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preparing to receive him, cannot expect to hear the midnight cry with composure, even if they are among those who will be permitted to enter with the Bridegroom, and to partake of the marriage-supper.

On Wednesday nothing important occurred. Upon the approach of night the wind died away, and we cast anchor opposite to Kingsgate on the Isle of Thanet. I was upon deck early enough next morning to see the sun rise from his watery bed. The heavens were serene: there was a gentle breeze, and every thing appeared awfully grand, especially to me, who had not before seen this reservoir of waters. Presently we beheld the stupendous cliffs of Dover, which serve as a barrier to the boisterous element We stretched over to Calais, where we arrived about eleven o'clock. Before we could set our feet on shore, we were accosted by waiters belonging to the inns, who each extolled their different houses. But our captain, who was exceedingly civil, having recommended to us the Bras d'Or, we had previously concluded to put up at that inn.

We had not been long in our room, before a capuchin. friar, who wore sandals, and was without stockings, entered, and presented us with a paper written in bad English, purporting that his monastery, having neither lands nor livings, subsisted on the charity of the well-disposed The friar, who had no reason to be displeased with his recep. tion, took us to see his monastery. After locking us in, he conducted us through several rooms, in which were various paintings, either of Scripture history, or of persons of his order. In the sacristy were a crucifix adorned with jewels, a golden chalice, and many other baubles. The father easily perceived me to be a heretic, by my taking little or no notice of his relics and other trumpery. He looked at me, whispered to father Albino, and shrugged up his shoulders. After having shown us the garden belonging to his monastery, which contained nothing worth describing, he let us through the garden-gate into the parade, where the soldiers were exercising.

Calais is a large town, with tolerably good streets. But I'shall not attempt to describe a place which has already been described by many others much more able to do it than myself. We stopped all night, and set out in the morning for St. Omner's, where we arrived about noon. The country through which we passed was unenclosed; yet all of it was under culture, which surprised me. The crops in general were good, and consisted chiefly of wheat, barley, and coleseed; the last of which composes at least one third of the whole, and is now in flower.

I felt a pleasing sensation when we came to the avenue which leads into St. Omer's, that being the place where my brother told us in his letter that he spent many of his leisure hours. I looked for him in vain ; but a few minutes brought us to our inn, the Poste Royalle.

With this account of my journey I must finish my let. ter. I cannot describe the joy of my father at the sight of his son after two years' absence. My own was not less sincere ; though the supposed difference in our senti. ments abated the satisfaction I should otherwise have received from meeting with so dear a friend. How happy was my disappointment. He was exceedingly glad to hear that the

and spana

Miss Darllwell was a pil. grim to the heavenly cits;

he desired me to give his kind rernec-u w my excellent friend, and to all who love the Lord Jesus Christ, among whom he did not forget Mrs. Worthington nor our friend Livingstone and his wife. I unite with him in the best wishes for the happi. ness of all my friends, and continue,

Dear Madam,
Yours most sincerely,



From Miss Barnwell to Mrs. Worthington.


HE day after my receipt of your kind letter, enclosing one from our dear Eusebia, for the contents of which we have reason to adore the kind providence of God, one of Mr. Neville's men came to our house with a letter for me from Miss 'Neville, and brought a single horse chaise with him. The letter was to let me know she was very unwell, and to beg I would come over in the chuise she had sent, or, if I could not come directly, that I would let the man wait till I could. I was surprised. She and I had been as intimate as sisters, and a similarity of temper had rendered us very agreeable to cach other. But I thought that my corresponding with her sister was a sin never to be forgiven.

I should have first told you, Madam, that about a week pást Mr. Friend and his wife and daughter came to pay us a visit. I say us, as if I were a part of the family, which is hardly the case. My mother sent word that I mighto up into the parlour as usual. Upon receiving this message my resentment began to arise, it being obvious she was afraid it should be known by Mr. Friend and his family in what manner I was treated. But I immediately perceived it was a temptation of Satan. Pride, thought I, does not become a servant of Jesus. I therefore put on as cheerful an appearanee as I could, and went up stairs to Mrs. Friend and her daughter, Mr. Friend being gone to the river to my father, who was fishing. When

my father came home, he took no notice of my being in the parlour; and after our visitors were gone, I thought it would be imprudent to return to the kitchen, unless I was ordered to do so : therefore I continued where I was.

Mrs. Barnwell told one of the maids, that she did

not think I would have come up, but she supposed I was pretty well humbled.

On receiving Miss Neville's letter, I gave it to my father, and asked him what his pleasure was. My pleasure, girl ? said he, pray do as you have done hitherto ; that is, what you please.

I have never, Sir, replied I, to my knowledge, disobeyed you in my life, and I trust never shall, except where my soul would be endangered by my compliance.

My father laughed and said he was a Turk in this respect: he scarcely thought a woman had any soul. However, continued he, as Miss Neville has sent for you, and the family is out, I would advise you to go. I thanked him, and set off in less than an hour.

All the way I went I puzzled myself to no purpose in thinking what Miss Neville could want me for. When I arrived in the court-yard, she came out, and received me very kindly ; but I perceived that her eyes were red with weeping. It immediately came into my mind that my dear Eusebia was dead, and I hastily asked her if that was not the case. She fell upon my neck and wept, and said, as soon as she could speak, () no, my dear sister is alive, and I thank God she is : it is I who am dead.

. We went into the little parlour. I could not tell what to think.

I was apprehensive that she was disordered in her senses. She sat down by me, and took hold of my Hand. Oh my dear friend, said she, what must I do? I fear the earth will open and swallow me up.

What is the matter Miss Neville ? said I, pray tell me; and if I can al. leviate your misery, nothing shall be wanting that I can do. no, cried she, I fear you can do me no good.

I have sinned against God; I have injured my dear sister. O Miranda, she and you will be angels in heaven, praising God, when I shall be howling in hell!

I was exceedingly, affected, and remembered the worm. wood and the gall. Well may the wise man say, The spi. bit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can hear? When the arrows of the Almighty wound

a sinner, no one can allay the anguish but the great Physician of souls.

I endeavoured to pacify her, by showing that the blood of Jesus Christ is sufficient to cleanse from all sin ; and that it is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that he came into the world to save sinners, of whom the apostle Paul, who had been the bloody persecutor of Christ in his followers, styled himself the chief. Her sin in persecuting her sister, I told her, was indeed exceedingly heinous. Yes, she said, it 'was exactly parallel to Cain's persecuting Abel. If she had been suffered to proceed, I replied, it undoubtedly would have been so; but I hoped, that, as Ananias was sent to Saul for good, and Peter to Cornelius, so her sending for me was of God. I added, that my susprise and my joy were equally great, to find her sentiments so different from what they had been; and that as the Lord had stopped her in her career as he did Saul, I hoped she, like him, would be a monument of divine mercy.

I then desired her to tell me how this great change had been effected.

My dear sister, replied she, left all the letters which had passed between Mrs. Worthington, and you, and herself, together with the rough draughts of her own letters, tied together, in her closet, and did not take the key with her. As soon as I saw them, I determined to read them carefully, and to note down every error, and write an answer to it, which I thought would employ my leisure hours in my fa. ther's absence. I had not read many letters before I perceived, that in persecuting my sister, I had been persecuting an angel of God. The spirit that breathed in every line, convinced me that I had known nothing of Christianity but the name; and that I no more resembled the Son of God, than his murderers did. I determined to read them through ; in doing which I found that the sentiments of Mrs. Worthington and my sister and you were not only exactly alike, but that God had given you the gentleness "and meekness of lambe, while I had the fierceness and

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