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NEWS

FROM

the: IlVVI^IBIiE] YTORIiD,

oil.

INTERESTING ANECDOTES

THE DEAD:

CONTAINIXG A I»ARTICULAR SURVEY OF T , J MOST REMARKABLE
AND WKI.L AUTHENTICATED ACCOUNTS

APPARITIONS, GHOSTS, SPECTRES,

DREAMS AND VISIONS:

WITH SOME

VALUABLE EXTRACTS FROxAl THE WORKS

OF THE

liev. John TFesley, the Rev. David Simpson, and others.

There appeared Moses ami Elias talking with him.— -MATT.

HALIFAX:
PRINTED AND SOLD BY J. NICHOLSON,

GROVE STREET.
1810.

MOV 2 1932

the'

THE INTRODUCTION.

■ r . O SQO^ai

.T has been the general opinion of all nations, even
of the most barbarous, that man does not die entirely,
but that his better part subsists after the dissolution
of tlie body ; and tliis original notion of the soul's im-
mortality, has induced the most learned, and most
ancient nations to indulge the belief of the possibility
of the visible interference of spirits, upon certain mo-
mentous and avvfid occasions.

There is nothing more commonly talked of than
apparitions of departed spirits, of demons and ghosts.
The reality of these visions passes for certain with a
great number of people, while by as great a number
they are laughed at, and treated as reveries and idle
fears. Several respectable authors have written upon
this subject, some of which are expensive and volumi-
nous. It was deemed no unwelcome task to collect
and extract from the most learned and judicious the
most remarkable narratives, which prove the reality
of these appearances. We have therefore treated the
subject with all precision possible, and but rarely
hazarded an opinion upon the matter ourselves. After
giving the necessary relation most in the Author's
words, and citing his name for the authority, the ex-
amination of the matter, and the manner in which
they are affected, and upon what principles they may
be explained, the reader is left to judge for himself
whether tliey are natural or miraculous events.

Our su[)erstitious ancestors may be supposed to have
been full as ridiculous with regard to the belief of
ghosts in general, as the present free-thinking age may
be thouglit incredulous, in endeavouring wholly to
discredit and explode them. But as men of under-
standing have certainly lived in all ages, there is as

'i,.

l\,v tboir cveel

little

-».» »±ss £;■£."*«

Llulity

the latter

-f.

better t.. steer am.

aaic

there is i»^ -7, ti.ougUt better to s ^

course. l»^f_ ,.,^ ronsuler tluit sut ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ,^ ^j,^e

holy *"_*•.,": between i.Ue -l^i":"^"' J^arUions ; for

all aoubt, « -;;;e«ta,uly ;; 'to^r the eveatures

'^''ly ■'I'lrawn between i<Ue '^'^,";'?rai pavilions ; for
could be < '*"^^^" a„ination) an<l Y»' H ' ^\y,,^ many
ofatlisonlereil '"V „.ell <''■]''}''' .^^ often

related, to m^ two extremes,

reporter. ., .. matters octween i ^^

may by so» inquiries '^■\^»-;' , ^ .^ f) relate no-

H"-^"'Si"u;rtiie-^

alaS a\ tbe bave -.num _^^^ I ., tb .

nnd in consequence ^^ imduigbt, loi ^^

Tal o.- across a e- f> ^t, .u,,,arte.l tnon... -

•UwuptonmluntN «it ^__ _,,„. ,„„„is, a^ evtn

nnd strange an ""1"«^""" '. , ,„ i,,.,- tbrone.

fnure life' to <l.-ive reason lorn^'- .^.^,„„, ,,..,n

"But tbe reader - -\; ^ ceKaintv of tbo actual
l,euee, for f "I'-i^ n M iv.uiuons ; l->t -h ho >
cKistenee ot n>' '^^ '' , , , t evidence tlial sncb b. u,
uarv, tbat we b'.'ve tl.>, est , ,estnn..ny ol lie

been seen in all «S>^^«' "^'^ !' .''f ^,,,1 .lonbHess sent by
tb^est and wisest o.nUd.. ^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^„„, ,„

idence as nnuistt.iuir, i

mUltUc

vdctl in
t a Inie
leatures
ms; for
i many
re often
,11 of tU^

lev to set
i.escvil)es,
relate no-
of credit.
31V iniit'h
pparition,

tep ni

tlie

for fear ol
lui. 'Hiis
111 tiie pre-
l" tiiis kind
X so strong
as even in

snnie from
,f the actual
)ii tlie con-
L snch have
nioMV of the
lless sent by
ver sonic lit

110.) where

house of Sir

cs, that they

are more excust
those vv

iil)le who ])elieve hi apparitions, than

lio reject all extraordinary revelations of this

kind, contrary to the report of all historians, sacred and

prolane, ancient and modern, and to the traditions of
idl nations, think the a[)i)earance of spirits fabulous and
groundless. Could we not give ourselves up to the ge-
neral testimony of mankind, we should to the relation
of particular persons who are living, and whom we
know, and cannot distrust in other matters of fact.

Tor the return of spirits after death, the scripture
supposes it in more instances than one : for instance,
when the witch of Mndor raised up Samuel at the de-
sire of Saul. When Moses forbids enchanters, observ-
ers of times and other sorts of diviners, he adds, pro-
hibition of necromancy, or consulting the dead, Deut.
xviii. 11. In Jicviticus xx. '21, and elsewhere also, he
mentions the lVe(piency of })ersons that had familiar
spirits bv necromancy,' and other unlawful and super-
stitious inethoiis.

The book of Job, whose antiipiity is supposed by
some coeval witli Moses himself, is full to the purpose,
we read particularly in the thirty-third chapter, where
Klil)ha/ observes, that (iod often calls man to repent-
ance bv visions and dreams.

If it were necessary, an innumerable collection of
<piotations might be brought from the books of the
Bible, to serve the present purpose; but a few will
serve as well as many. When our Saviour walked
n[)(3n the sea, the Apostles cried out for fear, saying,
*' it is a spirit." W hen the rich man desired Abraham
to seitd J-a/arus unto his brethren, to testify the fatal
situation his imprudence had brought him into, and to
warn them, h'st they also should come into thtit place
of torment, he evidently su})posed it possible for the
<lea(l to return, and converge with the living. Our Sa-
\ iour in the gospel expressly refutes the error of the
Sadducees, and [)roves the existence of the soul after
tl<e <leath of the body. The doubting Apostle, St.

•r

, •,.„.. at tl.o possil'ility "'■ S''™!''

second "PI-'-";:;; ' , ,^s.^m. l.".'y ; "'"'.^'"JlS
♦ v of his resumption i 1 1"^ . . ^ ( |,is disciplts

liter las rosunraum, I • '^^,,,.^,,1 „,„.,, „,o oon-

"ee me l.ave." 1" tl"^ ''■" II v if Lis ai-peaiaiK-e. ap-

: lowers ol- ''-■-''«';';;':;;,,,',, J,ln^ tl'e •'"««•

liuglo the >!'>■•'' I''p'''i;,, el ..f si.intm.l eonnm.-

lle..ceitisl.lam. '';;\ , i,sl .in 'es ; and ne..l>er

Christ, ""•■'"".'^l""'";;;' o .leslr<,v or eouluto the
the chureh. t..ok "">•'";,;, ,„,,,. s-upi-se-U au. -n

notion. fJ'' '''^^''"1'; ^1, , by theil- silence, their
some degree autlionzed th.in, y

•Usourses, and l'""'' J';;'^;;,'^;,, ,„ ,,l.i„, an.l we have
These prools ol «'!'"', '',,,„iU to verilV it, that

l,a,l s,. many «!'■■"';'''";"• ''.'faets as eon.e to us
wecam.otj«(Ue.>nsly '^ '>->-, '».,^_ ,,,,„ ,.,uae

„tteste.l ..(.(.n tl>-' l"''.''"'> ' ., ",„„|orlul instanei^s as
IVom their own [^^^l'^'™'''" , ^ -' vrel.l. ; an.l win.
.night awaken the mos '^' ^;^-,„,. ,„„.„,„st other
,lare <leny, that the • l'':? '''"', i,,, ,„. „mkes use to
wi,e and ten.ler "- " ^ .''^^ ' tn does, n.ake use
(•all siiniers tc. hnnsell. ma\ , ami

of this. , „„„,„i f,r God's niercv, and

Manv instances have '"H'l' ' ' \ ,on^er i.u. "f
,„ore ihan "nlinary oeeune.uv > ^.^^^^ ^,^,,^^^^,,

f-'^''i)fl)?,dd hl'e ' ;■ .;: Ian nnlortunate Colo..!

,he least v.evv o. "''■»'• 8^ "' ^^^|.„\ i„ awaken others
t:'^.t":^^^ IhrLtance of manifest tner-

((

.'hrist's
il rt'iili-
s seems
isciples
ed they

lie ('<>"-
haiidle
u«s as ye
need his
lue, ap-
he Jews,
t'oiuinu-

I neitlier
athers of

I I lute the
il, and ill
ice, their

we have
y it, that
mie to us
vho rehite
[Stances as
, and. who
iigst other
k.(>s use to
, make use

uercy, and
11 version of
acts related
te C()h)nel
ran<j;e, sud-
bein.iJj ere-
it had not
ihig it; but
/aken others
lanifest mer-

ev, he himself record* of th(; person whose life he
writes.

The reality tlierefore of the apparition of angels,
demons, and departed souls, cannot !)»> denied, without
destroying the authority of the scriptures, winch re-
late and suppose them.

But a little time more, and we shall he removed
into that .state, the e\p«'rience of which we cannot
know while upon earth, as thos(> who are gone before us,
however willing, are not permitted upon every frivo-
lous occasion to revisit their iVicuds, tlK>ugh upon some
momentous occasions we know it has luippened, which
makes Blair in his poem on the Gra\o, say,

" Tell us, ve dead, if ve in pitv can.

Beyond this sphere what is the future plan ;
Some courteous ghost, if any such there he.
Tell us, in after hfe, what things ye see ;
For some of you, we know, in days of old,
The fatal story to mankind have told :
Forewarning them of death — () then comply,
And tell, in charity, what 'tis to die !
But you're withheld ; no matter, death must call,
The eurtiiin drop, and time will clear up all."

Upon the whole, from what has been said before,
and what is hereafter related upon this head, we may
conclude,

That angels, glorified spirits, or departed souls, are
sometimes known to appear, and consequently^ that
these apparitions are not onl\' possible, but real and
actual, founded upon the authority of the scripture,
both of the Old and New Testament, upon the testi-
mony of authors of credit, Greek, Latin, Christian and
Heathen, ancient and modern, philosophers, divines,
poets, and moralists, and the most sober li\ ing tradi-
tion asserts the facts, therefore notwithstanding from
the want of exi)erience in ourselves, so much is due to

irili

•4

■ , (Miiire »•»"•'• "'" ! 1 tl.ii nodi iiK <1''I>1>'"

^its. vvi-ici' uMm.i .1;;; , ,;„•„,„ „,,.„, whu-i. the

:;;;!,S-^-n,,n...i. ^^^ .,,,,,.,.. at tn,,h.

'"av'.. .nay also cnl." . ^^ « ,, ,„,e,l »oul«. as au-

S alul .U.".o;.^-^^.;; "'^ u"^,i,„s. «UI. an extc^
the creator aiul l'"'?'"' ,„ »„l,hn.arv bodies ami

''"^shaUaaan<.noretJ^;l.[o.o«.^

TobK 12-21- ^T '^ ,,,' thereof. 1 >^ thom,hls
]t and mne e^rre^"^!^" "^^X/ ^'^e, JallCk on
from the visions of the "'^f ,' .^,,„fc,i„/ „■/.,>/. >»a<le all

,„„ bones to shake. /J"' /„^.. Jt sloo, st,tl, hut
fie, the hair of ,»y J^^ }^^^ j;.^,,^.. „„ i,„„^e «'««

before my e„e; "''''' j, „,(,« ,/"»« than God ■-

spying. Shal '''» «' f ,,„„ a;. ].;«*«• .^ HehoU
shaUamanbemmeVr'- ^^^^ ,^^^, „ ,^e/s /«■

he puts noma '\''^,^'Xlessinthemthatdn-ehn
charged wUh Jolly, ''"iZ.iion u in the dust, which
/,o«»«o/o%,»A«y "'»'''"'' ,^., are destroyed
are er^lshed before "'' '."'X„ .cl/./i-r etc,-, without
from mornin;, to evemnn. ' '^,^, J,eUency which is
any regarding it. U"" .,.;,/,„„( wisdom',

in them go amy :' liteyaie

•*J

itli ivason

, and tliiit
the wic'k-
injr (IfiiU'd
it theni an;
1(1 fvil spi-
l pvactit'os ;
ich the eii-

irivat tnitli,
nils, as an-
(Miie Ik'iiig,
h an exUMi-
)()(lios, and
idinl altcra-

,ir lines from
fij hrou()ht to
' In thouffliis
^ep fallet/i on
iicii made all
>d before my
'ood sUll, hut
n imafje 7vas
heard a voice
I than God?
2r ? Behold,
his aigels ht
n that dwell in
le dust, which
are destroyed
• ever, without
lency which is
ml wisdomt

CONTENTS.

An account of several apparitions.

Extraordinary forewarning ,

The intermetiiate state considered
Death '

Page.

1, 43, 103, 122

, 4, 35, 79, 118

, 10

16
18
20
21
92

The funeral J;^

The tomh - }/

Thq new heavens and earth ibid.

A rem'irkahie anecdote • H

An awful warning, in a dream '.'.',\\'

A remarkable dream .••••••• • • •

Tlie reprobates' prayer, on the morning of the resurrection . .

The sepulchre's pertinent address to man

A dream which saved the life of an Englishman in Flanders

Tlie appearance of the Duchoss of Mazarine 23, 63,

An authentic account of Lord Lyttleton's death 2f,

A meditation on Job xxv. 6 • ^ 26

On the knowledge that spirits may have of this world 27

The apparition of a gentleman to Dr. Scott 31, 108, 130

An anecdote • y^

The contrast • • • • *"^^^'

Heaven 37

A thought on life and death 40

Apparition to Brutus • » « • 41

Warning of a murder by a dream 42

Altamont • • • • • "^^

Ominous presage to Robert Bruce of Scotland 47

A fact proving the unaccountable communication of Spirits 48

True account of an apparition 49

The certainty of death 52

An awful admonition of a departed friend to one in this world 55

Anecdote related by Bishop Burnet 56

A letter from PHry, written above 1700 years ago . . , 57

Lines containing plain matter of fact just as it was , 61

The valour of an atheist 62

Thoughts on John xvii. 24 66

A singular dream 67

A vision seen by Dr. Donne 68

Abda to a friend « • ibid.

For what is your life ? James iv. 14 69

TheMolehill 74

Letter concerning an apparition seen in Kochester , 77

Instance of divine justice, in the death of a Drunkard 82

t F

u ■'

CONTENTS.

tnf a remarkable dream ....ibid.

Bishop Hall's account a ^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^

Extract of a let er to K en ^ ^^.^ ^ ^. ^^^

A woman cured of a c^^^^^^^^^^^ Hon. Fr. N- ...-^ ^.^ 172

;o his son . •••.•:• ;,Vi,y himself ibid .
er, of Upton, delivtrca y ^^^

/•V'V.VJThes'c. V. 23. IH

rssion in the hrst i hes^ j,5

Tt uc and awful re aun... .^ ^^^^ ^.^s ^ ^ ^ . ^

Thoughts on ^t Pauls exi K s^^ Linlithgow church • . • ... ^ ^^

Warning gv -n to Jamc^ ^

On the shortness o in an ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^

■

119
126
136
137

S; looking ut tl- things ma--/ ^^ ^,^,^,.t

Reflections on our saviour

?hebrevity of human hte .....;; {ii-\^,,9.l2

Sinsular dream l'^''' ^"'' , r-o

'oSvations on dreams ;^^ .. oO

The apparition o Sir l^eorg

Adyin'g prostitute lis,* 206, 251

The vision . . . ... . • — ^ (.^^i ' ... 160

Appar tion ot the i.aua ui

, • • • I
• . . •

w=:25£=-»--""

The app

An anecdote .

• • •

162
164
167

An anecuut. . • ' ' ' '^^ ^.^^^ of murder ." .' ' 1 69

;.'Tpolories of redemption ^^.^^^^

188
190
lf)2
193
194

On the glories - ^obate publican

Strange warning to a reproua 1

Mrs. Tooly ; !

Sn the vanity of the world •.•;;

Solitary stanzas •;;

Time shall be no longer . . • -^ • • " -^^ Ireland .... ^

A true account of an apparition 2O8

^^'"%ul prospects of the w.cked ..•;;;;;•;;;. 216

The aw

-law

220

SS^^;^!onf E^^Ar Jo his sou.m.aw . .^^ 5^^

An account of an apparition

Of hell

a I I ... •

,(«.«...

°„rai;-;™;o;UnolHe„,yWe.b_.........^^

^retnre;;v;;;wi;Vo-sio;«.'.:

........

»••

•

Mortality

Caractacus ,.,.

On the uncertainty ot luunan lilc

WoriiHv lionour 1 ^

The" 'few-H destruction prevented by a dr.um

»•••.••

• • . . . .

.,,...

• '

228
236
^46
247
ibid.
248
ibid.
249
249

CONTENTS.

ibxd.

... 95

;*143, 170

118, 172

.... 107

imselfibid.

Ill

^.23. 114

115

... 117

::... 119

.. 126
'" . 136
.. 137
is,' 179, ?13
... 150
"*... 153
::.... 157
58, 206, 251

160

162

Lheart.. 164

... 167

'"'.... ibid.

yi 169

rdeiior.. 176

.. 185

*'"... 188

" 190

"** .. H'2

193

'*■*.... 194

iVnd .... 196

... 197

"**.*.... 199

;:.. 208

'*' 216

/".... 220
.*.*.'. 222, 242

228

V.'. 236

.... ^46

•■••v.v;. m.
'■'■■■■:::■ ^.

**** 249

'"* .-,. 249

An account of the brother's steps , 254

The apparition of Samuel, 2 Sam. c. 28 256, 27«

Elegy written in a country church yard 261

The epitaph 265

A true relation of the apparition of Mrs. Veal 265, 291

The story of David Hunter 270

Conscience 271, 327

Signal and awful judgements. 285, 314

Apparition to Captain Bell 298

Supernatural impression 299, 340, 370

Apparition to a miller to discover an hidden murder 308

On eternity • 340

A thought on eternity 311

An account of an apparition » 312

Remarkable conversion 322

A remarkable anecdote of Mr. William Reid 325

An authentic account of the last moments of Voltaire .... 326

An extraordinary cure 331

Murder prevented by a three-fold dream 332

Extract from a sermon entitled The Good Steward 333

A night {)iece on death 338

Dr Doddridge's remarkable dream 342

A prophetic dream 345

Presages of death ibid.

A story taken from Josephus 346

W< .ning given in vain 347

The soul's farewell to earth, and approaches to heaven 348

Extracts from the life of Mr, Morris, of Manchester 349

Mr. Boardman's remarkable deliverance 352

An account of the life and death ofa remarkable apostate 354, 396

The appearance of the ghost of Mr. Bretton 359

A relation of a Yarmouth witch 361

Captain Porteus 363

The different degrees of heavenly glory , 366, 404

The wonderful discovery of the murderers of Mr. Stockden 373

Apparition of Lord Mohun 375

The apparition of Mr. Thompkins to the Rev. John Warren 376

Looking unto Jesus 377

The three warnings 378

Extracts from Mr. Baxter's world of spirits 381

From the duke of Lauderdale 386

The Ilev. Mr. Davis's account of Corpse-Candles, in Wales 388

Lord Bacon's apparition to Lord Middleton 392

An account of the melancholy death of one Joseph M ge 393

On seeing a young man far gone in a decline 395

The murderer detected 402

An account of Mr. Booty , 410

An account of the first duke of Queensbury 411

Extraordinary narrative 412

fi
I, :

(ft

fi£/rv:0ss^'':y

I f

CONTENTS.

Extr»ctot» etter from ag ^^^^1 appant.ons •• 437

" -f SS- yei.- aft. Vt was ^<^^^^^ ^S
Mnrder fouud out wenty j^ ^^ mourning 459

s:;:;:^rct:.fo:t*e..........;:;;:;-^

Sa«ra"l^r--«^.^!::;:::::::^

Storyotthecouniesso[Sta.r.... 477

Expiation .^. ■ ■ _ - ■ - -^^ ,^je John Taylor, l.»q ■•■••■• ,^

rhra;So?£-«>-"°>;::;;::::;::;:.::.... f,'

The dying robber .... -^-^ ' * "Exeter for stealing sheep • • • ^^^

Providential detection ofMurder . . . • 611

Retribution

415

418

419

423

429

433

436

437

438

439

440

443

445

450

459

460

462

465

466

471

477

511

514

521

529

530

558

606

609

611

NEWS
FROM THE INVISIBLE WORLD,

An authentic Account of several Apparitions seen hy

Elizabeth Hobson. Taken from the

Uev. J. Wesley s Journal.

MAY 25, 1708, and the two following clays, be-
ing at Sunderland, I took down IVom one who
feared God from her infancy, one of the strangest
accounts I ever read. And yet I can find no pre-
tence to disbelieve it. The well known character of
the person excludes all suspicion of fraud. And the
nature of the circumstances themselves, excludes the
possibility of a delusion.

It is true there are several of them, which I do not
comprehend. But this is with me a very slender ob-
jection. For what is it which I do comprehend, even
of the things I see daily ? Truly not

"The smallest grain of sand or spire of grass."

I know not how the one grows, or how the particles
of the other cohere together. What pretence have I
then to deny well attested facts because I cannot com-
prehend them ?

