursuits. At length, I had a severe and dangerous illness, brought

* Vol. i. p. 451.

on by imprudently exposing myself to the cold damp air, in returning from a ball. For some weeks my life was despaired of, and these were weeks of terror. I was brought to the verge of the dark world, and felt appalled at the thought of entering it. I was rebellious, too, and murmured against God for depriving me of life at such an early period."

"It was by a cold, caught at a ball, that your old friend, Miss Denham, lost her life.” *

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'Yes; I recollect you alluded to her death in a letter I received from you. Were you intimate with her?"

"I was with her when she died."

"Indeed! I know she was a gay devotee to the world; and, therefore, it may be painful to hear how she died. What myriads are offered as victims to the Moloch of fashion!"

"No, my dear, not painful. Her head was reclining on the bosom of a pious friend, who was present with me at the interview; and her last words were-" -'I am dying, but not without hope of attaining eternal life, through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.""

"How thankful I am to hear that. It is like the rescue of a friend from shipwreck. But to resume my story. I was gradually restored to health, and re-entered the gay world, amidst the warm congratulations of my friends. At the close of the season we came to Malvern to spend a few months. Here the mystic roll of Providence began to unfold itself. One day, when rambling by myself over the common, I saw a neat little cottage, which I entered. It was occupied by an old woman, who sat reading her Bible. I apologized for my act of intrusion; when she requested me to take a seat.

"I hope,' she added, looking at me benignantly as she spoke, 'you love your Bible. It tells us about Jesus Christ; about his love for poor sinners; and about his dying for them, to save them from perishing; and it tells us that if we come to him He will never forsake us. There is no book like God's Book.'

"I felt confused, and soon left her; but her words followed me.

Vol. i. p. 410.

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