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they anticipate the dreadful circumstances which rendered their return impossible, until, even had they desired it, they had lost all opportunity of gathering up the ties of natural and family affection which they had so cruelly cast away; for these ambitious parents found themselves childless when they returned to England, with no descendant to gather up the title and rich inheritance which had devolved to them. Their son was dead, and the long neglected daughter also passed to a happier state of being. An original letter which had been kept within the leaves of a bible by her to whom it was addressed, written by little Barbara herself, now lies before the narrator, and this epistle, in its childlike style, presents so sweet a picture of him who by the world was accounted a fool, that it would be a shame to give its contents to our readers in any but the original form. It should be, however, remembered, that it was really penned many months after the actual death of the writer's uncle Jocelyn Barwell, and though the paper was much blotted and stained, yet it is, we trust, faithfully made out. It was dated near the end of the last century, and ran as follows:
The Letter. “You asked me, my own dear Miss Emmeline, to write you the account of all I remembered of my own beloved uncle Jocelyn; and it is to be written in order of time, you said, as things happened.
“But when I began to think how I could do that, I got puzzled, for how could I, or any one, set in order the memories of things which happened when they were almost babies ; but I will do my best, and I fear you will think my best very bad; for when I think of my own dear, dear uncle, and of those happy, happy days when I was always with him, I am fitter to cry than to write, as you expect me to do.
" Then what can I say of those years which reached all along from the time I first remember, till that saddest of all times to me, when my uncle went away to see his Saviour, face to face.
“My uncle taught me never to say that any one was dead who was loved by this Saviour. 'Horace is not dead,' he always said,
for Jesus Christ loved him; he was only asleep when he was taken away. I do not remember my papa and mamma and little
brother, they went away long, long ago; nor have I the least recollection of grandpapa : the first I can remember is being with dear nurse at that pretty lodge, which was all surrounded with trees and flowers. I could almost fancy that when I was a very little child the porch was always covered with honey-suckles and roses in full bloom.
“When uncle Jocelyn came with Cæsar every morning-Cæsar always told us when he was coming, for the poor dog cut across the groves by such a low narrow way among the briers and bushes that his master could not pass them and then, as dear nurse used to say, there was no peace till I was dressed to go out with my bonnet and other things according to the season, though I scarcely remember any season which did not seem to me then like bright, sweet summer; for all my memories of my happy, happy young days—before I lost the dearest friend that ever orphan infant had -are bright as if the sun had always shone upon them, and perfumed as if it had always been the season for flowers and the singing of birds.
"It seems to me now as if we had been all day out of doors, I being sometimes in my young tall uncle's arms, or for a change on one or another shoulder, or when I required it, (for he seldom refused me any thing) riding on his back, whilst he crept along on his hands and knees, giving me a tumble occasionally on a soft bank, and then uttering such a merry ringing laugh as I have never heard since from any one, and perhaps shall never hear again.
“But we were not always moving ; sometimes we sat down in the shade of some tree, and held conversations with each other in our own fashions, which were not like other people’s, I dare say; but if they were not such as others might think good, they were better to me than all I have ever heard since.
“I know that my dear uncle was reckoned a fool by some people, and he always said of himself that he was a fool; but whether he was one or not to the world, to me he was the sweetest, wisest, best companion that a child could have -and oh! so very pleasant! He knew the ways of the living creatures in the woods and fields very well, and could tell so many of their little privale ways, of what they did in their holes, and how they took care of their young ones, and when he saw any of these creatures
whilst we were sitting in some quiet shady place, he would begin all at once to tell something about it, and then he could imitate any creature's cry; and that so truly, that I have heard the cuckoos answer him from a tree, or the poultry and dogs from a
"I have not yet spoken of that one thing in which he was most lovely of all—that which really makes the happiness of our lives, and all our other pleasures, more and more pleasant. Without that one thing we should soon get tired of groves, and green lawns, and the cool running waters, and of the birds and the deer, and all happy sights and sounds out of doors. I see, indeed, that people in this place get tired of every thing, and it might have been the same with us if it had not been that every thing was so joined in my uncle's mind with holy and heavenly thoughts, that he hardly ever spoke of anything which was before him without bringing something forward which seemed to him to belong to it in the happy world which is unseen. He could not look up at the bright and glorious sky, or down into the cup of a little flower or abroad upon the glades and groves, but he saw something about God in them and he was always trying to make me understand these thoughts.