It is true likewise, that the English in general, and
indeed most of the men of learning in Europe, have
given up all accoimts of witches and apparitions, as
m(*re old wives' fables. I am sorry for it : and I
willingly take this opportunity of entering mv^ solemn
protest against this violent compliment, which so
many that believe the Bible pay to those who do not

iiHrfti*

.1- -t T nwp them no sucli service. 1 lake
^''"7 it these are at he bottom of the outery which
tot n S, a.ti with such ins„lcuce spread
throu''lio»t the nation, in .11 root "PI"-""" ""7"'^
oTe'bible, but to the suflVage of "'« ^'-^ ""^^^^ef
nf men in all ages and nations. J hey mil know,
tXr Inistians know it. or not) that he ginng
nn w tchcraft is in eflect giving up the bible. An<
tTey kno on the other hau.l, tliat if but one aceount
ole intercourse of men with .sepamte spints be ad-
mi ed, their whole castle in the a.r .le.s.n, atheism,
materialism.) falls to the grmmd. I know no reason
Zrefore why we should sufikr even tins weapon to
Wrest'ed o^ut of our hands Indeed there are nu-
merous arguments besides, which abumlantly confute
their vain imaginations. But we need not be hooted
out of one: neither reason nor religion requires

"one of the capital objections to all these accounts
which I have known urged over and over is this,
"Did you ever see an apparition yourseil i -TNo;

nor iV \ I ever see a murder. Yet I believe there is
such a thing: yea, and that in one place or another
murder is committed every day. Thereibre I can-
not as a reasonable man deny the fact ; although \
never saw it, and perhaps never may. The testimony
of unexceptionable witnesses fully convinces me both
of the one and the other."

But to set this aside, it has been confidently alledg-
ed, that many of these have seen their error, and
have been clearly convinced, that the supposed pre-
ternatural operation was the mere contrivance of
artful men. The famous instance of this, which has
been spread far and wide, was the drumming in Mr.
Mompesson's house at Ted worth ; who, it was said,
acknowledged, "It was all a trick, and that he
had found out the whole contrivance." Not so. My
eldest brother then at Christ Church, Oxon, inquired
of Mr. Mompesson, his fellow collegian, " whether

, 1 take
2ry which
•e spread
not only
L and best
ell know,
he giving
)le. And
e account
ts be ad-
, atlieisni,
no reason
>^eapon to
'e are nu-
Iv confute
be hooted
1 requires

; accounts
■r is this,
r " No ;
e there is
or another
)re I can-
dthough 1
testimony
s me both

tly alledg-
error, and
posed pre-
rivance of
which has
ng in Mr.

was said,
1 that he
Jot so, My
1, inquired

" whether

his father had acknowledged tliis or not?" He an-
swered, "The resort of gentlemen to my father's
house was so great, that he could not bear the ex-
pence. He therefore took no pains to confute the
report that he had found out the cheat : although he
and I and all the family knew the account which was
published to be punctually true."

This premised, I proceed to as remarkable a nar-
rative as any that has fallen under my notice. The
reader may believe it if he pleases : or may disbelieve
it, without any offence to me. Meantime let him not
be offended if I believe it, till I see better reason to
the contiary.

Elizabeth Hobson was born in Sunderland, in the
year 1774. Her father dying when she was three or
four years old, her uncle, Thomas Rea, a pious man,
brought her up as his own daughter. She was serious
from a child, and grew up in the fear of God. Yet
she had deep and sharp convictions of sin, till she was
about sixteen years of age, when she found peace with
God, and from that time the whole tenor of her beha-
viour was suitable to her profession.

On Wednesday, May 25, 17G8, and the three fol-
lowing days, I talked with her at large. But it was
with great difhculty I prevailed on her to speak. The
substance of what she said was as follows.

From my childhood, when any of our neighbours
died, whetlier men, women, or children, I used to see
them either just when they died or a little before,
And I was not frightened at all, it was so common.
Indeed many times I did not then know they were
dead. I savN' many of them by day, many by night.
Those that came when it was dark, brought light with
them. I observed all little children and many grown
persons had a bright glorious light round them ; but
many had a gloomy dismal light, and a dusky cloud
over them. •

(To be continued.)

i\ !i

U I

Evlraordinan; Fomvarninf,, as it rmlbj occurred in

it!

-T ORD Tyrone ami LadyBeresfcnl were born ui
JL InluHh thev vere both left orphans in heir
[^,ev tli^ care^of the same person by whom they
we bo li educated in the principles o Deisni.
When they were each of them abont lonrteen years
of a^ hey fell into very (liferent hands, rhe
ner o^n on whom the care of them now (evolved used
e^v> possible endeavour to eradicate the erroneous
principles thev had imbibed, and to persuade them to
embrace the i^vealed religion, but m vam ; his argu-
ments were insufficient to convmce them, thougli
thev were powerful enough to stagger then- iorrner
fiith Though now separated from each other, their
Bendship continued unalterable, and they continued
to regard each other with a sincere and iraternal ailee-
tion. After some years had elapsed, and tliey were
each of them growil up, they made a solemn pronnse
to each other, that whoever should first die would, it
permitted, appear to the other, to declare what religion
was most approved of by the Supreme 15eing. Lady
Beresford was shortlv after adchessed by Sir Marcus
Beresford, to whom,'' after a few years, she was mar-
ried • but no change in condition had power to alter
her friendship ; the families frecpiently visited each
other, often spent more than a fortnight together: a
short time after one of these visits, Sir Marcus Beres-
ford remarked, when his liidy came down to l^reakfast
in the morning, that her count(>nance was nnusually
pale, and bore evident marks of terror and confusion ;
he inquired anxiously after her health, she assured
him she was well, perfectly well; he repeated his
inquiries, and begged to know if any thing liad
disordered her; she replied no, she was as well as
usual. Have you hurt your wrist, have you s[M-ained

ccnrt

cd in

[iie born in
ns in their
ivlioni they
of l)i>isni.
rteen years
inds. The
solved used
! erroneous
ide them to
; his argn-
m, though
heir former
other, their
r continued
ternal atlec-
I they were
um [)romise
?, would, if
diat religion
>ing. liudy
Sir Marcus
lie was mar-
vver to alter
visited each
together: a
arc us Beres-
to l>reakfast
IS unusually
d confusion ;
she assured
re[)eated liis
r thing liad
s as well as
vou 8[U'ained

it? said he, observing a black ribband bound round
it. She rejdied, she had not ; but added, let me con-
iure vou Sir M. never to iiujuire the cause of my
wearing this ribband, you will never see me without
it; if it concerned you as a husl)and to know it, I
would not conceal it from you a moment; [ never in
my life denied you a re(juest, but of tiiis 1 entreat
you to forgive my refusal, and never to urge me fur-
ther on the subject. Very well, my liady, said he,
smiling, since you so earnestly desire me, I will in-
quire no further.

The conversation here ended ; but breakfast was
scarcely over when Lady B. iiKjuired if the post was
come in; she was told it was not. In a few minutes
she again rang the bell for her servant, and repeated
the in([uiry respecting the post. ^he was tohl it was
not come. Do you expect any letter, said Sir M. that
you are so anxious concerning the coming of the
post? I do, she answered; 1 expect to hear that
Lonl Tyrone is dead. He died last Tuesday at four
o'clock. I never in my life, said Sir M. believed you
superstitious, but you nmst have had some idle dream,
wliicli has thus alarmed you.

At that instant a servant opened the door, and de-
livered to them a letter, sealed with black. It is as
I expected, exclaimed Lady B. ; he is dead. Sir
M. opened the letter; it came from Lord Tyrone's
steward, and contained the melancholy intelligence
that his master liad died the Tuesday preceding, at
the very time Lady B. had specified. \Sir M. entreat-
ed her to compose lier spirits, and to endeavour as
much as lay in her power not to make herself unhap-
, py. She assured him she lelt much easier than she
had done lor some time past; and added, ''I can
conununicate to you intelligence which I know will
prove w^elcome, and assure you, beyond the possibility
of a doubt that I am with child of a son." Sir
M. received the intelligence with that {)leasure that
, might be expected, and expressed in tlie strongest

:%.^: "y^-

terms the felicity he shouhl oxpenence from such an
event, whicii he luul long so ardently desired.

After a perio.l of some months, Lady R was deli-
vered of a son ! She had before been the mother of
two daughters only. Sir Marcus survivTc the birth
of his son little more than lour years. After his de-
cease, his lady went but little from home ; she visit-
ed no family but that of a clergyman who resided
in the same village, with whom she frequently passed
a iew hours. The rest of her time was entirely de-
voted to solitude, and she appeared lor ever determined
to banish all other society. The clergyman s family
consisted of himself, his wife, and one son, who at Sir
M's death was quite a youth ; to this son, however,
she was afterwards married, in the space ot a few
vears, notwithstanding the disparity of his years, and
the manifest imprudence of such a connection, so un-
equal in every respect. ^

The event justified the expectation of every one;
Lady B. was treated by her young husband with
neglect and cruelty, and the whole of his conduct
evinced him the most abandoned libertine, utterly
destitute of every piincii)Ie of virtue and humanity.
To this, her second husband, Lady 13. brought two
daughters; afterwards, such was the profligacy of
his conduct, that she insisted ui)on a separation.
They parted for several years, when so great was tlie
contrition he expressed for his former ill conduct that,
won over by his supplication and promises, she was
induced to pardon, and once more reside with him :
and was, aller some time, made the inothe of ano-
ther daughter.

The day on which she had lain in a month, being
the anniversary of her birth-dav, she sent for L. —
of whose friendship she hud long been possessed, and
a few friends, to request them to spend the day with
her. About noon, the cleigyman by whom she had
been baptized, and with whom she had all her life
maintained an intimacy, came into the room to in-

(pure

well,

it bei

ty-ei^

clergj

myse]

and J

peiiin

in, I

the re

day."

*a h

entree)
thing

holy 5
them,
guard
earth!
^ied i
this !
wreck
under
beings
'ind
ilescri
pertiet
Bients
above
think,
A dii.

lom such an
red.

^. was deli-
le mother of
Dcl the hirth
Jter his de-
e; she visit-
vvho resided
oiitly passed
entirely de-
r determined
lan's family
, who at Sir
m, however,
ce of a few
s yeais, and
tion, so mi-

quire after her healtii ; she told him she felt perfectly
well, and requested him to spend the day with her,
it being her birth-day. " For, said she, 1 am for-
ty-eight this <lay." " No, my Lady, answered the
clergyman, you are mistaken, your mother and
myself have had many disputes concerning your age,
and I have at length discovered I am right : hap-
pening to go last week to the parish you were born
in, I resolved to put an end to my doubt by searching
the register, and I find that you are forty-seven this
dav."^

" You have signed my death-warrant/' said she,
*' I have not much longer to live, 1 must therefore
entreat you to leave me inmiediately, a:. I have some-
thing of inqoortance to settle before I die.

('Jo be continued.)

every one;
isband with
his conduct
ine, utterly
I humanity,
wrought two
rofiigacy of

sei)aration.
eat was the
onduct that,
;es, she was
? with him :
tlie of ano-

lonth, being
lit for L. —
ssessed, and
he day with
om she had
all her life
room to in-

The Intermediate State considered.

WHEN the souls of the righteous depart from
the body ; by whom are they received ? By
holy angels. The angels were ministering spirits to
them, in the days of their flesh, and will be their
guard and their convoy when they relimpiish the
earthly tabernacle : When Lazarus died, he was car-
ried by angels: What a comforUible privilege is
this ! not to be left solitary and desolate, like a ship-
wrecked mariner on some unknown coast ; but to be
under tlie guidance and protection of those benevolent
beings !

'indly. In what place are they lodged? — This is
described, not from our ideas of locality, or any pro-
perties of space, but from the s 'ty and the enjoy-
ments. It is not very material, whether they are
afcove or below, in the heaven of hea\ens (which I
^ink, is most probable) or in some separate mansion.
A disembodied apirit, if under the wrath of God,

"il:

I I!

roniK

here be cxtioniely niist'iablo; if sur-
Icdvvith his favour, will every where be exeed

must every w

ingly hapi

To such a spirit, that has no longer

any eonneution wi

th sensible thin.i-s,

Clod'

s smile nnjst

be* heaven, (lod's IVown nnis

t be hell. Wherever

this region lies, we are sun:

of the Sun of righteousness ; Christ is then

t lies under the bt^anis

and

he is present, happiness eannot be absent.
"Thou shalt be with me," is his promise to the peni

tent thiel

Abral

lani is

there, the friend of (iod,

I the father of the faithful, liazarus, we are

anr

was eaiTie(

t(dd,

^,1 into Abrahain's bosom, and where he

resides!" where all the ehildren of (lod, and heirs of
glory dwell, there must ])e pleasure. Sueh pleasure,
that the place is called Paradise; thou shalt be with
me in Paradise; the delightful garden of Kdeii,
which the Lord himself planted, and which innocent
men inhabited, was incomparably the iinest, noblest
spot in this sublunary world; and this is used to
give us some faint representation of these blessed
abodes, where the souls and n\nriis of the righteous
remain till the shout of the archangel and the trump
of God summon them.

3rdly. How soon are they lodged in this desirable
situation? Without delay.' I find no mention of
any intermediate purgation, or of any period for in-
activity or forget fulness. To-day shalt thou be with
me is our Lord's expression: and it is observable,
that the Jewish day was very near closing when our
Saviour gave up the ghost; nearer still when tliat
converted malefactor expired. I have a desire to
be dissolved, says St. Paul, and to be with Christ;
he speaks of his release from clay, and his introduc-
tion into the Hedeemer's presence, as instantaneous.
No sooner does the former commence, but the lat-
ter takes place. — What an encouragement is this to
fight the good fight of faith, and iinish our course
with alacrity and diligence! since we are not to wait
in wishful but disap[H>inted expectation : No, the very

\)\c ; i( sur-
V.' be exced-
is no longer
s sinile must
, Wherever
.*r the bt^anis
there, and
; be absent,
to the peni-
n<l of (iod,
we are t(d(l,
1(1 where he
and heirs of
ich pleasure,
ihalt be with
II of Kden,
ich innocent
nest, noblest
s is used to
Ijese blessed
he righteous
id the trump

this desirable
menti(jn of
[>rio(l for in-
hou be with
> observable,
ig when our
1 when that
a desire to
with Christ;
liis introduc-
istantaneous.
but the lat-
iit is this to
our course
? not to wait
No, the very

moment our warfare is accomplished, our reward be-
gins. Which reminds me of another inquiry.

4thly. What is the condition of holy souls hi this
separated state ?

1st. They rest from their labours; from all the dis-
orders that afflicted their bodies, from all the temp-
tations that dis(piieted their souls. They are no lon-
ger ridiculed and persecuted by ungodly men. They
have no more conflict with the powers of darkness
and their own corruptions; sin and sorrow cease
eternally. They are freed, entirely freed, from every

evil.

2ndly. They enter into peace. They have then
peace with God, peace in their own thoughts, peace
with fellow saints, which passeth all understanding.
Peace implies a positive happiness. Peace in the
scriptural language, denotes all manner of blessings,
and such is its import in the preceding passage. In
this large extent will it be made good to the righteous.
When they relinquish the earthly tabernacle, the
scales of ignorance fall from their understandings ;
their will is wonderfully conformed to Christ's ; every
weight drops off from their affections ; and their ho-
liness is exceedingly confirmed; they are honoured
with nearer approaches to God, they are favoured with
clearer manifestations of his glory, they feel richer
emanations of his love, and are more and more trans-
formed into his image; every doubt vanishes, and
they rejoice in the prospect, assured of receiving all
the fulness of their everlasting felicity. — I said fulness,
for though the felicity of the soul upon its dismisaion
from mortality is great, high, to us inconceivable ; yet
it will not be complete till the body is re-united to it,
re-animated by it. Then it will not only be rescued
from corruption, but made like unto Christ's glorious
body, will be dignified with divine approbation, and
that before the largest assembly of men and angels ;
they will receive a crown of righteousness, they will

\^..,tf-V«,i!*^wt*'^.

i i

sit on tliroues, aii(

„| judge the apostate angels ; tliey
will then possess the' kingdom prepared for then, from
the foinulation of tiie world.

Wirls said of tl.e righteous may lead us to M>„ie
proper eoneeptions with regard to the u .eke. and then-
state • one is the reverse of the other ; as they were
t^^^^nWav in their life, in their death they are
,Lmllv diMereni. If the rightemis are <M,nnn,tted to
tl/e care of benevolent angels, the wieked, it is proha-
ble, are abandoned to the insults and rage ol inulevo-
lent spirits. If the righteous are admitted into man-
sions of bliss, the wieked are consigned over to places
of horror and torment, where is all the misery which is
expressed by weei^ing and wailing ; all that solt-con-
demnation and angnish, expressed by gnashing ol
teeth. If the righteous enjoy the calm ol uninterrupt-
ed tranquiUtv, and the light of perpetual sunshine;
the wicked are reserve<l in chains of darkness unto the
judgment of the great day. Wearied by their ungo-
vernable passions, stung by eager but unsatisfied de-
sires, haunted by a stern upbraiding conscience. In a
word, while the righteous are looking for the blessed
hope, and the glorious ai)i)earing ol the great dod,
their Saviour .Jesus Christ; they are trembl n, - under
the dismal apprehensions of that dreadlnl day wiien
Christ shall be revealed in flaming fire.

Death.

■^■/l? Fi.'E death a rare and uncommon object, were
^\ it only once in the course of a man's Hie that
he beheld one of his fellow-creatures carried to the
grave a solemn awe would fill him ; he would stop
short hi the midst of his pleasures; he would even be
chilled with secret, horror. Such impressions however
would prove unsuitable to the nature of our present
state. When they became so strong as to render men

gaj

rols ; tliey
ihom from

IIS to some
(I iiiul their
tlicy were
h tliey are
iimitted to
it is piolui-
ol' mulevo-
iulo iiian-
}r to places
rv which is
[it self-con-
riashiiig oi'
iiiinterrupt-
, sunshine;
ss unto the
heir uugo-
atisfied de-
ence. In a
the blessed
great (iod,
)l;iig under
day when

►bject, were
m's life that
ried to the
would stop
uld even be
)ns however
our present
render men

unfit for the ordinary business of life, they would in a
great measure defeat the intention of our being placed
in tins world. It is better ordered by the wisdom of
Pro\ 'deuce, tliat they should be weakened by the fre-
(luencv of their recurrence ; and so tempered by the
mixture of (»ther passions as to allow us to go freely
in acting our [)arts on earth.

Yet, familiar as death is now become, it ought not
to pass over, as one of these connnon incidents which
are beheld without concern, and awaken no reflection.
There are many things which the funerals of our
fellow-creatures are calculated to teach ; and happy it
were for the gay and dissipated, if they would listen
more frequently to the instruction of so awfu) a mo-
nitor.

The Funeral.

WHEN we observe the funerals that pass along
the streets, or wlum we walk among the mo-
numents of death, the first thing that naturally strikes
us is the undistingiiishing blow, witli which that com-
mon enemy levels all. We beliold a greet promiscu-
ous multitude all carried to the same abode : all lodged
in the same dark and silent mansions. Tiiere mingle
persons of ever ige and character, of every rank and
. condition in lilt- ; the young aiu^ the old, the poor
and tlie rich, th(^ gay and the grave, the renowned
and the ignoble. A few weeks ago most of those
whom we have seen carried to the grave, walked about
as we do on the earth, enjoyed their friends, beheld
the liglit of he sun, and were forming designs for fu-
* ture days. Perhaps, it is not long since they were en-
I gaged in scenes of high festivity. For theni, perhaps,
t the cheerful company assembled, and in the midst of
^ the circle they shone with gay pleasing vivacity. But
*" now — to them, all is finally closed. To them no

ill

'fi

U^4\

i\ ■iii'

i,„n th» spisons return, or the sun rise. No
more shall the seasons reiun , , VipV,ni,i the

more shall they hear the voice of mirth or behoW tne
faee of man, the^ are swept from the un verse, as
thongh Tey had never been. They are carried away
as wfth a flood : the wind has passed over them, and
they are gone.

The Tomb.

A TOMB, it has been justly said, is a monument
situated on the confines of both world,. It at
once presents to us the termination of the mquietudes
of ife^ and sets before us the image o the eternal rest
^There, in the elegant expressions of Job, the wicked
cease fro., troubling: and there the weary he at rest
There the prisoners rest together ; they hear not the
voice of the oppressor. The small and the great are
there /and the servant is free from his master. It is
very remarkable that in all languages, and among all
nations, death has been described in a style ot this
kind; expressed by figures of speech, which convey
every where the same idea of rest, or sleep, or retreat
from the evils of life. Such a style perfectly agrees
with the general belief of the soul's immortality ; but
assuredly conveys no high idea of the boasted pleasures
of the world. It shows how much all mankind have
felt this life to be a scene of trouble and care ; and
have agreed in opinion, that perfect rest is to be ex-
pected only in the grave.

The New Heavens and Earth.

We contemplate the dissolution of the world, as
the introduction to a greater and nobler system, hi the
government of God. \Ve, according to his promise,
look for new heavens and a new eatth wherein
dwelleth righteousness. Temporal things are now to

I rise. No
behold the
iniverse, as
Liried away
' them, and

monument
)rld ). It at
inquietudes
eternal rest.
, the wicked
' be at rest,
tear not the
he great are
aster. It is
I among all
style of this
hich convey
ip, or retreat
fectly agrees
ortalitv ; but
ted pleasures
lankind have
id care ; and
is to be ex-

the world, as
ystem, in the
his promise,
aiih wherein
s are now to

<.ive place to things eternal. To this earthly habiU-
Son IS to succeed the city of the livmg God. The
earth had completed the purpose for which it was
created. It had been employed as a theatre, on which
the human generations were successively to come
forth and to fulfil their term of trial. As long as
the period of trial continued, much obscurity was of
course to cover the counsels of Providence. It was
appointed that all things should appear as comim/ alike
to all • that the righteous should seem often neglected
bv heaven, and the wicked be allowed externally to
prosper : in order that virtue and piety might undergo
i proper test ; that it might be shewn who were sin-
cere adherents to conscience, and who were mere fol-
lowers of fortune. The day which terminates the du-
ration of the world, terminates those seeming disorders.
The time of trial is concluded. The final discrimina-
tion of characters is made. When the righteous go
into everlasting happiness, and the wicked are dis-
missed into the regions of punishment, the whole
mystery of human ailkirs is unravelled, and the con-
duct of Provido'nce is justified to man.

Suited to a condition of trial was the state and form
of the world, w hich we now inhabit. It was not de-
signed to be a mansion for innocent and happy spirits :
but a dwelling for creatures of fallen nature and of
mixed characters. Hence those mixtures of pleasure
and pain, disorder and beauty, with which it abounds.
Hence, some regions of the earth presenting gay and
pleasing scenes ; others exhibiting nothing but rug-
gediiess and deformity ; the face of nature sometimes
brightened by a serene atmosphere, and a splendid sun ;
sometimes (lisfigured by jarring elements; and over-
cast with troubled skies, but far unlike shall be the
everlasting habitations of the just. Though how they
are formed, or what objects they contain, is not given
us now to conceive, nor, in all probability would our
facidties be e(pial to the conception ; the emblematical

,i!

: i! I

m^.

i I

? 'k

;iiiii

(iescriptions of tliein in Scripture are calculated to ex-
cite hi^'-h ideas of magnificence and glory. Ihis one
particular we know with certiiinty, that therein dwell-
cth riahleonsness ; that is, conii)lete virtue and eternal
order; and wherever these are found, the most perfect
sources of jov and hliss are opened. This earth was
never intended for more than the outer court, the
porch, through which the righteous were to pass into
the temple and sanctuary of the Di\ inity. When that
which is perfect is come, that which is in part shall he
done away.

A remarkable Anecdote.

IN the Duke of Sulley's Memoirs, book the tenth,
there is a very remarkal»le account concerning the
ladv of the constable of France, then (in the } ear 1599)
in the flower of her age, and supposed to be one of the
most beautiful women in Europe. The account was
gi\en by se\eral ladies who were then at her house.
She was conversing cheerfully with them in her closet,
when one of her women came in, \vho seemed to go
\mder great emotion, and said, " My lady, a gentle-
man is just entering your anti-c]iand)er who is very
tall, and quite black, and desires to speak with you.
He savs it is about afliiirs of great consecpience, which
he carmot comnnmicate to any l)ut you." At every
circumstance relating to this extraordinary courier,
which the woman was ordered to describe miinitely,
the ladv was seen to turn pale, and was so op[)ressed
with horror, that she was hardly able to tell her wo-
man, to entreat the gentleman, in her name, to defer
his visit to another time. 'J'his message she delivered ;
but he answered in a tone which {iIKmI her with aston-
ishment. " If \ our lady will not come to me, I will
go and seek her in her closet." At last she resolved
to go to him ; but with all the marks of deep despair,

lated to ex-
This one
\erem drvell-
and eternal
Host perfect
is earth was

court, the
to pass into

When that
uart shall be

k the tenth,
iicerning the
e year 1599)
)e one of the
[lecount was
t her house,
hi her ch)set,
eenied to go
y, a gentle-
vvho is verv
ik with you.
lence, which
" At every
lary courier,
be niiiiutely,
«io ()p[)ressed

tell her wo-
nie, to defer
lie dtiivered ;
I" with aston-
U) nie, 1 will

she resolved
deep despair,

in a short time she returned to her company, bathed
in tears, and half dead with dismay. She was able
only to sp<^ak a few words to take leave of them ; par-
ticularly the three laches who weie her friends, and to
assure them she should ne\er see them more. That
instant she was seized with exquisite pain : all her
beauty was gone. Every feature of her face was
chano"ed, an(i she became a spectacle of horror. At
the end of three days she died in the utmost agonies
both of body and mind.

" Of this story (the Duke gravely adds) the wise
thougiit as they ought to think." Suppose the story
be true; suppose it he related just as it occiu'red (and
there is no shadow of reason to imagine the contrary,)
all wise men ought to think that God permitted an
evil spirit to put an end to the life of an evil woman.

An awful Warniny in a Dream,

lOME time ago a lady dreamt that a frightful figure
appeared at the window of her dining room,
which was li.ll of company. Upon her inquiring what
it was, they told her it was death. She begged they
would keep him out : but he forced his way in, and
pointed his dart at liei'. Sli^^ prayed very earnestly
that he might be kept fioni her; upon which he told
her, She might put him from her for nine days, but
then he should return to her and take no denial.
Immediately after, she was translated into heaven,
where she saw a great company all singing, and very
happy. But as she knew not the tune nor the words,
she was very melancholy. At length she sat down in
a corner by herself, when an angel came to her, and
asked her why she looked so melancholy, as nothing
but happiiiess was there? She replied, Because she
could not Join. He then asked her how she came
there. She answered, she did not know. Upon which

T/m^'ShfB'f

f* m

I If:'

he opened a door, and let her down into a most d.ead-

ful p ace which she found to be hell, where she heard

uch shrieks and cries of the damned, that she awoke

Thifwas the dream. And it proved that the lady
died on the very day that death said he would return.

A remarkable Dream.

A COMMON hacknev coachman had a most re-
markable dream not long since, which is as fol-
lows : He dreamt one Saturday evening, that he was
out with his coach plying for a fare : and being en-
gaged, had directions given him where to driv^. As
he was carrying his passengers, he thought he was
called to ascend a very steep hill ; and when he
reached the summit, he found the declivity of the hill
still more troublesome. However with great difficulty
he got down, and as he proceeded he arrived at a pair
of great iron gates wide open. When he had passed
them, he found himself in an uncommonly dark and
gloomy place in which were vast crowds of people
dressed in mourning, all of whom by their counterian-
ces seemed to be in a very pensive frame of mind.
Hereupon he stopped and asked one of the men what
place that was. He answered it was hell. Hell! said
the coachman, I have had more frightful ideas of hell
than this appears to be ; if this be hell I shall not be
under such fearful apprehensions of hell as formerly.
Upon this the person informed him, that hell was not
so much outward as it was inward ; and as a proof of
this he opened his waistcoat and showed him his heart,
which was in a flame of fire.

This shocked the coachman to a great degree ; but
he proceeded to inform him that his case was not
singularly shocking ; for all whom he then saw were
in the same condition; (and added) if he would ac-

most dread-
re she heard
she awoke,
hat the lady
uld return.

1 a most re-
lieh is as fol-
that he was
id being en-
3 drive. As
ught he was
[id when he
ty of the hill
eat difficulty
ived at a pair
e had passed
ily dark and
ds of people
ir countenan-
,me of mind.
lie men what
Hell! said
1 ideas of hell
I shall not be
as formerly,
hell was not
as a proof of
him his heart,

t degree ; but
case was not
hen saw were
he would ac-

company him, he should see worse than that. Here
the coachman refused; and in great confusion and
consternation attempted to return; but, to his sur-
prise, the person in coiijimction with the other, caught
hold of him, and refused to let him go, except he
would promise to come again. After he had used
every effort to free himself to no effect, he at last
promised, if they would let liim go, he would cer-
tainly come again at twelve o'clock. Upon this con-
dition they let him depart, and he drove off* in haste.
When he had got out, he awoke in great horror of
mind. He then awoke his wife, and related the whole
to her; but she ridiculed it, and soon v/ent to sleep
again. But the poor man slept no more ; and in the
morning said he was afraid he should die and go to
hell ; and desired his wife to seek for some man to go
out with the coach that day, for he could not; and
refused to eat or drink any thing. Hereupon his wife
took fire, and used him with rough language; and
went among her acquaintance, ridiculing his fancy,
and said her husband was going to hell at twelve
o'clock. This passed on, and the man got worse in
his mind, till the clock struck twelve, when his wife
damned him, and said, It is twelve o'clock, and you
are not yet gone to hell. With that, he replied. Hold
your tongue, for T am going, and immediately he fell
down dead. This the person related to the minister,
the Rev. Mr. W. who communicated it to me as cer-
tain, and subjoined, that the wife was then almost in
a state of distraction. — Wills' Spiritual Register.

• ■ 1 '

\ \i

1 ■!

ill!!

6, ^ill! I

The Reprobate's Praye,; on the nwrmng of the

Resurrection.

-()

WHO burst the barriers of my peaeefnl grave :
All! cruel death, that w..uh no longer save.
But grudgM me ev'.i that narrow (lark abode,
And cast me out into the wrath ol («od . ^

WlSrieks, the roaring tUune, the ratthng chan..
And all the dreadful eloquence ol pain,
Our only song, black fire's inahgnant bght,
The sole refreshment of the blasted siglit.

Must all those powers heaven gave me to supply
My soul with pleasure , and bring ni my jov,
Rise up in arms against me, Join the toe,
Sense, reason, memory, increase my woe;
And shall my voice ordain'd on hynnis to dwe U
Corrupt to groans, and l)low the tlames ol liell.
Oh ! must I look with terror on my gam,
And with existence only measure pam: ^
What' no reprieve, no least indulgence giv n,
Ah mercy ! mercy ! art tliou dead above :
Is love extinguish'd in the source ot love I

Bold that I am, did heaven stoop down ^to hell.
The expiring Lord of life my ransom seal i
Have i not been industrious to provoke ;
From his embraces obstinately l)roke.
Pursued and panted for his mortal hate ;
Earn'd mv destruction, labour'd out my late:
And dare^I on extinguish'd love ev;claini ;
Take take full vengeance, rouse the shick nnig llame,
Just is my lot,— But O ! it must transcend
The reach of time, despair a distant end !
With dreadful growdi shoot forward and arise _
Where thought can't follow, and bold fancy dies
Never! where falls the soul at that dread sound !
Down an abyss, how dark, and how profound!

g of the

1 grave ?
nger save,

le,

iiig chain.

) sui)i)ly

oy,

(IwolK
liell.

v'n,

to hell.

ite ?

Ill 11 g flame,

inse
K'V (lies
sound !
found !

Down, down, (I still am falling, horrid pain!)
T(Mi thousand thousand fathoms still remain ;
My plunge but still begun — and this for sin !
Could I otfeud, if 1 had never been?
But still increas'd the senseless happy mass,
Flovv'd in the stream, or floiuisii'd in the grass?
Father of luercies! why from silent earth
Didst tlK^ii awake and curse me into birth.
Tear me from (piiet, ravish me from night,
And make a thankless present of thy light ;
I*ush into being a reverse of thee,
And animate a clod with misery ?

The beasts are happy, they come forth and keep
V Short watch on earth, and then lie down to sleep.
I Pain is for man : and O ! how vast a pain
^ For crimes which made the Godhead bleed in vain !
AnniiU'd his groans, as far as in them lay,
And flung his agony and death away !
As our dire punishment for ever strong,
Our constitution too for ever young,
Curs'd with returns of vigour still the same.
Powerful to bear and satisfy the flame :
Still to be caught, and still to be pursu'd !
To perish still, and still to be renew'd !

And this, my hel[) ! my God ! at thy decree !
Natiur is cliangM, and hell should succour me.
And canst thou then look down from perfect bliss,
And see me i)lunging in a dark abyss.
Calling thee Father in a sea of fire.
Or i)ouring blasphemies at thy desire !

With mortals' anguish wilt thou raise thy name,
And bv my pangs omnipotence proclaim?

'JMiou who canst toss the planets to and fro,
Contiact not thy great vengeance to my woe :
Crush worlds; in iiotter flame fall'n angels lay;
On me almisjhtv wrath is cast awav.
C' ^1 back thy thunders, Lord hold in thy rage.
Nor with a speck of wretchedness engage :

M iiii

ii m

!i; ■ i-tl

I i!ii

in to blame,

Forbid it ! and O ! grant, great God a least,
TMs tie. this slender alm<«t no req,u.t
When I have wept a thousand lives away

Ronnd to the bottom of the hurnnig l-ool,

? ""J. loath, and ever loud blan.l^m,ng owns

He's \m^y Aoomd to pour f'"^^^^;„^
EnclisM with horrors, and I'; "''''^.' , " ' 1 " .
Rolling in vengeance, strugghug with Ins chau. ,
To talk to fiery tempests, to unplore
The raging flame to give its burnmgs oer.
To toss, to writhe, to pant beneath Ins load,

And bear the weight of an ollendcd God.

The Sepukhres perliixcd AMress to Man.

BE ye alwavs ready ; for in such an hour as^j^
think no ."—Important a.lmon.t.on ! Me-
thinks it reverberates froni sepulcljre to sc,,ulehre;
and addresses n,e with line upon '-^ F^i;^^;'': •
oreceut. The reiterated warnnig, 1 acki owluigc i.,
too needful ; mav co-operating grace render .t ertecc
ua^' The mo,ne.,toi.s truth, though worthy to be en-
eraven on the table of the most tenacious memory, is
but slightly sketched on the transient ilow o passioa
We se''e our neighbours full ; we t>'"' l"*=/jj
shock ; and feel i.erhaps, a trembling dread. No soo e
are they remo-.ed from our sight, but driven in the
whirl oi business, or lulled in the languors o( pleasures
we forget the providence, and neglect its errand. 1 he

le,

lie,

least,

fire,
ire.
s soul,

; owns

1 pain,
; chain ;

lad.

to Man.

an hour as ye
nition ! Me-
to sepulchre;
prect'pt upon
^knowledge is
L^ider it eHect-
»rthy to be e\\-
us memory, is
ovv oi passion.
11 pale at the
id. No sooner
t driven in the
)rs of pleasures,
;s errand. The

impression made on our unstable minds, is like the
trace of an arrow through the penetrated air ; or the
path of a keel in the furrowed wave.

A Dream which saved the Life of an English
Gentleman in Flanders.

A Merchant of London being on the continent
upon business, chanced to meet an old school-
fellow, who had turned Roman Catholic, and received
i)riest's orders. This meeting naturally recalled their
former atibction and friendship, and induced them, re-
gardless of tiie dirteience of their sentiments, to spend
the evening in a manner the most agreeable and con-
vivial. This was in Frencli Flanders ; and the wine
])eing good led tlunn insensibly on to a midnij:ht con-
versation, in wliich religion became the principal to-
pie.— That, as is but too often the case between per-
sons of didereiit persuasions, was carried beyond all
bounds of decency on both sides ; and the merchant
who luxil read many polemical books, got the better
of the argument in favour of the reformed religion of
his countrv which the other had abandoned. The
priest appeared to be much chagrined, and his coun-
tenance visibly discovered the emotions of his mind.
At length appearing to resume his pleasantry and
good nature, he invited the merchant to hreakfast with
him tlie next morning at a convent, over which he

presided.

They then parted in the utmost friendship, and
the merchant soon after went to bed, where soon
falling asleep, he fell into a dream of the most fright-
ful nature. He thought he entered a den where were
ten thousand of hissing serpents, one of which twist-
ing its train round his neck, darted its sting into his
bosom. The dread of this instantly awaked him,
and caused him to start from his couch in the great-
test agitation. His mind the remainder of the night

S^ '

• n

■li;ii

t
•il' 111!

/ill

was ill LH-eat agon v. He again ondeavouml to com-
^^. in olf to sloop, but all in va.n ; ho horror of

e vision linng on his in.agination t.il ho snn arose,
who ho got up, a.ul walkod out to a held to receive
Urdiooriug gales wafting iho odours iruui the vines
and the fragrant dowers.

Mee*in./a friend and eountrynum, who was a
military ^.l)tain, and headed a party o soldiers en-
"an.pod iiAhe vicinity, who <ju,ckly <l.scovored the
confusion his mhul was in, he opone( the whole
business, told his dream ; and promised to meet liim
a<rain after ho had breakfasted at the convent. Al-
thouLdi I pay but little regard to dreams m general,
said the captuin, yet there is something in yours so
extrenu4y uncommon, that 1 verily believe it to be
ominous'Of some disaster that awaits you this day.
But, continued he, I would by no means have you
jro to the priest ; for perhaps you may renew the argu-
ment and he will by no means take it well to be
overcome in his own convent. As 1 have given my
niomise, said the merchant, I must go and visit my
old school-fellow, whose friendship was always sin-
cere, and whose company always doliglitod me. My
dear friend, quoth the ('ai)tMin, if you will go, [ wish
you well out again. Tho.se words so much struck the
mind of the merchant, that he desired the captain to
call upon liim, as by accident, about half an hourafter
the time appointed,'^ at the convent, which the captain

promised to do. ^

At nine o'clock the mercliant knocked at trio gate
of the convent, and was met by tlio priest, w ho wel-
comed him to tlie place with every expression of
friendshii). Then conducting him up a stair case,
they came to a door which the i)riost opened. After
soiiie ceremonies, tiioy advanced along a gallery, at
the end of which were two folding doors, which,
on the priest's ringing a boll, How oi)on, and })rosent-
ed a lire and two ruttian looking fellows, with in-
instruments of torture in their hands. The merchant

I'cd to coiri-
le horror of

sun arose,
1(1 to receive
(111 the vines

who was a

soldiers eii-

scovered the

1 the whole
to meet him
)iiveiit. Al-
i ill general,
ill v'oiirs so

ft'

eve it to he
3U this day.
IIS have yoii
lew the argu-
well to he
,e given my
iiid visit mv
always sin-
ed me. My
1 go, [ wish
idi struck the
le captain to
an hour after
h the captain

1 at the gate
st, who wel-
3xpression of
a stair case,
x'lU'd. After
a gallery, at
loors, which,
and })resent-
»\vs, with in-
rhe merchant

that instant gave himself u}) for lost, and in vain re-
monstrated with his false friend, who calling him
heretic, and other opprohrious names, commanded the
waiting villains to [)erform their task without farther

ceremony.

At that instant a dreadful alarm was given helow,
-which greatly surprising the priest, he went to know
the cause of it, and the ruilians followed him,
leaviiH"" the merchant alone who imagined that some
unhappy sutlerers helow luui gained the mastery over
their tormentors, had courage enough to run down
stairs, at the hottom of which he was agreeably sur-
prised, to meet the captain with a iile of musqueteers,
who instantly took him under their protection, and
conducted him safely from tlie convent to the inn,
the caj)tain declaring tliat he was obliged to have
recourse to force, in order to make his way into the
place. '

The appearance of the Duchess of Mazarine, 3Uslrcss

to Kiny Charles the J J, to Madam I)e Beauclair,

Mistress to Kintj .lames the 11.

THE author of the following narrative which was
published some years ago, solemnly declared he
was i)erfectly coin inced of the truth of it, as well as
several other })ersons of undoubted credit.
\ "Fis well known to most people actjuainted with the
•English history, that the celebrated Duchess of Maza-
rine was mistress to King Charles ll.

Madam de Jieauclair was a Uuly equally admiied
and beloved by his brother and suciessor .fames the
Jl. Between these two ladies there was an uncom-
mon friendshi}), such as is rarely found in persons
bred up ill courts ; })articulaily those of the same sex,
and in the same situatoii.

But the singularity of their circumstances might
contribute a good deal towards it, they having both

Is-

'II

t ill

•31

lost tlR.ir Itoval l-ve.», the ..ne by d«ill,, the other
1- .,ii„; Thev were both women ofexeelh-nt

! e th.m, an.l weio anive.l at an a.i;. im w huh th.y
nhrht he ui.i.os.a to despise its lunups and va.nt.es
I shall without any imther introjIuct.oM, give a
the relation, \n the antlior's uonis who deelared
hi.nseir to ho an eye witness ol the truth ol it.

khout thi« tin.J it was that Reason hrst began to
oppose itself to I' aith, or at least to be set up against
it by some who had an audition to be thought more
penitrating than their neighbours I he doetrme soon
spread, and was too much talked on, not to be Ire-
rLntlv a subjeet of eonversation lor these two la-
dies ; and tlmugh I eannot say that either ol them
were thoroughly eonvi.ued by it, vet the specious
arguments made use of by pers«ms ol high reputation
fo? their learning, had such an eflect on both, as to
raise great doubts in them concerning the immateri-
alitv of tiie soul, and the certainty ol its existence
after death. \n one of the serious consultations they
had too-ether on this head, it was agreed between
them, That on whidi ever <»f them the lot should iall
tobe'lirst called bom the world, she sh.)uld return,
if there was a p';ssibilitv of doing so, and give the
other an account in what manner she was disposed
of.— This promise it seems was often repeated, and
the i)uc]icss happening to fall sick, and her life
despaired of by all about her, Madam de Beauclair
reminded her of what she expected from her; to
which her grace replied, she might depend upon her
performance. These words passed between them not
an hour bcf<.re the dissolution of that great lady, and
were spoken before several [)ersons who were in the
room, but at that time they were far from coiiii»re-
hendiiig what tiiey heard.

(To he conliniieiL)

was

the otIiLM'
r excellent
Olid eoiild
A\\vh tliev
(I vjinities.
, give all
) (leelarod
it.

, began to
v[) against
mght more
?tnnc soon

to be Ire-
se two lu-
•r of them
e s})eeions

re})ntation
)otl), as to
3 innnateri-
s existence
itions they
(I between

should fall
nld return,
lid give the
as disposed
)eated, and
nd her life
le Beauclair
ni licr ; to
1 upon her
Ml them not
it lady, and
were in tlie
)ni comi»re-

^^B

An autlicnlic Accoun' of Ijord Ly 111610)1 s Death.