“Many, many, many times, too, have I heard him say, 'I was a fool—I am a fool; but Horace loved me, Horace would have died for me, though I was a fool. Jesus, too,' he would say, “is greater than Horace-Horace is gone to sleep, but the Saviour never sleeps, he loves me more than Horace did. Horace said 50. He loves me though I am a fool; he loves you little Barbara, He died for you, he will always love you. We cannot see him with our eyes ; Horace said we could not, but we see his beauty in the sun, and his glory too; and he makes corn grow to feed us, and fruit to delight us, and water for us to drink. Horace said that there is no love like his love.'
"And may I believe, dear Miss Emmeline ;-yes I do believethat the blessing of God descended on the teachings of my beloved uncle, even when I was a very little child. But since I have been able to make out my Bible for myself : and to talk with other people on the subject; and to hear good sermons and read good books, I have obtained a much clearer knowledge of my God, my Saviour, and myself: for although some people tell us that children cannot understand these things, the Word of Truth says that even babes and sucklings can perfect God's praise.
“I cannot write much about the miserable time when I lost my own dear uncle, and was sent to school. He was taken away suddenly, as young people sometimes are, as well as old; but to the last he knew his little Barbara, and his last words to me were, Farewell, my little one; you will remember what I have told you of the Redeemer, and of the love of the Father and of the Holy Spirit; all other wisdom beside the knowledge of the love of God, is foolishness, my own, my gentle one. Oh! I am blessed,' he added ; 'words cannot tell'--and he never spoke again.
"And this,' said Mr. Watson- this is the youth they called a fool! Oh! would to God the world were filled with such fools. Farewell, my dear Miss Emmeline, I cannot-no I can. not-add another line."
M. M. S. (To be continued.)
THE THREE WORDS. It was “The Office of the Holy Week, according to the Roman Missal and Breviary"-published with the authority of that church, and recognized as a faithful guide by all true papists !
The thought at once flashed through the mind of Mr. Singleton, that possibly his niece had gone much farther from the truth and simplicity of the gospel than he had previously suspected. The limit of his fear had been that she might have fallen into some of the errors of Tractarianism ; but now he was unwillingly led to suppose that she had sunk still deeper. Had the forms, and superstitious observances, and circumstances of outward pomp and shew, connected with the religion of the Tractarians, led her to look into the absurd and idolatrous associations by which the Romish church endeavors to throw around them an atmosphere of mystery, of poetry, and blind devotion ? And had she gone farther than her instructor dared to do, from mercenary motives, and the fear of forfeiting the morsel of bread exacted under false pretences from his misled parishioners ?-Had she, in fact, become a Romanist?
He had not failed to mark the confusion of Emma, as he
glanced with ill-affected indifference over the pages of the little book; but it was some time before he could make up his mind to put a question, which he feared might lead to results at once fatal to his own peace of mind, and deeply distressing to the feelings of his niece. At last, however, he said in a kind and half-earnest manner, as if his apparent indifference would lighten the weight of the reply—“Emma, are you a papist ?"
Some of our readers will, perhaps, be all anxiety for a reply; but those who can realize the feelings of both uncle and niece at this crisis, will not, we are sure, expect one. Emma could read so exactly the spirit and temper in which this important enquiry had been framed, that she found it impossible to summon reso. lution sufficient for the task. Had it been put in any other form she could have evaded it. Had it been proposed in less real kind. ness of heart, she could have made up her mind to risk a reply. Had it come from any one beside her uncle, she would have felt comparative indifference as to consequences. But asked as it was in plainest terms, with unaffected tenderness and deep concern, and by one more dear than all the world beside, what could mere words have done in explanation of the problem, even had they been forthcoming ?
We need scarcely describe further the embarrassment of Emma. She knew how her silence would necessarily be interpreted, and she could not bear the discourtesy of allowing Mr. Singleton to answer his own question in this way, yet she dared do nothing else ; and her agitated manner shewed too plainly that her uncle's surmise was not far from the truth. The terrible disclosure was made, and from that moment he felt painfully assured that Emma Singleton was an avowed papist. The prevailing emotion, however, in his mind was that of deep sympathy for the deluded girl ; he saw that she had been cruelly “wounded in the house of her friends," and despising small things, she had unhappily fallen by little and little. He could therefore feel for her, and weep with her. Yet he now and then experienced, as holy Paul had done under circumstances strikingly similar, when his Galatian converts had been treacherously won over to another gospel which was not another, those risings of holy indignation, which found utterance in the heartfelt ejaculation, “ I would they were even cut off that trouble you !”.