OMFi time since, I heanl a surprising relation,
}^ which 1 had no reason to disbelieve. When I
was on the spot, 1 hoped to procure a full account of
all the circumstances. JJut I was disaiipointed ; being
not aV)le to procure any at all ; the matter was cpiite
lirshed up, 1 was glad theref(;re to find that Mr. AVills

' '■ •- ' '•■ '■ = -^- * — '' -'- I

fol-

J. W.

liad procured the information which I couhl not.
believe every tittle of his relation is true, which

lows almost verbatim.

"A nobleman who had long pursued his aban«lon-
cd courses, as he lay in bed one night, was awak-
ed out of his sleep (as he himself described it) by a
noise not unlike the (luttering of a bird, about the
curtains. On opening his eyes he saw the appearance
of a woman, ( supposed to be the mother of one
whom he had seduced, who died at this time of a
broken heart.) He was shocked, and cried out,
" VVhat do you want?" She answered, " I am come
to warn you of your dissolution." He answered,
•'What! shall 1 not live two months?" She replied
" No : you will die within three days."

All the following day he was observed to be great-
ly agitated in his mind. In the afternoon he told
the storv to many of his friends in the House of
Lords. At Breakfast on Saturday, which was the
third day, he ajipcared very pensive. But he affected
to carry it oil', saying to those who were with him,
" Why do you look so grave "? What, are you think-
ing about the Ghost? 1 am as well as ever I was in
mv life." He then ( probably to get rid of those un-
welcome tlioughts ) invited company to dinner. In
tht! evening he said to his com[)any, " A few hours
more, and 1 shall jockey the ghost." At eleven o'clock

im :

i. \

't \

■..■;l

m-%

ill

liiliy

! !i
I

II li!

!l .1

[om/But having nothing to '-"- | /;^* ^ ^ ^^
out of the room {'- •;«!:;>'-, i! i Hn o ."u But
i;X"rin :.^ i '• "a^'r n,eaicino. he .-e-
elf: d hi: head on tile pillow, fell ^^^;^^Z
and died. The ciios of the servant ala.nud the u,
mnv thev flew to him, Imt all was over 1 Ins the
S'eon4i,on.led with the warning wh.ch he ha.
himself mentioned before to several peisons An hs
f,.ien,ls who were in the honse .vt the trme eUtu
afterwards. A minister ( says Mr. W H vl s

told it me, had the aeeonnt fro.n one of ' <'f, f *'^_
men : which was eonlirme.l to me alt.'rwur.ls l.y a le
ligioHS person, related to Lord.-

1 ' I

(

:'?^

A Meditation on Jon, xxv. 0.

'' Man, that is a worm, and fhc son of man which is

a worm''

HOW iiuniblinj?, yet bow just is this (losoription !
Proud iiiorfdl, ivvievv tliiiie original. Is a
worm from the earth? So art thou. Does the worm
subsist on earthly productions ? So dost thou, is a
worm sub)ect to constant dangers . So ait th.m. I. a
worm incapable of resistence? So art thmi. Mus the
earth-bred worm return to the earth? So nmst thou.
Bust thou arU and to dust thou shall velum. A worm
thou art, and to worms shalt thou return.

Why then should man be proud ? why should le
swell above the clouds, or make his nest among the
stars, when he must shortly mingle with the clods ot
the valley; and behig a w<»rm himscll, become the
food of worms ?

no m

pie.

tlie

the I

lie began
; was \)ie-

his cus-
, he went
e he came
bed. But
lie, he re-
onvulsions

1 the t'om-
Thus the

loh he had
And his
, related it
) who iirst
ose geiitle-
ds bv a re-

an ivhich is

ilesoription !
iiial. Is a
; the vvorni
thou. Is a

thou. Ts a
. Must the

must thou.
)i. A woini

ly should ho

anion^ the

the clods of

become the

Fellow worms, let us no more give flattering titles
to one another. The titles given to man by the Spirit
of (lod, are humblincf titles. Let us think and speak
of ourselves as the iloly Ghost speaketh. Awfully
did God correct the flattery received by Herod. It is
the voice of God and not of a man, said the Tyrians ;
but the mistake was discovered when this new made
god was worm eaten.

Poor believer ! envy not the rich and great and gay.
Has my neighbour a little more wealtli, beauty,
learning, or influence than thyself? Be it so; he is
yet a worm — a silk-worm perhaps— perhaps a glow-
worm. O envy not the worms !

Afilicted Christian! this description of man suits
thy experience well: but receive encouragement.
Fear not, says God, Fear not, thou norm Jacob : I
will help thee, saith Jehovah, thy Redeemer. Isa.
xli. 14. A worm need not fear if .Jehovah helps.
Yea, so assisted, a worm shall thresh the mountains.

But O, what do feeble worms owe to Jesus ! Sin
degraded us from our original glory. We were once
but a little lower than the angels ; but we have fallen
to the earth, and lick the dust. To raise us up again,
Jesus the Lord of angels descended from heaven ; and
hear what he says in his low estate ; / am a worm and
no man, a reproach of men, and despised of the peo-
ple. Psal. xxii. 5. Let .lesus be adored for his love!
He has given wings ; by faith they begin to forsake
the ground ; soon shall they soar aloft, and be as
the Angels of God.

On the hnowledfje that Spirits man have of Occnrrences

in this World.

JjWuW persons have ever lost a beloved relative
. without feehng some anxiety on the above sub-
ject. 'J'lie gospel which brings life and immortality

i V

Il:

1 1

^^mwimM.

•2S

„ «l..,t tlioso wo lose in tliis woi'''. <''^-
U, light, assures t^''^^ t os «c ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^

k„ow that .t .. a sta ,„,,,„i„„s vve <':.i.i."t

true happiness. i"t "" . „,•„,„» „r our sUite?

help asking ourselves, ^re t> con^ ^ ^
n,. il.i.v know our sorrows, oi ^^nn^^^ o.n ., r
mo in U^ circniustanoes, has not hcen ivady U
s'S wit" tt author of the task, in one of the n.ost
a(hnired of his channiui'- proihictions,

^^ Mv moth.T, whon I hnunM that thou w.ist dead,
Sav wast thou conscious ot tlie tears I slied,
J •: 'erVl thy Spirit o'er tliy soriowui- son ;
Wretch oven then, life s jouriiey just begun :

Ti ^Pems hi'ddv iirohable, separate spirits may
,n.^:^ris%sinlint^

Sc iptuies teadi us concerning angels, who appear to
nossess this knowledge, both lallen and elect ; hence
le cautions against the dangers to be appiyhemled
^n^mthe former; and the promises of benehts Irmn
the latter, who are said t(> be " nnnistenng spinh.
sent forth to minister to the hens o sJvation. W
have manv instances of good angels bemg employe.l
on particular occasions. Our Lord seerns to assent to
the ueneral notion prevaiUng among the Jews, tha
every person had his guardian spirit, when he says o
hdaiits, -Their angels do always behold the face ol

my Father."t . , •

It is probable that they are present m our worship-
ping assemblies, from 1 Cor. xi. 10. We are told
tha there is jov in heaven amongst the angels, over
one sinner that repenteth ; and that tlie pr<)gress ol
<livine truth, in the world, is an object which they
desire to look into-f From these and other pas-
sao-es which might be produced, it is evulent thai
there is nothing in the nature of a spu'it which [)rii-
vents it from discerning carnal and sensible objects;
* Ileb. i. 11. Ts. xci. 11, 12. f Malt, xviii. 10. \ 1 Tot. i. H

ivorld, t'X-

liord, we

liiiess, and

wo call not

our staU»?

our yyyH?

II ready to

)f the most

rast (lead,

died,

»ii;

^an

spirits may
Ml vvliat tlu'
o appear to
)lect; hence
ippreliended
L'nelits i'roiii
■ring spirits,
Lion."* Wo
<r emv>l<^ve(l
to as.sent to
J Jews, tlmt
n he says of
Id the face ol

)nr worship-

We are told
ang(ds, ovor

e progress ol
whi(di tliov

(1 other pas-
evident that

rit whieli \)yq-

isible objects ;

. \ 1 Tet. i. 12.

nnd that these ministering spirits are ar-qnanited with
r transactions passing cm earth. Now, . angels
. ve this knovWedge, is it not highly probable thai
i.U.vo it hkcwise? Have they not tlu' same de-
r ^o ;^il t^nani(^>M wisdL
n.ev not the same interest, nay, a greater, n. tlie con-
'erns of the chundi on earth? Can we suppose ang(ds
nnise God with renewed favor at every besh triumpli
ol' .hvine grace over a scm of faUen Adam, and .ma-
rine that gloriiied Saints, who are <.d the same kin-
dred, thnu.gh^ignorance of the event, are excluded

I ^'TuVms'' passages seem to imply, if not positively
Hssert, that the saints in heav.Mi aie no Ht|angers to
what is passing on earth.* 'I he apostle Paul, aftei
nienti.)iiiiig the wortliies enumerated m the preee-
.ling cliapter, says, "Wherefore, seeing we are also
eoinpassed about with so great a cloud ol w.tnessess,
,Scc" The allusion is evidently to the games ol the
Greeks Christians are represented as running a ra(;e ;
and are exhorted, like the ancient racers, to lay aside
every weight: whilst those characters, who had be-
fore beeii^ mentioned, are described as surrounding
them as spectators of their faith and patience. Hav-
ing finished their course, they look with mteir'st on the
!stiu<'-"des and dilliculties of those who are in the sit-
uation which they once iilled. The account given
by our Lord, of the conci^-ii felt by the rich man m
hell for his prolligate brethereii on earth, as well as
the 'answer of Abraham to his request for cold wa-
ter. " Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime re-
cei'vedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil
thin«'-s, ikcr implies, that both Abraham and Dives,
though the one was in Heaven and the other in hell,
were not accpiainted with occurrences in the world
they had (jnce inlial)ited. Agree ible to this senti-
ment, we find the saints in glory rejoicing over the
fall of Antichrist, and praising God lor the accom-

* llcb. xii 2.

«!.«-• 1«f

-J^'-'*-*

'■1

niii

f H

', 1'f

3:2

in. with a pleading countenance towar..s the .lector .

smng '■''".''? ","^',c the .loctor knowing the door
tobesui-i)r.sn,g;bccauci^ ^.^^i, i„ the

to be locked, and »»':" ffj'"° , „t first sight conclude
chair, he must nninediately and at ws „ .^ ^^

l,i.ntobe -7,;, VnTmc.^-h-"'- •'-'•• Ue

SlitrU^i r doo" 'as he intended to have
^*^"®- 1 i„ (Timt (lisorfler at the sight,

to, and from ^^1^^"^. ( > ' ^^^ ^f hai Is between,
account with very httle lemo^e o

The spectre it seems began, ioi the ^^>^[^^ "^; ^
ot flv^t IS he said, to speak to it; I sa> uie
courage at hi^^t, as nc ^^^ "' a , desired the doc-

snectie or apparition spoke hrst and (itsiicu i r

"r ;,ifc ed M.OU him to .lo an act of very great cha-
rUv,^t well a« justice ; and that he could .lepend u,,-
on" him lor a imnctual iierlorinancc.

The .loctor was not at li.st comi...»e. enough to .e-
ceivtl introduction o( the business with a d.u. a to,-
ti, , but seemed rather incline.l to get ont .>f the roo i.

t '"dd and .,nee or twice n.ule some attc,,,,
kn..ck for some of the lunnlv to cm... . p, at wlncli
the amiarition appeareil a little .Uspleused.

1 'it secniheneed n..f, for '« ^'^ '^'f °[ "^''
he had no power to go ont ..f the room .1 he ha.l been

• ll

he doctor as

ippose, was
indeed the
most likely
dug the door
ittiiig in the
nrht concliule
dl, call it as
the door, he
really a gen-
rht think he
;nded to have

at the sight,
M the story
received this
between,
ctor had not
it ; I say the
iired the doc-
ised, for that
lat he came to
to an injured
being ruined;
iger t(^ the fa-
' integrity, he
ny great cha-
lid (iepend up-
enough to re-
th a due atteii-
)ut of the room
Dine attempt lo
up, at whioli

ed.

he doctor said,
if he had V)een

next to the door, or to knock for help if any had been

at hand. . .

But here the apparition seemg the doctor still m
confusion, desired him to compose himself, for he
would not do him the least injury, or offer any thing
to make him uneasy ; but desired that he would give
him leave to deliver the business he came about, which
when he had heard, perhaps he would see less cause
to be surprised or apprehensive than he did now.

By this time, and the calm way of discourse above
mentioned, the doctor recovered himself so much,
though not with any kind of composure, as to

speak.

In the name of Cod, says the doctor, who art

thou?

I desired you would not be frightned, says the ap-
parition to him again ; I am a stranger to you, and if
I tell you my name, you do not know it, but you
may do the business without inquiring.

The doctor continued discomposed and uneasy, and
said nothing for some time.

The apparition spoke again to him ot to be sur-
prised, and received only for answer the old ignorant
question.

In the name of God, what art thou ?

Upon this the spectre seemed' displeased, as if the
doctor had not treated him with respect : and expos-
tulated a little with him, telling him he could have
terrified him into a compliance, but he chose to come
calmly and quietly to him ; and used some other dis-
courses, so civil and obliging, that by this time he be-
gan to be a little more familiar, and at length the doc-
tor asked.

What is it you woidd have with me?

At this, the apparition, as if gratified with the
question, began his story thus :

( To he continued.)

A*;

:-*:ivi;;-fer-;^-

:%^-,J:-.,J»''^.:

-isr-w^

S. "M
.5 ,;ii;

ii!iii|l;3

i im

Jiii

'I :i' li

3-i

„„ tmvnrds tlic doctor a«
-.1 „ ..iMsiii" countenance towards I

it just going to speak. „nablv suppose, was

■'The doctor as we "^^y.^'op :,„;and indeed tlie
greatlv surprised at tl.e ^S' ° ' , j,^, „ost likely
feeing Uirn as »i«mg •. the f an > ^^^ ^^^ j „

to l,e Wising ;bec^u^«hh^^ ^,^^^ ^^,,^ i„ the
to be locked, and "'«n seen ^ ^^^^^j^,,^

ehair, he must """'^'^'^'^^ ,,Cn, or devil, call it a,
hinr to be a sp.r , or appa^ ^^ ;„ ^t the d..or, he
vou will. Had he seen '"'" ^ really a gen-

Sght at first have «»PPO f ^f ^'°, \^^ (hink he

"lemau come to speak w'^' , ,7;X intended to have
had omitted fastemng the dooi, as ue

done. , . , „,,„„, disorder at the sight,

The doctor W^f'^-l '" ^'^l^uon. he told the story

as he acknowledged » tlw^^, : °^uor,) I received this

to, and from ^'^''"'^('X^^cof hands between.

account with very I'lHo 1';™"^^.° , ,,„etov had not
The spectre it seems began lo tne ^ ^^^^ ^^^^

courage at iirst, as he »^"''«^i;'',^,,,,. sired the Moo-

spect>; or *PP;^:'"°" J'tr o 1 e "rprised, for that
tor not to be f"Shtned nor to ;> 1 ,^^ ^.^^,^^ j^

he wouhl not do him any 1 ' - ^ „„ ;, i,„.e,l

hi,n upon a matter of great >«"•»,. ,^^. ,„i,,ed;
family, which was '" B'-^»;t <>*" f ^ stranger to the fa-
and though he (^-^ ^^f^;]^^ ^^, of "integrity, he
mily, yet knowmg nm t ''^ ^ ' . .,,,t cha-

lSf'r!^Ur«'«ei:.mdX^>-oJ.fcpendu,

on' him for a pu-nctual F;!;;™;:;;;;;;;,,,^ enough to re-
The doctor was not a <"^ •^'^ 1"; m, ^ ,|.u- atten-
ecive the introduction "'.I' ''. ;,";^''; „ ,i of the roo.,>
tion, but seemed ^^""^f^X^on., attem,>t to
il- he co.dd, and oi.ce oi t« '• "* ^^ ,,.i,i,l,

knock tor some of the faimlv to c( int ui ,
thraiparition appeave,. a little ,hsp ea d.

]A it seenrs he need " .' ^\,,; ^"f i,e had been
he had no p.)wer to go out ol tlic loom

e doctor Q.^

>pose, was
indeed the
nost likely
ng the door
ting in the
ht conclude
1, call it as
he door, he
'ally a gen-
ht think he
ided to have

at the sight,
1(1 the story
received this
;)otween.
;tor had not
X ; I say the
[red the ' doc-
sed, for that
at he came to
to an injured
)eing ruined;
«Tcr to the fa-
'^integrity, he
ry great cha-
kl depend \i\)-

enough to re-
Lh a due atteii-
)ut of the room
)nie atteni\>t to

up, at which

ed.

lie doctor said,
if he had l)een

next to the door, or to knock for help if any had been

^^ Bu" here tiie apparition seeing the doctor still in
confusion, desired him to compose himself, for he
would not do him the least li.jury, or offer any thing
to make him uneasy ; but desired that he would give
him leave to deliver the business he came about, which
when he had heard, perhaps he would see less cause
to be surprised or apprehensive than he did now.

By this time, and the calm way of discourse above
mentioned, the doctor recovered himself so much,
though not with any kind of composure, as to

^^In the name of God, says the doctor, who art

thou ? ,/..,! xu

I desired you would not be frightned, says the ap-
parition to him again ; I am a stranger to you, and il
I tell you my name, you do not know it, but you
may do the business without inquiring.

The doctor continued discomposed and uneasy, and
said nothing for some time. ' ^

The apparition spoke again to him not to be sur-
prised, and received only for answer the old ignorant

question.

In the name of God, what art thou r*

Upon this the spectre seemed' displeased, as if the
doctor had not treated him with respect : and expos-
tulated a little with him, telling him he could have
terrified him into a compliance, but he chose to c^me
calmly and (juietly to him ; and used some other dis-
courses, so civil and obliging, that by this time he be-
gan to be a little more familiar, and at length the doc-
tor asked.

What is it you would have with me ?

At this, the apparition, as if gratified with the
question, began his story thus :

(To he continued.)

h \

H--

' i

■sHika

KfgjT'WT'^ - *— Uf

<f;«i:3,-^»-^i^ir^^*r

i Ifil

If^'

liljl'

i' fl

iiiiiiil

An Ankcuotl:.

THE Rev. Mr. John Harnier has published ten
Sermons on evangelical subjects. 18 mo. 1788.
P. 178. in the note, he writes thus:

The following Anecdote is said to be really true :

A Baronet of the last century, whose mansion I
have seen in Yorkshire, was sui)posed to be dead :
when the following conversation took place between
his jester or fool, and his servants :

Serv. Our master is gone !

Fool. Ah ! Whither is he gone ?

Serv. To heaven, we hope.

Fool. To heaven ! No, that he is not, I am sure.

Serv. Whv so ?

Fool. Why ! because heaven is a great way ofi';
and when my master was going a long journey, he
used for some time to talk about it, and prepare for it.
But I never heard him speak about heaven, or saw
him make any preperation for goings he cannot
therefore be gone thither.

The Baronet however recovered ; and this con-
versation being told him, he was so struck by it, that
he innnediately began to prepare for his journey to
that country, " from whose bourne no traveller re-
turns."

Thi: Contrast

■

For what shall it profit a Man, if he (jain the whole
world and lose his oirn soul.

I See the wicked have their heaven here, and their
hell hereafter; and on the contrary, good men
have their hell here, and their heaven hereafter. Dives
had his good things in this life, and likewise Laza-
rus evil things- now Laznrns is comforted, and Dives

published ten

18 mo. 1788.

eally true :
;e mansion I
to he dead :
lace between

I am sure.

eat way ofi';
; journey, he
prepare for it.
liven, or saw
; he cannot

id this con-

:k by it, that

is journey to

traveller re-

nin the whole

're, and their
•, good men
eat'ter. Dives
:ewise Laza-
d, and Dives

is tormented. 1 would not envy the prosperity of
the wicked, for what is a man profited if he gain
the wliole world and lose his own soul !* nor would I
be ortbnded, at the affliction of the righteous, seeing
one is drawn to hell in pomp, while the other swims
in tears to lieaven ; and yet, how apt are many at
the sight of a rich worldling to envy him for what
he hath ; but for my i)art, I rather pity him for what
he wants; he hath a talent, but it wants improve-
ment ! he hath a lamp, but it wants oil ; he hath a
soul, but it wants grace; he hath the star; but he
wants the sun ; he luitli the creature, but he wants
the Creator. In his life he doth but fiout upon a tor-
rent of vanity, which empties itself into an ocean of
vexation ; and after death, then, " Take this unpro-
fitable servant, bind him hand and foot, and cast
him into outer darkness !" go, set his soul adrift for
ever in an impetuous lake of fire and brimstone!
Where is now the object of your envy? It is not
his silver that now will anchor him, nor his gold that
shall land him, nor his friends that comfort him;
therefore if he be worth the envying, who is worth
the pitying? if this be the felicity, then give me
misery. Lord ! rather let me be poor with real grace
in my heart, than to have riches for my portion here
and misery for my eternal inheritance.

Extraordinary Forewarning.
( Continued from pmje 7.J

\V\^ ^'^^ clergyman had left Lady B. she sent

11 to forbid her company coming; and at the

same time to request Lady , and her son of

whom Sir M. Beresford was father, and who was
then about twelve years of age, to come to her apart-
ment. Immediately upon their arrival, having or-

.^•^:,

■pf *r^w

dercd her atten<lants to quit the rooiii. " I have
something to coinmunicate to you hoth, belore 1 die,
a period which is not far distant. \ou Lady, are
no stranger to the friendship that always subsisted be-
tween Lord Tyrone and mvself ; we were educated
under the same roof, in the same principles— those of
deism. When the friends into whose hands we after-
wards fell, endeavoured to persuade us to embrace
the revealed religion, their arguments, though insuih-
cient to convince us, were powerful enough to stagger
our former faith, and to leave us wavering between
two opinions. In this perplexing state of doubt and
uncertainty, we made a solenm promise to each other,
that which ever should happen to die first woidd, if
permitted by the Almighty, ai)pear to the other, to
declare what religion was most accepiable to him.
Accordingly one night, when Sir iM. and myself were
in bed I awakened, and discovered. Lord Tyrone,
sitting by my bed side ; I screamed out, and endea-
voured, but in vain, to awake Sir M. For heaven's
sake, Lord Tyrone, said I, by what means, or for
what purpose came you here at this time of night?"
"Have you then forgot our promise?" said he, "I
died last Tuesday at foui o'clock, and have been per-
mitted by the Supreme ;ig to appear to you, to
assure you that the re^ .icd religion is the true and
only religion by which we can l)e saved. I an) fur-
ther suffered to inform you, tiiat you are now with
child of a son, which' is decreed shall marry my
daughter, not many years after his birth Sir M. will
die, and you will marry again, and to a man whose
ill treatment you will be rendered miserable by ! you
will bring him two daughters, and aftarwards a son,
in child-bed of whom vou will die, in the 47th year
of your age."

( To be continued.)

i m

■■\ ;;

" I have
efore 1 die,
1, Lady, are
uhsisted be-
)ie educated
es — those of
ids we alter-
to embrace
)Ugh insuih-
^h to stagger
iiig between
jf doubt and
[) each other,
st would, if
Jie other, to
ible to him.
myself were
ord Tyrone,
and endea-
l''or heaven's
cans, or for
le of night?"
said he, "I
ve been i)er-
r to vou, to
the true and
. I am fur-
Te now with
II marry my
I Sir M. will
a man whose
ble by ! you
rwards a son,
le 47th year

Hkavkn.

I.ook up my soul, pant toward tli' ctfrnal hil^sj

Tlutso lic'av'iis art' fairer tliiui tht'V mm'Iii ;
TlHrc plfusiirt's all sinctac k'''''' "•' <''y.stal rlllH;

Then^ iml a draw of (,'uilt' dt'tiles,
Nor K'rief disturbs tlui sinain !

That Canaan knows no noxious thing,
No ctirs.'d soil, no tainted spring,

Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sling.

WITH how much skill, must the throne of God
be erected? With what glorious designs is
that habitation beautified, which is contrived and built
by him who inspired Hiram with wisdom? How great
must be the majesty of that i)lace, where the whole
art of creation has been employed, and where God
has chosen to shew himself in the most magnificent
manner? What nuist be the architecture of infinite
power under the direction of infinite wisdom? A spirit
cannot but be transported after an ineffable manner
with the sight of those objects, which were made to
affect him by that Being who knows the inward frame
of a soul, and how to piease and ravish it in all its
most secret powers and faculties. It is to this majestic
presence of God we may a})ply those beautiful expres-
sions in holy writ : " Behold ! even to the moon, and
it shinetii not : yea the stars are not pure in his sight."
The light of the sun, and all the glories of the world
in which we live, are but as weak and sickly glinriuer-
ings, or rather darkness itself, in comparison of those
splendours which encompass the throne of God.

As the glory of this place is transcendant beyond
imagination, so probably is the extent of it. There is
light beyond light, and glory within glory. How far
that space may reach, in which God thus appears in
perfect majesty, we cannot possibly conceive, though
it is not infinite, it may be indefinite; and though not
inimeusuruble in itself, it may be so with regard to

!?. )

' i'

any created eye or iniaginalion. H" lie lius inad(; these
lower regions of matter so iiu'oiio'ivably wide and
niagniliceiit lor the habitation ol' mortal an<l perisha-
blc"beings, how great may we suppose tlie eonrts of
his honse to be, wliere lie mak(>s his residenee in a
more special maimer, and displays himself in the fid-
ness of his glory, among an innumerable company of
angels, and spiVits of jnst men made i)erfecti'

This is certain, that our imagination cannot be rais-
ed too high, when we think on a place where onnnpo-
tence and onmiscience have so signally exerted them-
selves; because that they are able t(» pioduce a scene
infiintely more great and glorious than what we are
able to imagine. It is not impossible but, at the eon-
summation of all things, these outward apartments of
nature, which are now suited to ll'.ose beings who in-
habit them, may be taken in and added to that glori-
ous i)lace of which I am here speaking, and by that
means made a proper hal)itation lor beings who are
exempt from mortality, and cleared of their imperfec-
tions; for so the scripture seems to intimati', when it
speaks of a *' new heaven and a new earth, wliereiu
dwelleth righteousness."

A lewd young fellow seeing and aged hermit go by
him bare-footed, ' Father,' says he, ' you are in a very
jniserable condition if there is not another world.'
' True son,' said the hermit ; 'but what is thy condi-
tion if there is?' Man is a creature designed for two
dirterent states of being, or rather for two didcrent
lives. His llrst life is short and transcient; his second
permanent and lasting. The (piestion we are all con-
cerned in is this, in which of these two lives is it our
chief interest to make ourselves happy? Or, in other
words. Whether we should endeavour to secure to our-
selves the pleasures and gratifications of a life which
is nncertain and precarious, and at its utmost length,
of a Vi y inconsiderable duration ; or to seciu'e to our-
selves the pleasures of a life which is fixed and settled.

and will i
ing of thi!
lie ought
in theory,
wrong sid
tills life, 1
for the otl
beginniii.i:
Should
to huniai
and take
notions o
species ol
purposes
gine that
and bono
duty to t<
would n(
threats ol
I our pleas
'f certainly
J of duties
I scribed U
gination,
most ob(
constant
on the ei
Hut h<
learned t
this worl

Wli
lie
Ue
Hi

'fill

Ikjl!

\v these
(Ic jukI
pcrislia-
)urts of
tice in a
the fill-
pany of

be rais-
miiiiix)-
l theiu-
a scene
we are
he con-
neiits of
vho in-
t glori-
hv that
vho are
iiperlef-
IV lien it
wherein

it go by
1 a verv

world.'
r con(H-

for two
liferent
; second
all con-
s it our
n other
' to our-
? which

length,
' to our-

settled.

and will i»t"^<'>" tMid? Every man, upon the first liear-
in.r of this (piestion, knows very well which side of it
luM)Ught lo close with. Hnt, however right we are
in theory, it is plain that in practice we adhere to the
wrong sid(! of the (piestion. We make provision for
ihis life, as thongh it were never to have an end, and
for the other life, as thongh it were never to have a

beginning.

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger
to human nature, accidentally light \ipon the earth,
and take a survey of its inhabitants, what would his
notions of us be? Wonhl he not think that we are a
species of beings made for quite dirterent ends and
purposes than what we really are? Must not he ima-
gine that we were placed in this world to get riches
and honours? VV^)uld not he think that it was our
duty to toil after wealth and station, and title? Nay,
would not he believe we were forbidden poverty by
threats of eternal punishment, and enjoined to pursue
our pleasures under pain of damnation? He would
certainly imagine that we were influenced by a scheme
of duties (piite op})()site to those which are indeed pre-
scribed to us. And truly, according to such an ima-
gination, he must conclude that we are a species of the
most obedient creatures in the universe : that we are
constant to our duty, and that we keep a steady eye
on the end for which we were sent hither.

Hut how great would be his astonishment, when he
learned that we were l)eings not designed to exist in
this world above "threescore and ten years?"

Whiit a jinor value ilo tucii set on heaven;
Heav'ii the iifrfcction of all lliat can
BcHaid, or thout-lit, of riches, delight, or harmony,
Uealtli, heaiity ; ami all those not suhjert to
The waste of time : but in their height eternal.

^.i^ii'lil

Iflj

A Thou<//d on Life and Death.

THE cares of mortal life how vain !
How empty every joy !
While grief, and wearine3s and pain,
The fainting mind employ.

Bnt O that nobler life on high,
To which my hopes aspire !

Does it not prompt the frequent sigh,
Aiid wake the warm desire ?

When now and then a heavenly ray

Attracts my upward view,
Almost I hail the approach of day,

And bid this world adieu.

Those happy realms of joy and peace,
Fain would my heart explore.

Where cries and pain lor ever cease,
And I shall sin no more.

No darkness there shall cloud my eyes,
No languor seize my frame ;

But ever active vigour rise
To feed the vital tlame.

But ah ! a dreary vale between ;

Extends its awful gloom ;
Fear spreads, to hide the (Hstant scene.

The horrors of the tomb.

O for the eye of fiiith divine !

To pierce beyond the grave ;
To see that friend and call him mine,

Whose heart is strong to save.

iNi

That Friend who left liis throne above.
Who met tlie tv runt's dart ;

f ■ '^ I

And ( O amazing power of of love !)
Received it in his heart.

Here fix niv soul — For life is here:
Light breaks amid the gloom :

Trust in the Saviour's Love ; nor fear
Tiie horrors of the tond).

Apparition to Brutus.

THE apparition to Brutus is well known. He
being to pass his army from Abydos t.) the op-
posite continent, laid himself down one night, as he
used to do in his tent ; he was not asleep, but think-
ing of his adiiirs, and tlie event of the war; for he was
naturally of a watchful constitution, and no general
ever recpiired so little sleep. He thought he heard
a noise at the door of his tent ; and looking that way,
by the light of his lamp which was almost extinguish-
ed, he saw a terrible figure, like that of a man, but
of an extraordinary bulk and grim countenince. He
was somewhat frighted at first, but seeing it neither
did nor spoke anything to him, but only stood silently
by his bed side, he asked it at last, who it was. The
spectre answered him, I am thy evil genius, Brutus,
and thou shalt see me at Philip})i. Brutus answered
very courageously, well I will see thee there. And
iminediateiy the api)arition vanished. When the
time was come, he ilrew up his army near Philippi
against Antliony and Ciesar, and the first battle got
tile day, routed tlie enemy, and plundered CcL\sar's
camp. Tlie night before tlie second battle, the same
spectre appeared to him again, but spoke not a word,
He })r«'sently knew tiiat his death was near, and ex-
posed liimst'lf to all the danger of the battle, yet he
did not die in the fight ; but seeing his men defeated,
lie got u[) to the top of the rock, and there presenting
his sword to his naked breast, and being assisted, as

. i

^H^R' Uv^S '^

^^^^

^^B 4

they say, by a friend, who helped hmi to give tiie | ^^^^ ^,
thrust died upon the spot.

J : .i'j

Warning of a MniiDEU by a Dream.

A Young gentleman in the city of Dublin, in Tie-
land, dreamed one night tiiat his sister ( who
was lately married, and lived at a small distance,)
had been murdered : and waking, it gavo him some
uneasiness; but finding it was only a dream, he WTiit
to sleep again, when he dreamed the same thing.
Then he got up, i)ut on his night-gown, went to the
apartment of an old lady, and told her his droani
with great agitation of mind, she smiled at him, and
said, she wondered that a gentleman of his under-
standing should be so troid)led about a dream and bid
him go to bed again, lie did so; fell askH'j), and
dreamed the third time that his sister was nundered.
He then got up and (hvssed himself with all speed,
haseneu to his sister's house, where he found !ier cut
and mangled in a barbarous manner, by her most
cruel husband, a rank pa])ist: it seems they had l)eeii
disputing about religion. She just lived to speak a
i'ew words to her i)r(>ther, and tluMi expired in her
wounds; and the base NiUain was «|uickly ai)preiiend-
ed, tried, and hanged for tlie sume.

Now if this gentleman had nol been so slow to
believe th" Divine warning, and had Imstened to
his sister's relief at the iirst (h-eani, in nil |>robabili-
ty he had prevented the eruel murder, and saved two
lives.

^ times he
:S lear and
'I none wil
! said, (di
J answered
i verv sel(
:| and two
peaied t<
ij the day
in the d
sunset.

When
cle had ti
iiidit as J
hour aftei
when he
" \Villian
t§ said notii
— his rocnn
(lav or t\^
^ raging (k
■ I was
: veiy earl
two lield."
to be ha
there : an
( so manj
just 1)V 1
came tov
many pe
and went
on the ol

give "le J An aufhfuHc Account of several Apparitions, ^c.

(Continued from pa(/e 3.J

in T le-
er ( who
istaiice,)
im some
lie went
e tiling,
t to the
s (liVi'iin
liin, and
■i under-

I and bid
LVj), and
uirdere'd.

II sjK'ed,

I lier cut
ler innsl

I I ad been

sp(>ak a

1 in her

[)rehen(l-

slow to
U'lied to
ir()l)al>ili-
ived two

WHEN I told my undo this he did not seem
to be at all suriuisod at it. But at several
times he said. " Be not alVaid : only take care to
[ear and serve God. As h^ng as he is on your side,
none will be able to hurt you." At other times he
said, ((lrop})iiig a WM)rd now and then, but seldom
answered me any question about it.) " Evil spirits
very seldom a[)i)ear, but between eleven at night
and two in the morning. But aftiM* they have ap-
pealed to a person a year, they freciuently come in
the day time. Whatever si)irits good or bad, come
in the day, they come at sun rise, at noon, or at
sunset,"

When 1 was betw^cen twelve and thirteen, mv un-
ele had a lodger, who was a very wicked man. One
night as I was sitting in my chamber, about half an
hour after ten, having by accident })ut out my candle,
when he came in, all over in a flame. I cried out,
" William why do you come in so to fright me?" He
said notiiing, but went away. I went after him into
his rocnn : but found he was fast asleep in bed. A
(lay or two after he fell ill, and within a week died in
raging desi)air.

I was between fourteen and fifteen, when I went
very early oik? morning to fetch the kine. I had
two fields to cross into a low ground which was said
to be haunted. Many iiersons had been frightened
there: and I had myself often seen men and women,
(so many, at times, that they are out of count, j go
just l)v me and \anisli awav. This mornin<r, as I
came towtuds it, T lu'ard a confused noise, as of
many pe(t[)le <piarielliiig. Jiiit 1 did not mind it,
and went on, till I came near the gate. 1 then saw,
on the other side a young man drest in ^lurple, who

said, "It is too early; Go baclv from whence you
came. The Lord be with you and bless you." And

presently he was gone. . r i, -n

When I was about sixteen, my uncle lell ill, and
grew worse and worse for three months. One day
having been sent out on an errand, I was coming
home through a lane, when I saw him in the field
coming swiftly towards me. I ran to nieet him ; but
he was gone. When I came home I found hini call-
ing for me. As soon as I came to his bedside, he
clasped his arms round my neck ; and Ijurst into tears,
earnestly exhorting me, to continue in the ways of
God, kept his hold, till he sunk d<nvn and died ; and
even then they could hardly unclasp his fingers I
wouhl fain have died with him, and wished to be bu-
ried with him, dead or alive.

From that time I was cr} ing from morning to night,
and praying that I might see him. 1 grew weaker
and weaker, till one morning about one o'clock, as I
was lying crying as usual. 1 heard some noise, and
rising up, saw liim come to tlie bed-side, lie looked
much displeased, shook his head at me, and in a min-
ute or two went away.

About a week after I took my bed and grew worse
and worse, till in six or seven days my life was de-
spaired of. Tiien about ele\en at night, my uncle
came in, looked well })leased, and sat down on tlie
bed-side. He came every night after the same time,
and staid till cock-crowing. I was exceeding glad,
and kept my eyes fixt \\\)()u him, all the time he sUiy
ed. If I wanted (hink or aiiytliing, though I did not
speak or stir he fetched it, and set it on the chair by
the bed-side. Indeed 1 coidd not s})cak : many tinies^
I strove but could not move my tongue. Kvcry morn-
ing when he went away he wa\ed \n^ iiaiid to nie,
and I heard delightful nnisie, as if many persons wore
singing together.

( 'Jo be contiuKcd.)

i|li!i||i

ill, and
:)iie day ^

coming *
the field
lini ; but .^
him eall-
Iside, he
11 to tears,
ways of
ied ; and
fingers I

be bu-

to night,
^v weaker
ock, as I
oise, and
[e looked
in a min<

ew worse i
! was de-
my uncle
n on tlie;
.me time,
ing glad, I
e he stiiy-

1 (lid noti
? chair l»v
liny times!
ny morn-
id to me, I
sons wore

Altamont.

THE sad evening before the death of this noble
youth I was with him. No one was there,
hut his physician, and an intimate friend whom he
loved, and whom he had ruined. At my coming in,

he said ;

You and the jdiysician, are come too late. I have
neither life, nor hope. You both aim at miracles.
You would raise the dead.

Heaven, 1 said was merciful.

Or I could not have been thus guilty. What has it
not (h)iie to bless, and to save me? 1 have been too
strong Un- Omnipotence! I plucked down ruin.

1 said

the blessed Redeemer

Hold! Hold! vou wound me! This is the rock
on which 1 split. I denied his name.

Ivefusing to hear anything from me, or take any
thing from the physician, he lay silent, as far as sud-
den darts of pain would permit, till the clock struck.
'Hien with vehemence he cried out :

Oh, time! time! it is fit thou shouldst thus strike
tliy murderer to the heart. How art thou fled for
ever! A month ! Oh, for a single week! I ask no
years ; though an age were too little for the much I
have to do.

On my saying we could not do too muL-h : that
heaven was a l)lessed i)lace.

So much the worse. Tis lost ! 'tis lost ! Heaven
is to me the severest part of hell !
Soon after I [)roposed prayer.

Prav vou tluit can. 1 never prayed. I cannot
pray. * Nor need 1. Is not heaven on my side al-
n'udv? It closes with my conscience. Its severest
strokes but second my own.

His friend being much touched e\en to tears, at
this, ( who could forbear? 1 could not.) with a most
allcctiunate look, he said :

for til \ self. [ Ii

(](

til

i|i:llH

Keep those tears lor tii\ sell, i nave undone iiiee.
Dost tlioii weep lor niei' That's cruel. What ean
pain me more;'

Here his friend, too much aflected, would have left
him.

No stay. Thou still niavest hope. Therefore
hear me. How madlv^ have f talked i* How mad-
ly hast thou listened and helieved? But look on my
piesent state as a full answer to thee, and to myself.
This hody is all weakness and pain ; but my soul, as
if strung up by torment to a greater strength and spi-
rit, is fidl powerful to reason; full mighty to suHer.
And that, which thus triunipiis within the jaws of
mortality, is doubtless, immortal. And, as for a
Deity, nothing less than an Almighty could inflict
what I feel.

I was about to congratulate this passive, involun-
tary confessor, his asserting the two prime articles
of his creed, extorted by the rack of nature; when he
thus very ])assionately said :

No, no! let me speak on. T have not long to
speak. My much injured IViend ! mv soul, as niy
body, lies in ruins, in scattered fragments of broken
thought: remorse for the ])ast, throws my thoughts
on the future. Worse dread of the future, strik(\s
it back on the past. J turn, and turn, and find no
way. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on
me thou wouhlst struggle with tlu; martyr for his
stake; and bless heaven for the tiames ; tjiat is not
an everlasting ilame; that is not an uncpienchable
fire.

How were we struck. Yet soon aftei", still more.
With what an eye of distraction, what a face of de-
spair, he cried out ;

My principles have i)()isoned mv friend; mv
extravagance lias beggeivd my bov'; mv unkimi-
ness has murdered my wife;' And is there ano-
ther hell? (O thou blasphemed,) \vi most indul-

■«

.«l

•rent Ln
ironi tir
Soon
ininiagii
ever Ion
noble, i
x^ltamoi

being e
that nig
the mori
low, he
'{'he ins(
a secon
of the h
cond tin
without
out a 11]
re[)tile i
but the
(ler gain
started 1
" Jjchoh
verance !
been tw
tile eneii
(lency o;
the mei
Bruce
tlu! invi
Scotlani

gont Lord Ciod ! Hell itself is a refuge if it hides me
iVoiii thy frown.

Soon afler his understanding failed. His terrified
inunagination uttered horrors not to !>(» rejjeated, or
ever forgot. And ere the sun arose, the gay, young,
iiohle, ingenious, aeeoini)Iished, jnid nidst wretched
x\ltaniont ex[)iied.

Du. Y()UN(i.

■■*tPR ''

■M

Ominous Prcsarje to Robert Bruce of Scotland.

BIMld^, tlie restorer of the Scottish monarchy
in the reign of Kdward the second of England,
heing out one day to reconnoitre the enemy, lay
that night in a barn belonging to a loyal farmer, lii
die morning, still reclining his head on a strawy pil-
low, he beheld a spider clindjing a beam of the roof.
'I'iie insect fell on tlie grouv.d, and innnediately made
a second essay to ascend, this attracted the notice
of the liero, who with regard saw the spider fall a se-
cond time I'rom that eminence, it made a third attempt
without success ; and in short the monarch, not with-
out a mixture of concern and curiosity, beheld the
reptile no less than twelve times batiled in its aim;
hut tlie thirteenth trial carried its success. The sj)!-
(ler gained the sunnnit of the vases ; when the king,
started from his couch, thus exclamed in solihxpiy,
" Jjchold, this (U'spicid)le insect has taught me perse-
verance! I will follow its example. Have not 1
been twelve times defeated by the superior force of
tlie enemy? On one light more hangs the indepen-
dency of my kingdom." In a '[aw days was fought
the memorable battle of nannokboiirn, in which
Bruce proved victorious, slew thirty tiiousand of
the invading enemy, and restord the monarchy of
Scotland.

mii- fi;

. «■ i

'■v.%

i!-: M

1 "I

i ■ :)

li!!''

A Fad, proving the unaccouniabk commnnication of

Spirits.

A FEW years ago a gentleman of eliaraeter and
serious earriage, and his wife, who lived near
St. James', and had lived for many years together in
great harmony and lo^e, and who were ne\er so hap-
py as in each* others eomi)any, hoth at home and a-
broad : always walking arm *in arm whenever they
went out any where, and seemed as one soul and one
body, they were so closely united in love to each
other': but as the most near and dearest friends must
part in this world, when Ciod calls us hence, so it
happened the Gentleman was taken sick and died ;
which so afiected his dear-left companion, that she
sickened also, and kept her bed, and had a servant,
or some other always to attend her.

In about ten days after her husband's death, as she
was sitting upright in bed, a friend and near relation
was then sitting by her; she looked steadfastly towards
the foot of the bed, and said, with a cheerful voice
" My dear I will be with you in two hours." The
gentlewoman, her friend, that was with her (and
who firmlv attested the same as most true.) said to
her, "Child, whom did you speak to?" ( for she saw
nobody) she answered, "It is my husband, who
came to call me hence, and I am going to him;"
which surprised her friends very nmcli, who thinking
she was a little light headed, called in somebody else,
to wdiom she spoke very cheerfully and told the
same story ; but before the two hours were ex-
pired, she went to her dear companion to he
hapi)y together for ever ; to the great surprise of all
present.

The soul receives not its perfections or activity
from the body, but can live antl act out of the body as
well as in the body, yea and much better, having
then its perfect liberty, divested of that heavy incuni-

■

brance \
less, sai
the bod;
and [)erj
being, ii
of heave
the case
0(1, who,
ness anti
lie felt n
hea\en,
ly music
would j(
liynm, \
parted ii
was relai
funeral s
ces of til
ingly rej
niention<

True Ac
don

nr^iiE

JL the
siderable
as the 1(1
port in tl
servants
chants tc
One o
ready to
tlie sliip,
master w
dispat('h«
river tiie

'at ion of

tor and
ed near
jtlier in |
so lia})- If
and a-
er they
and one
to each
(Is mnst
e, so it
d died ;
hat she
servant,

, as she
relation
towards
il voice
." The
^r ( and
said to ■
she saw
d, who
) him ;" j
hinkinff m
)dy else, k
old the J
ere ex-
to he
^e of all |i

activity |
body as
having
' incuni-

branee which only clogged and fettered it. " Doubt-
less, saith 'rertullian, when the soul is separated from
the body it conies out of darkness into its own pure
and [)erfect light, and quickly finds itself a substantial
being, able to act freely in that light, and participate
of heavenly joys." A testimony of this sort I have in
the case of a gentlenian, one Mr. Jos. Reyner, deceas-
ed, who, in his last moments, though on a bed of sick-
ness and i)ain, was in such raptures of joy, that he said
lie felt no pain at all, but declared that he was then in
heaven, meaning his soul ; and that he heard distinct-
ly music, as of angels singing most melodiously, and
would join with them as he did in the words of a
hymn, with '* IJallelu jali, c^c." and his soul soon de-
parted in that most triumphant maimer. This account
was related b}^ the Rev. Mr. Helliot, who preached his
funeral sermon, 17()'2. Likewise several other instan-
ces of the soul or spirits of the godly, who have exceed-
ingly rejoiced just before their leaving of the body, are
mentioned by Mr. Flavel, Mr. Baxter, and others.

Tnie Account of an Apparition of one Brother in Lon-
don, to another at Boston in New England.

f 11 UJ Vi party in London of whom we relate, lived
_1L there with a merchant ; and as he drove a con-
siderable trade beyond sea, he established a factory, or
as the language of trade calls it, a house, at a certain
port in the Lnglish colonies in America, and sent over
servants or ap[)rentices thither, as is usual for mer-
chants to do.

One ')f his said apprentices being fitted out, and
ready to embark, his cargo being actually on board
the ship, and the ship fallen down to Gravesend, his
master was getting his letters and invoices and other
dispatches, ready for him, he being to go down the

river the same evening.

!„

ii i

The huiTy of disputcliing him prevented his master
from taking liim uj) to (liimer with him at the usual
hour, and told him he must be content to stay in the
counting-house till he came to relieve him.

Accordingly, dimier being o\er, he goes down to
send him up to dinner. And wheii he came to tiie
counting-house door, there sat his man with tiie book-
keeper also, writing as lie h'lt them.

It happened jnst that moment, some occasion extra-
ordinary obliged him to step back again, and go up
stairs to the dining room, from whence he came; and
intending not to stay, he did not speak to the young
man, but left him in the counting-liouse, and went
immediately uj) stairs.

It was not possible that he, or any one else except
such as could walk invisibly, could go by, or pass him
unseen: good manners would have hindered the young
man from thrusting by his master upon the stairs, if
he had been going up ; but he is positive he did not,
and could not j)ass without being seen.

But when he came to the top of the stairs, there sat
the young man tit dinner with the other servants ; the
room they dined in being a little })arl()ur, which open-
ed just against the stairs, so that he saw him all the
way of th(; upper part of the stair case, and could not
be deceived.

The masler did not speak to him, which he was ve-
ry sorry for afterwards ; but the sur})rise made him
pass by the room, and go into the dining room, which
was to the right hand of it; but he sent one immedi-
ately to look, and he was there really at diinier ; so
that what he (the master) saw below in the counting-
house, must be the apparition, as it certainly was.

But this was not all : The young gentleman embar-
ked as above, and arrived safe with all his etlejts in
America, though he never lived to return. Howe\er,
I cannot say his apparition, in the manner as related,
could have the least relation to his being sick, and dv-

ing abn.

Hut wii;

This

•

London
at tliat
man, ai;
sav how
Englan(
lie hf
in the st
Flcet-str
pk'te a 1]

,^. Ilist, illK

H whence (

., swords,

UMU'h an

as the (ii

sword, b

'\j kitchen, i

.J ed him d

he afterw

While

oil" as Bo

i| the mercl
other bu^

™ "SIR, I

this to

\enien

couditi

will ex

"On tl

morning
came to t
full in m>
frighted,
him, brot
" He hi

master
le usual

y in the

I own to
! to tlie
e book-

I I'xtra-

up
and

youu!
I wont

except
ass liini
? vounsj
tail's, if
lid not,

liere sat
its ; the
1 o|)en-
all the
uld not

was ve-
de him
, which
inniedi-
iier; so
unting-
las.
enibai-
ejts in
3we\er,
re kited,
Lud dv-

ing abroad, which was not till three years afterwards.
IJut what followed was of iinother kind.

This young man had an elder brother, who lived in
Tiondon, he was a gentleman and a scholar, and was
Jit tliat time studying physic. U'c was also u stout
man, and in particidar understood a sword, that is to
say how to use a sword, as well as most gentlemen iii
Ungland.

lie iiad an accidental rencounter with a gentleman
in the street, in tliat short street which goes out of
Fleet-street into Salisbury-court : and being so com-
plete a juaster of his wea[)on, he wounded his antago-
nist, and drove him into a ta\ern in the street, froni
whence came out two men more \\\)o\\ him, with their
swords, but both of them found the gentleman so
much an overmatch for them, that they left him as fast
as the first; wiiereupon a fourth came out, iu)t with a
sword, but a fire-poker, taken hastily out of the tavern
kitchen, and ruiming at this geiillenian with it, knock-
ed him down and fractured iiis skull, of whicli wound
he afterwards diech'

While this was done in London, his brother as far
off as J3oston, in TVew England writing to bis master
the merchant, and who gives this account of it, after
other business, wrote tliis postscript.

" Sin, 1 beg you will be pleased, in your return to
this to let me have some account, as njuch as con-
\eniently may be, how my brother does, and what
condition he is in ; which importunity 1 bope you
will excuse, when you read the following account:

"On the "JOtli of .lune last, about six o'clock in the
morning lying in bed, and broad awake, my brother
came to the bed's feet and opened the curtain, looking
full in my face, bui did not speak : I was very much
frighted, but Innvever I so far recovered as to say to
him, brother what is the matter with you ?

He bad a napkin -cap on his head, which was ve-

((

K]^

1%;

.ys

•hi i!(
I'!- ■ ^ : !

liin ii

rv bloody ; lie looked very i)ule tiiid ghostly, and said,
Tain basely murdered by one, naniing the person ;j)Ut
I shall have justice done rne, and then disapeared."

Now this 'letter was so dated, that it was inipossiblc
any account could have been sent of tiie disaster, that
could reach thither in that time: lor it was not dated
above fourteen days after the fact was conunitted in
London ; and that it was genuine I am well assured,
because I saw the letter within an hour after it was
received in Londoi , read it myself, and knew the
young man's hand, and the young nijui also perfectly
well, as 1 I'kewise did his brother that was killed, ve-
ry intimately.

The young man was sober, religious, and sensible,
not given to whimsey, or ligiit-iu-aded fancies, not va-
pourish, or distempered ; not ai)t to see double, or to
dream waking, as many of our ai)paritinn Juakin^
people are; he was like.vise a scholar, an<l a very se-
rious person. The first I mention as a protection to
him from foolish imagination, and the last from talse-
hood; I am satisfied tlie reader may dei)en<l u[M)n
both die stories, as to the truth of them. Morton
on Apparitions.

The CerUunti) of Death,

1. rjriHFiRFi is an unalterable statue of dealli, lui-
JL der which uumi are concluded, It is appoinled
unto men once to (lie, llel). ix. 27. it is hiid np for
them, as i)arents lay u}) for their children : tliey may
look for it, and cannot miss it, seeing (iod lias design-
ed and reserved it for them. There is no ijeradventiiri;
in it, we nmst needs die, 2 Sam. xiv. It. Though
some men will not hear of death, yet every man must
see death, l\salm Ixxxix. IS. Death is a champion
all must grapple witii ; wc nmst enter the lists with it.
and it will have the mastery, Eccles. viii. 8. There

is no nia
spirit: n
indeed \a
all be cli
he C([ui^
of it. A
tlie way

•i. J iCt

that wi,"-
son : Ps
notwitliN
fore us ;
iiuist dc]
(Icatii be
vast sho!
yet the
new iidii
living,
uougli ?
This wo
are comi
tliat is i
wherefo]
uate on
travelers
uidy col
(inuf/t a
(tlndeth
niesseng
iiis orde
the rich,
reverenc
The boh
laiiit-liei
3. 'J^h
Gen. iii.
return.
easilv bi

iiid suid,
sou ; hut

.
iipossihlc
iter, that
ot (hited
niltcd ill
assiuod,
r it WHS
<iie\v the
perfoctiy
illed, vo-

seiisihlo,
I, not va-
ble, or to
I makiiiif

I very sc-
tH'tioii to
oiii talsc-
Mid u[)oii
Morton

Icalli, iiii-
((ppoinlvd
id iij) for
tlicv Miay
as dosi«;ii-
•advt'iitiin;
Though
man must
('hain[)ioii
l;s wit! I it.
5. Thm

is no man lliiU halh powe ' over the spirit, to retain the
spirit : neither hath he power in the day of wrath. 'I'liey
indeed who are found alive at Christ's coming, shall
all he eiianged. 1 Cor. xv. 51. J Jut that ehangu will
he e(iuivalent to death, and will answer tht? purposes
of it. All other persons nnist go the common road,
the way of all llesh.

2. J-iCt us consult daily ohservation. Everv man seetli
that wise men die, likewise the fool and brutish [)er-
soii : Ps. X. 10. There is room on this earth for ns,
notwithstanding the multitudes that were upon it be-
fore us ; they are gone to make room for us, as we
niust depart to leave room for others. It is long since
death began to transport men into another world, and
vast sh(»als and multitudes are gone thither already :
vet the trade is going on ^till ; death is carrying oil'
new inhabitants daily, to the bouse ap})ointed lor all
living. Who could e\er hear the grave say. It is e-
iiougli? liong it has ben getting, but still it asketh.
'i'liis \vorl(l is like a great lair or market, where some
are coming in, others going out; while the assembly
that is in are confused; and the most part know not
wherefore they are come together . or like a town sit-
uate on the road to a great city, through which some
travelers an; past, some are passing, while others are
only coming in. i'lccles. i. 1. One (jeneralioti passeth
anai/^ and another (feneration eonteth ; but the earth
altidelh for erer. Death is an inexorable, irresistible
messenger, who cannot be diverted from executing
his (jrdcrs, bv the force of the nnghtv, the })ribes of
the rich, nor the entreaties ol" the jxxjr. J t doth not
reverence the hoarv head, nor pitv tiie harmless ])abe.
The bold and daring cannot outbrave it; nor can the
laint-hearted obt;dn a discharge in this war.

3. 'J'he human body consists of perishing principles,
Gen. iii. 11) JJust thou art, and unto dust thou shall
return. The strongest are but little earthern vessels,
easily broken in shivers. The soul is but meanly

\*n\

liK I

I i

f I

!^'^ '

ill I

.!+

f Xl

housed, while in tliis mortal body, which is not un
house of stone, but a house of clay; the mud-walls
cannot but moulder away, especially seeing the foun-
dati(m is not on a rock, but in the dust : they are
crushed before the moth, though this insect be so ten-
der that the gentle touch of a linger will dispatch it.
Job iv. 10. These principles are like gun-powder; a
very small spark, lighting on them, will set them on
fire, and blow up the house. The stone of a raisin,
or a hair in milk, have choked men, and laid the house
of clay in the dust. If we consider the frame and
structure of our bodies, how fearfully and wonderfullv
we are made; and on how regular and exact a j no-
tion of the fluids, and balance of humours, our life
depends ; and that death has as many doors to <.'ntor
in by, as the bod}^ hath i)ores; and if we compare the
soul and body together, we may justly reckon, there
is somewhat more astonisliijig in our life, than in our
death, and, that it is more strange, t(j see dust w;dk-
ing up and down on the dust, than lying dowji in it.
Though the lamp of our hie be not'viulently bh)wn
out, yet the tlame must go at length, for want of oil.
And what are those distenipers and diseases, we are
liable to, but death's harbingers, that come to prepare
its way? They meet us, as s<w)ii as we set our foot on
earth, to tell us at our entry, that we do but couie in-
to the world to go out again. llowbeit some are
snatched away in a moment, without being warned
by sickness or disease.

'1. We have sinful souls, and therefore have dy-
ing bodies ; death follows sin, as the shadow follows
the body. The wicked must die, by virtue of the
threatening of *lie covenant of works, (ien. ii. 17. in
the day Ihat thou eatast thereof, thou shall surely die.
And the godly must die too; that as death entered
by sin, sin may go out by (h'lith. (.'hrist has taken
away the sting of death as to them, albeit he has not
as yet renxned death itself. Wherefore though it

fasten on
shall do
sin is in
down, an

Mr. Auhi
awful 1
in this ;

TWO
loni
taiice, an(
th.:t one r
sired migl
fearing tin
at last die
before she
of a wid
then a't ci
her busin
it to none
tliis mess
room and
and she w
linished,
to know 1
turning u]
suudl-pox
vou an<l I
of vou tllJ
nie, yet J
lieve me
but only «
forewarn ^
sorry to (■
prepare fc
vou know

fasten on tlieni, as the viper did on Paul's hand, it
shall do them no harm ; but because the leprosj^ of
sin is in the walls of the house, it mast be broken
down, and all the materials thereof carried forth.

vder; a
hem oil

Mr. Auhenj recites in his Miscellanies, the follorving
anful Admonition of a Departed Friend to one yet
in this world. His words are :

TWO persons (ladies) of fortune, both Ijeing not
loni^ since deceased, were intimate acquain-
tance, and loved each other sincerely. It so fell out,
tli,:t one of them fell sick of the small pox, and de-
sired mightily to see the other, who would not come,
fearing the catching the distemper; the afllicted lady
at last died of them. She had not been buried long,
before she appeared at tlie other's house in the dress
of a wi(h)W, and asked for her friend, who was
then a't cards ; she sent down her woman to know
lier business, the answer was, that she must impart
it to none but her lady, who after she had received
this message, bid her w'oman introduce her into a
room and desired her to stay till the game was done,
an<i she would tlien wait upon her. 'I'he game beino-
iinished, down stairs she g()(\s to the apparition,
to know her business. " Madam," ( says the ghost
turning up her veil, and her face appearing full of the
sniall-pox.) "You know me very well, and that
you an<l I loved entirely. Though I took it \c\j ill
of you tli.at you was not so kind as to conic and see
me, yet 1 could not rest till 1 had seen you. Be-
hove me my (h>ar, 1 am not come to fright you ;
but only out of regard to your eternal hai)piness, to
forewarn you of your approaching end, which 1 am
sorry to say will be \ovy miseiable, if you do not
prepare for it ; for there is a righteous God above, and
von know vou have led a verv unthinkimr tridrlv life

Do.,

# t

llieso many years. 1 cannot stay, ! am j^oing, luj
linie is just si)iMil, prepare to dio ; ai

(1 remeni

her ll

)is.

tliat wli

)ii

make the thirti(>th at a hall, you have

wlien yoi

hut a lew days to live," She then vanished. To eon-
clude, she wus at a hall where she made the thirtiiHii
in munher; and was afterwards asked hy the hrother
of the deceased, whether his sister jiad appeared to her
as was rei)orted ; she made no answer, but fell a weep-
ing, and died in a little time after.

The solenniity of a visit from the dead is yet height-
ened hy eoming at a time of festivity, when the heart
is glad, and tliere is no room in the mind for serious
retleetion. How seriousl} Ave should esteem friend-
ship and a solenni promise.

Anecdote related In/ Bishop Burnet.

BISHOP iiurnet, from his zeah^is eare of his dio-
cese, made it a rule yearly to visit the various
parishes of which it was comj)osed ; and with the most
distinguished regard, such ministers as were eminent
for their piety, and most attenti\ e in their care of the
souls of the })eo})le. One of these had fre(piently ex-
pressed the great importance of well uiulerstanding
our Loros meaning of the Heatitudes : and of this in
particular, "• J51essed are the meek, for they shrdl inhe-
rit the earth." Many anxious incpiiries yet left this
gracious minister unsatislied in his own mind, of the
just and true exi)lanation of it, and m.vny prayers were
added to i)revent any })artial view of it, or hasty opi-
ni<m from the learned, favoured hy him.

In this unresolved state, he took a morning walk
some considerable distance from his parish ; and ob-
serving an habitation more wretched than he had
before seen, walked towards it, and, to his sur))rise
heard a voice of great and joyous praise, drawing

noarer, lie lieanl it as tliat of an individiial only. — He
wanted to learn llie eanse, and looking in at the win-
dow viewed the poor inliabitant in the most wretched
state of outward want and i)Ovcrty that he had ever

'l)(.l„^l(l. She had on a little stool before her, a piece,

of black bread, a cup of cold water; and with her
eves and hands lifted up to heaven, as in a rapture
oT praise, added these words, " What ! all this, and
Jesus Cinist too? What! all this, and Jesus Christ
too !" It wants not to be added, that with the living
lesson which this blessed man here learnt, he with
holy gratitude returned, well understanding who only
iidierited, in our Lord's sense, the whole earth, by
possessing Him.

A r-r.TtER 1 llOM I'MNY, AN HEATIIKN PHILOSOPHER,

To /lis Frinid Sura, wnUm above Seventeen Hundred

years aijo,

TllK present recess from business we are now
onjoving, afl'ords you leisure to give, and
nie to receive instruction. I am exceedingly de-
sirous therefore to know your sentiments concerning
spectres, vvhetl<er you believe they have a real form,
and are a sort of (fivinities, or only the false impres-
sions of a terrified imagination? What particularly
inclines me to give credit to their existence, is a
story which I heard of Curtius Rufus. When he
was' in low circumstances, and unknown in the world,
he attended the governor of Africa into that province.
One evening, as he was walking in the public por-
tico, he was extremely surprised with the figure of
a woman which api)eared to him, of a size and beauty
more than human. She told him she was the tute-
lar power that presided over Africa, and was come to
inform him of the future events of his life : that he
should go back to Rome ; where he should be raised
to the hij'^hest honours, and return to that province
3 ' I

IM*

,fh Iwl

'fi;

■I'i

invested with the proconsular dignity, and there
should die. Accordingly, every circumstance of
this prophecy was actually accomplished. It is said
farther, that upon his aiTival at Carthage, as he was
coming out of the ship, the same figure accosted him
upon the shore. It is certain, at least, that being
seized with a fit of illness, though there were no
symptoms in his cause that led his attendants to
despair, he instantly gave up all hope of recovery ;
judging, it should seem, of the truth of the future
part of the prediction, by that which had already been
fulfilled, and of the misfortune which threatened him
by the success which he had experienced. To this
story let me add ar other as remarkable as the fonner,
but attended with circumstances of great horror;
which I will give you exactly as it was related to me.
There was at Athens a large and spacious house,
which lay under the disrepute of being haunted. In
the dead of the night, a noise, resembling the clash-
ing of iron, was frequently heard, which, if you listen-
ed more attentively, sounded like the rattling of
chains : at first it seemed at a distance, but approach-
ed nearer by degrees: immediately afterwards, a
spectre appeared in the form of an old man, extreme-
ly meagre and ghastly, with a long beard and dishe-
velled hair, rattling the chains on his feet and hands.
The poor inhabitants in the mean time passed their
nights under the most dreadful terrors imaginable.
This, as it broke their rest, ruined their health, and
threw them into distempers, which, together with
their horrors of mind, proved in the end fatel to
their lives. Even in the day time, though the spi-
r:*^^ did not appear, yet the remembrance of it made
such a strong impression upon their imaginations,
that it still seemed before their eyes and continually
alarmed them, though it was no longer present. By
this means the house was at last deserted, as being
judged by every body to be absolutely uninhabitable,
so that It was now entirely abandoned to the ghost.

However, in hopes that some tenant might be found
who was ignorant of this great calamity which attend-
t d it, a bill was put up, giving notice that it was to be
let or sold. It happened that Athenodorus the philoso-
pher came to Athens at this time, and reading the bill,
inquired the price. The extraordinary cheapness raised
his suspicion : nevertheless, when he heard the whole
story, he was so far from being discouraged, that he
was more strongly inclined to have it, and, in short,
actually did so. When it grew towards evening, he
ordered a couch to be prepared for him the lower
part of the house, and after calling for a light, toge-
ther with his pen and tablets, he directed all his peo-
ple to retire. But that his mind might not, for want
of employment, be open to the vain terrors of imagi-
nary noises and spirits, he applied himself to writing
with the utmost attention. The first part of the night
passed with usual silence, when at length the chains
began to rattle; however, he neither lifted up his
eyes, nor laid down his pen, but diverted his observa-
tion by pursuing his studies with greater earnestness.
The noise increased and advanced nearer, till it
seemed at the door, and at last in the chamber. He
looked up and saw the ghost exactly in the manner
it had been described to him ; it stood before him,
beckoning with the finger. Athenodorus made a
sign with his hand that it should wait a little, and
threw his eyes again upon his papers, but the ghost
still rattling his chains in his ears, he looked up and
saw him beckoning as before. Upon this he imme-
diately arose, and with the light in his hand, follow-
ed it. The ghost slowly stalked, as if encumbered
with his chains, and turning into the area of the house,
suddenly vanished. Athenodorus being thus deser-
ted made a mark with some grass and leaves where the
spirit left him, Tlie next day he gave information of
this to the magistrates, and advised them to order
that spot to be dug up. This was accordingly done,
and the skeleton of a man in chains was there found :

iS.i

ii:

for the body having lain a consifkrable time in 'he
ground, was putrified and mouldered away from
the fetters. The bones being collected together were
publicly buried, and thus after the ghost was aj)-
peased by the proper ceremonies, the house was
haunted no more. This story I believe upon the
credit of others : what I am now going to mention,
I give you upon my own, I have a freed-man named
Marcus-^ who is by no means illiterate. One night,
as he and his younger brother were lying together,
he fancied he saw somebody upon his bed, who took
out a pair of scissars, and cut oil' the hair from the
top part of his head; in the morning, it appeared
the boy*s hair was actually cut; and the clippings
lay scattered about the floor. A short time after
this, an event of the like nature contributed to give
credit to the former story. A young lad of my fami-
ly was sleeping in his apartment with the rest of his
companions, when two persons clad in white came
in (as he tells the story) through the windows, and
cut ofT his hair as he lay, and as soon as they had
finished the operation, returned the same wa}^ they
entered. The next morning it was found that this
boy had been served just as the other, and with the
very same circumstance of the hair spread about the
room. Nothing remarkable indeed iollowed these
events, unless that I escaped a prosecution, in which,
if Domitian (during whose reign this happened) had
lived some time longer, I should certainly have
been involved. For after the death of that emperor,
articles of impeachment against me were in his seru-
toire, which had been exliihitcd by Cams. Jt may
therefore be coniectured, since it is customary for
persons under any public accusation to let their hair
grow, this cutting ofl' the hair of my servants was a
sign I should escape the inmiinent danger that threat-
ened me. Let me desire you then maturely to con.
sider this question. The subject merits your exami-
nation; as, I trust, I am not myself altogether un-

worthy
rior kno
usual sc
hope y(
side, le^
doubts 5
pence ai
Farewel

The foil

WliER

Tiiere d\
In subte
JJlack as
AVlien oi
A sabbai
The wag
To buv J
As if the
Were bu
As if the
For spor
It chai
He met J
Wliose h
But now
Persuasic
(For all]
His iron
Woo'd hi
His hiith
Swift as
The sinrK
To find a

'S, and

worthy to participate of the abundance of your supe-
rior knowledge. And, though you sliould, vvitli yoitr
usual scepticism, balance between two opinions, yet 1
iiope you will throw the weightier reasons on one
side, lest whilst 1 consult you in order to have my
doubts settled you should dismiss mo in the same sus
pence and uncertainty that occasioned this application.
Farewell.

Daw-green, near Wakefield, Feb. 28, 1781.

The J'oUoiving Lines coutain a Plain mailer of Fact

just as it was.

WHERE Humber pours her rich commercial stream

Tliere dwelt a wretch, who liv'd but to blaspheme.

In subterraneous caves his life he led,

JJlack as the mine in which he wrought for bread :

AVhen on a day emerging from the deep,

A sabbath day (such sabbaths thousands keep,)

The wages of his weekly toil he bore

To buy a cock, whose blood might win him more,

As if the noblest of the feather'd kind,

Were but for battle, and for death designed!

As if the consecrated hours were meant.

For sport, to minds on cruelty intent.

It chanced (such chances providence obey,)
He met a fellow laborer on the way ;
Whose heart the same desires had once inflam'd,
But now the savage temper was reclaim,d,
l*ersnasions on his lips had taken place,
(For all plead well who plead the cause of grace.)
His iron heart with scripture he assail'd,
Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd.
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew,
Swift as the light'ning glimpse the arrow tievv,
The siimer trend)ling, cast his eyes around.
To find a worse than him, but none he found.

■ ' \

' f

Mm'

I'll'

He felt his sins, and wonderM he should feel :
Grace made the wound, and only grace could heal.
Now farewell oaths, and blasi)hemies and lies,
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize.
That holy day was wash'd witli many a tear.
Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear.

The next his swarthy brethren of the mine,
Learn'd from his alter'd lips the change divine : [day
Laugh'd where they should have wept, and swoie the
Was nigh, when he would swear as fast as they :

" No (said the penitent) such words shall share
This breath no more, henceforth employ'd in prayer.
Oh ! if thou seest ! (thine eye the future sees,)
That I shall yet again blaspheme like these.
Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel.
Ere yet this heart relapses into steel :
Now take me to that heaven I once defied ;
Thy presence, thy embrace." He spake ! He died !

Short was the time allotted liim to run, 'J

Just enter'd in the lists he gain'd the crown, J-

His prayer scarce ended, ere his praise begun. j

THE VALOUR OF AN ATHEIST.

OME years since, Dr. Barraby, then an eminent
Physician in London, was intimately acquainted

with Str 1, Esq. who was i perfect Atheist,

priding himself in the utter denial of the being of a
God. After some time he was seized with a violent
fever, and soon sent for Dr. Barraby ; the doctor
prescribed several medicines, but none of them took
effect. At length he told him plainlv, " Sir. I know

nothin
Upon
and s£
die!" i

THE

80IV
in|
to fall
disbelie
a little
way of
ligion i
the lib
imagine
reasonal
which s
could 6
and the
her anc
Mazarii

It W{1

was thai
ted to p(
to in tl:
pugnant
mnnifesti
knowledij
hope by
fore, a<l(
session Oj
ed to tih
dear nnr

d heal.

le : [day
swore the
hey :

share
1 prayer.

eel.

He died !

in. 3

n eminenJ
acquainted
;t Atheist,
being of a
h a violent
Jie doctor
them took
ir. I know

nothing more that can be done: you must die"
Upon this he clenched his fists, gnashed his teeth,
and said with the utmost fury, "God! God! I wont
die! and died immediatelv.

THE APPEAIIANCE OF THE DUCHESS OF MAZARINE.

(Continued from pmje 24.)

SOME years after the duchess' decease, happen-
ing, in a visit I made to Madam de Beaiclair
to fall on the topic of futurity, she expressed T;
disbe lef of It with a great deal of warmth ; which
a httle surprised me, as being of a quite contrary
way of thinking myself, and had always, by the re
hgion she professed, supposed her highly so I took
the liberty of offering some arguments, which r
imagmec would have been convincing to prove the
reasonableness of depending on a life to come • to
which she answered, that not all that the whole world
could say siiould ever persuade her to that opinion •
and then related to me the contract made betweeii
her and her dear departed friend, the Duchess of
iviazarine.

It was in vain I urged the strong probability there
was that souls in tiie other world might not be permit-
ted to jjerform the engagements they had entered in-
to in this, especially when they were of a nature re
pugnant to the divine wilUTO/.A, said I las
munjestbj placed a flaming sword between human
knowledge and the prospect of that glorious Eden Z
hope by Faith to be inheritors of hereafter, TheZ
Jore^ added 1 her Grace oj Mazarine may 'be inpL
session of all those nnmcnse filicities whictt are promL
ed to the virtuous, and even now interceding that the
dear partner of her heart -v/?m .',«>., «/

^ i/ ' //f«/f Ilia g .snare ihe same, yet be

' 1 ^ ■■

? ■' 1

\%l

(Vi

denml the pririlef/e of hnjmrtmj to you n^hat she is, or

(hat she e.risfs at all.

Nothing T could say made tlio least impression ;
and I found, to my great eoncern, that she was
become as great an advocate for the new doc rme of
non-existence after death, as any of those who irst
propose<l it; on which from that tmie forward. 1
avoided all discourse with her on that head.

It was not however many months alter wc Had
this conversation, that I hai)pened to he at the house
of a person of condition, whom smce the death o
the <luchess of Ma>carine, Madam de Beauclair luul
a greater intimacy with than any of her acquamtance.
We were just set down together about nine o clock
in the evening, as near as 1 can remember, when a
servant came hastily into the room, and acquainted
the lady I was witli, that Madam de Beauclair had
sent to entreat she would that moment come to her;
adding, if she ever desired to see her more in this
world, she must not delay her visit.

So odd a message might well surprise the person
to whom it was delivered : and not knowing what to
think of it, she asked who brought it? And being
told it was Madam de Beauclair's groom of the
chambers, ordered he should come in, and demanded
of him if his ladv were well, or if he knew of any
thing extraordinaiy that had happened to her which
should cause this hasty summons? lo which he
answered that he was entirely incapable oi telling
her the meaning ; only as to her ladship s health,
he never saw nor heard her complain of any indispo-
sition. , ,. , . r 1 \

" Well, then," said the lady, (a little out of humor)
" I desire vou'U make mv excuse, as I have really a
great cold,\'ind am fearful the night air may increase
it, but to-morr(»w I will not fail to wait on her very
early in the morning.

tiie man being gone, we were beginning to lorni
several conjectures on this messsge of Madam (k

Beaiiclai
might I:
again, a
seeming

"0 n
finite C(
which si
vinced o
visit to-i
queaths
necklace
will wea

These
the lega
Ward's
were no'
entered
ing the i
only lei
and mu
cried all
somethii
ed to a
getting 1
mysterit

In tin
made of
bably b(
vant car
wait in
my ad III

She V
than sh
found li
and in i
in as pe

he is, or

ression ;
;lu' was
•trine of
^lio first
ward. 1

\vc had
10 house
leath of
hiir had
untance.
; o'clock

when a
quainted
dair had

to her;
; in this

e person

what to

id being

of the

emanded

vr of any

er which

/hich he

if teUing

s heahh,

indispo-

f humor)

13 really a

r increase

her very

; to form
adani dc

fc«

'^
m

Beaiiclair, but before we had time to agree to what
niii^ht be the most feasible occasion, he returned
again, and with him Mrs. Ward, her woman, both
seemingly very nmch confused, and out of breath.

" O madam," cried she, ** my lady expresses an in-
finite concern that you should refuse tliis request
which she says will be her last. She says she is con-
vinced of her not being in a condition to receive your
visit to-morrow; but as a token of her friendship be-
queaths you this little casket containing her watch,
necklace, and some jewels, which she desires you
will wear in remembrance of her.

These worils were accompanied with the delivery of
the legacy she mentioned and that as well as Mrs.
Ward's words, threw us both into a consternation, we
were not able to express. The lady would fain have
entered into some discourse with Mrs. Ward concern-
ing the afliiir : but she evaded it by saying, she had
only left an under maid with Madam de Beauclair,
and must return immediately; on which the Lady
cried all at once, " I will go with you, there must be
something very unconmion certainly in this. I ofTer-
ed to attend lier, being, as well I might, desirous of
getting some Mght into what at present appeared so
mysterious.

In fine, we went that instant, but no mention was
made of me, nor Madam de Beauclair might not pro-
bably be informed I was with that lady when her ser-
vant came ; good manners and decency obliged me to
wait in a lower aparvment, unless she gave leave for
my admittance.

She was liowever no sooner informed I was there,
than she desired I would come up; I did so, and
found her sitting in an easy chair near her bed side,
and in my eyes, as well as all those present, seemed
in as perfect health as ever she had been.

(To be concluded in our next.)

■•; ■ \ . '-*

(k;

THOUGflTM ON JOffN XVii. '2i.

Father, f will that they also whom fhou hast (jircti we,
he with me where / am.

BRETHREN, if God i>t' witli you, you shortly
shall he with God : You that lie amon^^ the pots,
'tis but a little time, and you shall hear that word.
Come up hither, into tiie kingdom, the inheritance
prepared for you. There are two comes or calls of our
Lord : The iirst is, Come and work with me, come
and watch with me, come and follow me : the second
is, come and rest with me, yoiw work is done, your
watch is over, your race is run, come and eiuer into
my rest. The first is, Come down with i le, from
the i)ride, from the pomps and Jollities of tliis present
world ; come with me into the wilderness, into the
valley of tears; come and suder with me, come and
die with me; The second is, Come up with me, up
out of the wilderness, up out of your prisons, uj) from
your bonds; your jubilee is come, come up with me:
Come put ofi' your j)rison garments, and put on vour
robes ; shake off your fetters, and take up your palms ;
lay down your cross, and take up your crown ; from
your prisons to your j)alace, from the stocks to the
throne; you that have descended with me, are the
same who shall now useend with me to my Father
and your Father, to my God and your God. The first
is the come of a su-ter; Come, grant me your love;
give me your hearts and accept of mine. This is the
ermnd upon which his ambassadors are dispatched,
as Abraham's servant to take you as a wife for your
Lord; this is the meaning of all those jewels, and
the bracelets they bring in their hands': the Lord
sends servant upon servant, epistle upon epistle, to-
ken upon token, and all speak the same word, Come,
come, come away, and accept of your Lord, and be

married
bridegri
into m}
into m^
live in
Christiy
to Chris
luatch ?
with a I
king ol
shortly
unto yc
till vou
fall witl
fort, vo
thing, a
is, and

went to
pass, as
vernor t(
him pri;
reason, j
his will
the evei
com pan i
packet b
The ne^i
Dover.
Harvey,
he had
who can

r(>n inr,

shortly
ho pots,
t word,
eritance
s of our
?, come
second
N your
ler into
!, from
present
iito tho
lie and
ne, u[)
ip from
ith me :
m vour
pahns ;
; from
to the
are the
Father
he first
ir love ;
s is the
atched,
T your
S) and
; Lord
tie, to-
Con le,
and be

t'Si

niarried to him. The second come, i^. i' e v nie of the
bridegroom; Come home with me, into iny holy city,
into my royal mansi(jn ; con.t into njv »,' iinber, come
into my bosom, come and lodge between my breasts,
live in i"y presence, and rest in my love for ever.
Christians, will you now come and give up your souls
to Christ!* will you now give consent to make up the
match P with whom? With a man, with a great man,
with a prince, yea, even with a king liimself, yea, the
king of kings. I can give you assurance he will
shortly come and make u[) the match : he will say
unto you as Naomi did to Ruth, sit still Christians,
till you see how matters will fall. And however they
fall with you in this worhl, know this for your com-
fort, vour Lord will not rest till he has finished this
thing, and brought you home to be with him where he
is, and that for ever.

A SINGULAR DREAM.

WHEN the celebrated Dr. Harvey, being a
young man, went to travel towards Padua, he
went to Dover with several others, and showed his
pass, as the rest did to the Governor there. The Go-
vernor told him that he must not go, but he must keep
him prisoner. The doctor desired to know for what
reason, and what he had done amiss. He said it was
his will to have it so. The packet boat hoisted sail in
the evening, which was very clear, and the doctor's
companions in it. A terrible storm ensued, and the
packet boat, with all the passengers, were cast away.
The next day the melancholy news was brought to
Dover. The Governor was a total stranger to Dr.
Harvey, but by name and face ; only the night before
he had a perfect vision, in a dream, of Dr, Harvey,
who came to pass over to Calais ; and an order to stop

'■^??T;5L^,

i i ■ i

! " 1

1 1

\ i| ; i

mii

him. This the Governor told the Doctor the next day,
and the Doctor told the story again to several of his
friends in London.

A VISION SEEN BY DOCTOR DONNE.

BOCTOR Donne and his wife lived for some time
in London with Sir Robert Drurv. Sir Robert
having occasion to go to Paris, took the Doctor along
with him, whose wife was left big with child at Sir
Robert's house. Two days aftev their arrival at
Paris, Dr. Donne was left alone in the room where
Sir Robert, and he, and some other friends had dined
together. Sir Robert returned in half an hour, and
as he had left so he found the Doctor alone : but in
such an ecstasy, and so altered in his looks, as ama "ed
Sir Robert to behold. He inquired the cause; and
after some time the Doctor told him he had seen a
dreadful vision. I have seen, says he, my dear wifti
pass twice by me, through this room with her hair
hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her
arms. A messenger was immediately dispatched to
England, to inquire after Mrs. Donne, and it appeared,
that she had been brought to bed of a dead child, after
a long and dangerous labour, about the very hour that
Dr. Donne affirmed he saw her pass by him in his
chamber at Pans.

ABDA TO A FRIEND.

TIME'S being painted with a tuft of hair on his
forehead only, is very emblematical. Occasion
lost, how is it to be regained? Redeem the time;
fight valiantly : for not only the days are evil, l)ut see,
Death is at the heel. Shall Satan be so active in his
work, and his children in 4iis service? and shall we

be so ina<
dearest ol
The Lore
Time i
after thes
not a vict
he to God
Jesus CJn
Let us tl
the Lord :
in the all-
pressing t
possess tl
our days,

FO]

■Ars

is ;
viii. (). 1
Job of pa
perous S
Eccl. viii
vauiti/, i.
tive man,
They are (
ed. The
right apji
then we
our years
tale is a
ended, it
frible of i
the night,
awakes, a]
« dream a
away as a

^■^"^,%i.

e,9

be so inactive, so dronish in the ways of the best and
dearest of masters, whose service is perfect freedom 1*
The Lord forbid it.

Time is riuiiiing from us. Death following hard
after these poor crazy Ijodies of ours. Yet, is there
not a victory to be obtained ? Yes. But how ? Thanks
he to God, who (/ircth us the victory, throiujh our Lord
Jesus Christ. The battle is fought, the victory is won.
Let us therefore stand still, and see the salvation of
the Lord; lie passive in his hands, and, through grace,
in the all-sufHcient and never-failing strcngih of Christ,
pressing through a few difficulties and ligiit afflictions,
possess the good land, the heavenly ( Ja: laan ; and as
uur days, so our strength shall be. Deut. xxxiii. 25.

"FOR WHAT IS YOUR LIFE P" JAMES IV. l4.

MAN'S life is a vain and empty thing, while it
is: it vanisheth away, and h)! it is not. Job
viii. (). My days ere vanity. U you suspect afflicted
Job of partiality in this matter, hear the wise and pros-
perous Solomon's character of the days of his life,
Eccl. viii. L5. All thinys have I seen in the days of my
vanity, i. e. wy vain days. Moses, who was a very ac-
tive man, compares our days to a sleep, Psal. xc. 5.
They are as a sleep, which is not noticed, till it be end-
ed. The resemblance is to the point : few men have
right apprehensions of life, till death awaken them ;
then we begin to know we were living. We spevcl
our years as a tale that is told, ver. 9. When an idle
tale is a telling, it may alfect a little, but when it k
ended, it is forgot; and so is man forgotten, when the
fjible of is life is ended. It is a dream or vision of
the night, in which there is nothing solid : when one
awakes, all varusheth. Job xx. 2. lie shall fly away as
a dream and shall not he found ; yea he shall he chased
away as a vision of the ni'yhi. It is but a vain show or

image. Psal. xxxix. 6. Siirebj evenj man nalketk in a
vain show. Man in this wr)rkl is but, as it were, a
walking statue; his life is but an image of life; there
is so much of death in it.

If we look on our life, in the several periods of it,
we shall find it a heap of vanities. Childhood and
youth are rani ft/, Ecol. xi. 10. We come into the
world, the most helpless of all animals ; young birds
and beasts can do something for themselves, but in-
fant man is altogether unable to help himself. Our
childhood is spent in pitiful trtling pleasures, which
become the scorn of our own after-thoughts. Youth
is a flower that soon withereth, a blossom that quickly
falls off; it is a si)ace of time in which we are rash,
foolish, and inconsiderate, pleasing ourselves with a
variety of vanities, and swimming as it were, through
a flood of them. But ere we are aware, it is past, and
we are in the middle age, encompassed with a thick
cloud of cares, througli wliich we must grope, and find-
ing ourselves beset with i)ricking thorns of dilliculties,
through them we nnist force our way, to accomplish
the projects and contrivance of our riper thoughts.
And the more we solace ourselves in any earthly en-
joyment we atain to, the more bitterness do we find
in parting with it. Then comes old age, attended with
its own train of infirmiti(?s, labour and sorrow, Psal.
xc. 10. and sets us down jiext dcor to the grave. In
a word, All flesh is r/rass. Isa. xl. 0. Every stage or
period in life, is vanity, wan a( his best state\\\h mid-
dle age, when the heat of youth is spent, and the
sorrows of old age have not yet overtaken him,) is al-
lo(/elher vanifi/, Psal. xxxix. .'». J)e;uh carries oH'
some in the bud of childhood, others in the blossom
of youth, and others when they come to their fruit;
few are left standing, till like ri})e corn they forsake
the ground ; all die one time or other.

2. Man's life is a short thing ; it is not only a vani-
ty, but a short lived vanity. Consider, First, How the

life of m

deed soir

no man

hears no

bi'ought d

is its utm

rive at th

till men

the grave

such a sn

find it coi

his month

moon, is

or wanin

reckoned

Man that

it is but

ling's (la\

ends, and

roniplish

brings it (

it a nioi

(though ]

But elsew

further th;

Mine a(/e

Solomon

i><>rn, and

time to li

womb to t

bv vvhicii 1

ness ol" nij

Mine a(/e

shepherd's

The she})l

must not f

this earth,

working;

keth in a

were, a

fe; there

•ds of it,
ood and
into the
n^ birds

but in-

If. Our

whicli

Youth

quickly
ire rash,
< with a
through
ast, and

a thick
nd find-
hculties,
omplish
loughts.
thly en-
we find
led with
,v, Psal.
Lve. In
stage or
lis niid-
ind the
,) is <il-
ries off
l)los.soni
ir fruit;

forsake

a vani-
low the

life of man is reckoned in the scriptures. It was in-
deed sometimes reckoned by hundreds of years ; but
no man has ever arrived at a thousand : which yet
hears no proportion to eternity. Now hundreds are
brought down to scores, threescore and ten or fourscore,
is its utmost length, Psal. xc. 10. But few men ar-
rive at that length of life. Death does but rarelv wait,
till men be bowing dov»n, by reason of age, to meet
the grave. Yet as if years wen? too big a word, for
such a small thing as the life of man upon earth :' we
find it counted by months, Job xiv. 9. The number of
his months arc with thee. Our course, like that of tlie
moon, is run in a little time; we are always waxiiH'
or waning, till we disap])car. ]5ut frequently it is
reckoned by days; and these but {^^\w, Job xiv. 1.
Man that is horn of a woman, is of a few ilai/s. Nav'
it is but one day in scripture account; and that a hire-
ling's day, who will precisely observe when his day
ends, and give over his work,' ver (>. Till he shall ac-
complish as an hirelin// his dai/. Yea the scripture
brings it down to the shortest space of time, and calls
it a moment. 2 Cor. ix. 17. Our liijht afflict ion
(though It last all our life long,) is bnt for a moment.
But elsewhere it is brought down to yet *a lower jitch',
further than which one cannot carry it, Psal. xxxiv. 5.'
Mine a(/e is as not him/ before thee. Agreeable to this'
Solomon tells us, Kccl.'iii. 2. 7V?7' /.v a time to he
horn, and a time to die ; bur makes do niention of a
time to live; as if our life were but a skip from the
womb to the grave. 2. Consider the various similitudes
by vvhich the scriptures represe^;? ihe l)revity, or short-
ness of man's life. Ilea.- He.'^'kiah; isa xxxviii. 12.
Mine aije is departed, and is rnKored from me Wee a
shepherd's tent; I hare en t off, liL - weaver my life.
J he shepherd's tent is soon remov>>d, for the 'flocks
inust not kii.H\ long in one place ; such is a man's life on
this earth, (piickly gone. It is a web, he is incessantly
working; he is not idle so much as one ;aoment- in

a short time it is wronglit, and then it is cut off.

Every breathing is a thread in tliis web ; and when

the last breath is drawn, the web is woven out, he ex-

)ires ; and then it is cut of]", he breathes no more.

an is like grass, and like a llower, Isa. xl. 6 All
Jk'sh, even the strongest and most healthy llesh, /,<?
(frass and all the (/oo</liness thereof, is as the flmver of
the field. The grass is flourishing in the morning,
but, in the evening being cut down by the mowers, it
is withered : so man sometimes is walking up and
<lovvn at ease in the morning; and in the evening is
lying a corpse, being knocked down by a sudden
stroke with one or other of death's weapons. The
flower, at best, is but a weak and tender thing, of
short continufince wherever it grows, but observe,
man is not compared to the flower of the garden;
but to the flower of the field, which the foot of everv
beast may tread down at any time. Thus, is our
life liable to a thousand accidents, every day; any
of which may cut us ort'. But though we should
escape all these, yet, at length, this grass withereth,
this flower fadeth of itself. It is carried off', as the
cloud is consumed, and vanisheth away. Job. vii. 9.
It looks big as the morning cloud, which promiseth
great things, and raiseth the expectations of the hus-
bandnuMi : but the sun riseth, and the cloud is scat-
tered ; death comes, and the man vanisheth. The
apostle James proposeth the question. What is your
life? Hear his own answer: ll is even a vapour
that appeareth for a little time and then vanisheth
HH'aj/, chap. iv. 14 It is frail, uncertain, and last-
eth not. It is as sKioke, which goes out of the chim-
ney, as if it would darken the face of the heavens:
but (piickly is scattered, and a[)[)ears no more ; thus
goeth man's life, and where is he? It is a wiini, Job
vii. 7. O remeniher that my life is irind. It is but
a passing blast, a short putf, a wind that passoth
away, and cometh not again, Psal. Ixxxviii. 30. Our

breath is

wing to

traveller,

turn till 1

;3. Ma

but a fly;

Iv a shad

and wind

tied befoi

disapj)eai

for he He

2. A wi

a momen

other: yt

tie, chiip.

time into

ness of th

a post : i)

hasted a

to the j)ri

uith a 1)0

to carry t

the post \

days won

a man ile<

he runs '

fast as he.

fleeing foi

sonietimei

as Sisera

oin* time i

which can

tliey be at

in which i

ships of I

i)unl«Mi.

mair'd : b

Therefore,

cut off.
(1 when
5 he ex-
o more.
. All
liesh, is
iorver of
lorniiig,
•weis, it
up and

sudden
s. The
ling, of
observe,
garden;
)f everv
. is our
y; any

should
thereth,
', as the
). vii. 9.
oniiseth
he hus-
is scat-
i. The

is your

vapour
inisheth
id last-
e chini-
eavens :
e ; thus
i(!, Job
t is but
passoth
:). Our

breath is in our nostrils, as it were always upon the
wing to depart; ever passing and repassing, like a
traveller, until it go away for good and all, not to re-
turn till the hea\ens l)e no more.

;3. Man's life is a swift thing ; not only a passing
but a flying vanity. Have you not observed how swift-
ly a shadow hath run along the ground, in a cloudy
and windy day, suddenly darkening the places beauti-
fied before with the beams of the Sun, but as suddenly
disapj)earingP Such is the life of man on the earth,
for he deeth as a shadow, and continueth not,Jobxiv.
2. A wea\ er's shuttle is very swift in its motion : in
a moment it is thrown from one side of the web to the
odicr: yet our days are swifter than a weaver's shut-
tle, chap. vii. G. llowcpiickly is liian tossed through
time into eternity ! See how Job describes the swift-
ness of the time of life : Now my days arc swifter than
a post : tJ ^h>i' away, they see no (food. They are
hasted a ^ j the swift ship; as the eayle that has Hh
to the pn chap. ix. 25, 2(5. He compares his days
with a i)ost, afoot-post, a runner, who runs speedily
to carry tidings, and will make no stay. But though
the post were like Ahimaaz, who over-ran Cushi, our
(hiys would be swifter than he, for they flee away, like
a man lleeing for his life, before the pursuing ememv ;
he runs with his utmost vigour, yet our days run as
fast as he. Howbeit that is not afl. Even he who is
fleeing for life, c;iimot run always; he must needs
sometimes stand still, lie down, or run in somewhere,
as Sisera did into .fael's tent, tv re!<tsh himself: but
our time never halts. Therefore it is compared to ships,
whicli can sail night and day without intermission, till
they l)e at their port; and svvift ships, . jips of desire,
in wliieii men (puckly arrive at the desired iiaven ; or,
ships of i)leasure, that sail more swiftly than ships of
l)ur(l«Mi. Vet the wiiid failing, the ship's course is
niair'd : but our time always runs with lapid course.
Therefore, it is com))ared to the eagle flying, not with
3 L

iv,

his ordinary flight, for that is not sufficient to represent
the swiftness of our days ; but when he flies upon his
prey, which is with an extraonhnary swiftness. Ami
thus, even thus, our days fly away.

THE MOLEHILL,

TELL me, thou dust beneath.
Thou dust tlmt once hadst breatli.
Tell me, how many mortals meet
In this small hill of death ?

The mole, that digs with curious toil

Her subterranean bed.
Thinks not she ploughs a human soil :

And delves among the dead.

Yet ah ! wherever she turns the ground.

Their ashes still I see,
For every atom of this mould

Was once alive, like me.

Like me, those elder born of clay

A while enjoy \I the light;
Tiiey laboured thro' tlieir little day.

And went to rest at night.

My night is coming on apace.

And soon as sejisons roll,
My dust, like theirs, shall mark the place

That hides the mining Mole.

Far in the regions of the morn.

The rising sun surveys,
Palmyra's palaces forlorn.

Unveiling in his rays.

The Spirits of the desert dwell,
Where eastern grand ure shone :

And Vultures scream, hyicnas yell.
Where beauty held her throne.

Y^ ,^

represent
upon his
>s. And

In wild magnificent decay,

The palsied fabrics frown,
For storms have rent their strength away,

Till breezes rock them down.

There oft the Pilgrim, as he stands,

Sees from the broken wall,
The shadow tottering on the sands.

Ere the loose fragments fall.

Destruction joys, amid those scenes.

To watch the sport of fate :
While Time between the pillars leans

And bows them with his weight.

But towers and temples, crushVl by time,

Stupendous wrecks apjjcar
To me less mournfully sublime,

Than the poor Molehill here.

Thro' all his hillocks crumbling mould,
Once the warm life-bloo<l ran :

— Man ! thy own ruins here behold !
Behold thy ruins, Man !

Methinks the dust yet heaves with breath ;

1 feel the pulses beat:
O in this little hill of death.

How many mortals meet !

All ages, and all nations rise ;

For every grain of earth
Beneath my feet, before mine eyes,

Is starting into birth.

Where late the hundjle Molehill stood,
^ A mighty army stands.
From years beyond and since the flood.
From nigh and stranger lands.

^'i±mm:s

j ftl

Like rising mists, the shadowy I'urrns

O'er the deep valley spread ;
And like descending clouds in storms.

Lower round the mountain's head.

O'er the wide champaign as they pass,
Their footsteps yield no sound ;

Nor shake from the light trembling grass
A dew-drop to the ground.

Among their undistinguish'd hosts,

With transport, I behold,
Awful, sublime, terrific ghosts.

Heroes and kings of old :

But lo ! the phantoms fade in flight.
Like fears that cross the mind.

Like drowning seamen's shrieks by night.
That faint along the wind.

They were, — they were not, — all is past.

Tell me, but who can tell ?
In what mysterious region's cast.

Immortal spirits dwell ?

I know not, but T soon shall know.
When life and su Bering cease,

When this desponding heart lies low,
And I shall rest in peace.

For see, on deatii's bewikh'ring wave.

The rainbow, liope, arise;
A bridge of glory o'er the grave,

That bends beyond the skies.

From earth to heaven it swells, and shines,

A pledge of bliss to man.
Time with eternity combines,

And gras[)s them in a span.

Minister
pa riti

Re^

a Strang)

Mary,
afflicted
iiouse, 8
distant 1
1601.

The d
ly desire
at home,
band to
with hei
contrary
her bed,
them ho
lie (ill Oi
poor Ixih

A mil
ten o'cl(
liopes in
hit, said
j/iitdren.

Betwe
fell into
witii her
and fixe
on her ;
breath ;
whether

The r

LETTliR FROM MR. THOMAS TILSON,

/ A,/l^

Minisici
pa riti

Rev. Sir,

csiro)

i/L

Kent,

concermuif «,
sem in liovhesU'r, written to Mr. Ba.ricr.

Ap-

BEING informecl that yow are writing about spec-
tres and apparitions, I take tiie freedom, though
a .stranger, to send you tliis following relation.

Mary, the wife of John Gofle, of Rochester, being
afflicted with a long illness, removed to her father's
house, at West Mulling, which is about nine miles
distant from her own : there she died, June the 4th,
1601.

The day before her departure, she grew impatient-
ly desirous to see her two children, whom she had left
at home, to the care of a nurse. She prayed her hus-
band to hire a horse, for she must go home, and die
with her children. When they persuiuled her to the
contrary, telling her she was not lit to be taken out of
her bed, nor able to sit on horseback, she entreated
them however to try : //'/ cannot sit, said she, / will
lie all alon(j upon the horse, for I must (jo to see my
poor hahes.

A minister who lives in the town, was with her at
ten o'clock that nigiit, to whom she expressed good
hopes in the mercies of (lod, and u willingness to die;
hut, said she, it is my misery that I cannot see my
Jiildren.

Between one and two o'clock in the morning she
fell into a trance. One widow Turner, who watched
with her that night, says that her eyes were open,
and fixed, and her jaw fallen : she put her hand up-
on her mouth and nostrils, but could perceive no
breath ; she thought her to be in a fit, and doubted
whether she were alive or dead.

The next tlay, this dying woman told her mother,

■iii

;l ,

i!' 1

\^JM

that slie had been at home witii her children, That
is Impossihlv, said the mother, for i/ok hare hccn here
in bed all the while. Yes, replied the other, hut I was
frith them last ni(/ht, irheii 1 was asleep.

Th«; nurse at Colchester, Widow Alexander, by
name, affirms and says, she will take her oath of it
before a magistrate, and receive the sacrament ii[)on
it, that a little before two o'clock that morning, she
saw the likeness of the said Mary Golfe come out of
the next chamber, (where the elder child lay in a
bed by itself, the door being left open,) and stood by
her bed-side for about a quarter of an hour j the young-
er child was there lying by her ; her eyes moved and
her mouth went, but she said nothing. The nurse
moreover says, that she was perfectly awake ; it was
then day light, being one of the longest days in the
year. JShe sat up in her bed, and looked steadfastly
upon the apparition ; at that time she beard the bridge
clock strike two, and awhile after said. In the name
of the Father, Son, and Holt/ (ihosi, what art thou?
Thereupon the appearance removed, and went away ;
she slipped on her clothes and followed, but what
became of it she cannot tell. Then, and not before,
she began to be greviously aHVighted, and went out
of doors and walked iii)on the wharf (the house is just
by the river side) for some hours, only going in now
and then to look at the ciiildren. At live o'clock she
went to a neighbour's house, and kntjcked at the door,
but they would not rise ; at six she went again, then
they arose and let her in. Slu; related to them all
that had passed; they would persua<le her she was
mistaken, or dreamt: but she confidently allirmed,
If erer I saw her in all my life, I saw her this
night.

One of those to whom she made this relation (Ma-
ry the wife of J. Nweet) had a messenger who came
from Mulling that forejioon, to let her know her
neighbour Golle was dying, and desired to speak with

her; she

dopartiu:

latcd to

nee her

brought

told hei

thought

(he wom

'f'he SI

Carj)ente

the buria

the nursi

went tha

Twt) (

nister thi

wiio sat I

the same

other's te:

'J'hey .'1

(Miough o

woild, or

should lie

thi^

S !

have a fii
ing ev<'ry
passions £
iherto vol

her; she wont over the same day, and found her just
de|)artin.uf. The niotlier, amongst other discourse, re-
lated to her how mueli lier daughter liad hanged to
«ee her children, and said she had seen them. This
hrought to Mrs. Sweet's mind. What the nurse hud
told her that morinng, for till then, she had not
thought fit to mention it, but disguised, it rather as
the woman's disturbed imagination.

The substance of this, I had related to me by John
Cari)enter, the father of the deceased, n 'xt day after
the burial. .Inly 2, I fully discoursed th matter with
the nurse, and two neighbours, to wlx.se house she
Wi-'ut that mornintr.

Two days alter, I had it from the mother, the mi-
nister that was with her in the even, and the woman
who sat up with her that last night : they all agree in
the same story, and every one helps to strengthen the
other's testimony.

'J'hey all appear to be sober intelligent persons, far
enough olifrom designing to impose a cheat upon the
world, or to manage a lie, and what temptation they
should lie under for so doing I cannot conceive.

THOMAS TILSON,

Minister of Ayh'sworih, near
iMaii/stone in Kent,

f»

t':\TUA()IU)INAltY FORFiWARNINC;, &e.

(Continued from patje 30. j

JUST heavens exclaimed I, and cannot i prevent
this ? " Undoubtedly you may, returned he, you
have a free assent, and may prevent it all, by «\sist-
iiig ev<ry tem[)tation to a second marriage; but your
l)assions are strojig, you know not their power ; hi-
therto you have had no trial, nor am I permitted to

:':i:

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

■,V 4^.

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Ilk

tell you; but if after this warning, vou persist in your
inficlelity your lot in anotlier world will be miserable

" May 1 ask," said I, " if you are happy ?" Had
I been otherwise," said he, "I should not ha^e
been permitted to appear to you." " 1 may tnence
infer you are happy," he smiled ; " But how, said I,
♦' when morning comes, shall I be coiiviiieed that your
appearance has been real, and not the mere phantom
of my own imagination?" "Will not the news of
my death" said he, "be sufficient to convince you ?"
" No," returned I, "I might have had such a dream, and
that (iream might accidentally come to [)ass ; I wish to
have some stronger proof of its reality." " You shall,"
said he; then waving his hand, the bed curtains
which were of crimson velvet, wt^-e insUnitly drawn
through a large iron hoop, by which the tester of the
bed. which was of an oval fomi, was suspended: "In
that," said he, " you cannot be mistaken, no mortal
could have performed this." "True," said I, "but
sleeping we are often possessed of far greater strength
than awake ; though awake I could not have done it,
asleep I might, I shall still doul>t." He then said,
" You have a pocket book in tlie leaves of which I
will write; you know my hand writing." I replied
" Yes," He wrote with a pencil on one side of the
leaves, " Still," said I, " in tlie morning I may doubt;
though awake I may not imitiite your hand, asleep I
might." " You are hard of belief;" said he, " I must
not touch you, it would injure you irreparably, it is
not for spirits to touch mortal flesh." " I do not re-
gard a small blemish," said 1, " You are a woman
of courage," said he, " hold out your hand," — I did ;
he touched my wrist ; his hand was cold as marble:
in a moment the sinews shrunk up, every nerve wi-
thered. " Now," said he, " while you live, let no mor-
tal eye behold dijit wrist; to see it would be sacri-
lege." He stopped, I turned to him again, he was

gone.

him, m

but the

and a c

shook I

in vain

of agita

came to

ing Sir

without

niained.

down. J

the gall

thence r

frequent

which, 1

curtains

would e

inquiries

reau, loc

of blacl

When I

counteni

Sir M.,

quired 1

well, bi

that he <

four, an

inquiries

my wris

nities, n

my son,

world, a

birth yo

lancholy

means h

predict)

remaindf

aV:.

gone. During the time in which I had conversed with
him, my thoughts were perfectly calm and collected,
but the moment he was gone I felt chilled with horror,'
and a cold sweat came over me ; every limb and joint
shook under me ; I endeavoured to awake Sir M. but
in vain ; all my efforts were ineffectual. In this state
of agitation I lay some time, when a shower of tears
came to my relief. I drop{)ed asleep. In the morn-
ing Sir Marcus arose and dressed himself as usual,
without perceiving tiie state in whir h the curtains re-
mained. When I awoke I found Sir Marcus was gone
down. I arose and having put on my clothes, went into
the gallery adjoining our appartment, and took from
thence a long broom, such a one as in a large house is
frequently used to sweep the corners, with the help of
which, though not without rlifficulty, I took down the
curtains, as I imagined their extraordinary position
would excite wonder among the servants, and occasion
inquiries I wished to avoid. I then went to my bu-
reau, locked up the pocket book, and took out a piece
of black ribband which I bound round my wrist.
When I came down, the agitation of my mind on my
countenance was too visible to pass long unobserved by
Sir M., he instantly remarked my confusion, and in-
quired the cause I assured im I was well, perfectly
well, but informed him Lord Tyrone was no more,
that he died on the preceding Tuesday at the hour of
four, and at tiie same time entreated him to drop all
inquiries concerning the black ribband he noticed on
my wrist. He kindly desisted fnmi further importu-
nities, nor did he ever after imagine the cause. You
my son, as I had been foretold, I brought into the
world, and in a little more than four years after your
birth your father died in my arms. After this me-
lancholy event, I determined as the only probable
means by which to avoid the dreadful sequel of the
prediction, to give up every pleasure, and to pass the
remainder of my days in solitude ; but few jan endure

^ m

ii«i' f

riW

III

i .-IE

•I

■ ^;|i

■( ■ ■ I

i ♦

to remain in a ftate of sequestration I commenced a.,
to remain ui " f„~iiV an< only one : nor could

intercourse with one iamily, aim ui v ,' ,
I tlion -pe the fatal consequences winch alteriyaros re-
umec. from H Little dii I in.agine that their .on,
S only son, then a mere youth, would prove a per-
ZiVestLd by fate to prove n'Y^»»<;-f;^„^^^".^i '^

deavoured by every possioie "J*^ . . ^ Ihrnild ever

^iiori the fatal conseciuences of vvhic.i ( i 1 bhouiu ever
Tweak enough to yield to its impulse) I too well
Lw, and fondly imagined, I should overcome its m-
Se; when the evening of one fatal day term urn ed
my fortitude, and plunged me in a moment down that
abys. I had been so long meditating how to shun.
He had frequently been soliciting his parents to go
into the armv, and at length obtained their permission,
and came to^bid me farewell betore his departure.

(To he concluded in the next.)

■ii

A REMARKABLE INSTANCE OF DIVINE JUSTICE, IN THE
DEATH OF A DRUNKARD.

IN the year 1743, there lived in London, one who
was then foreman to a stay-maker, a good work-
man, but a very great drunkard. He married, and in
a short time after, he and his wife removed to York-
shire They lived together till she bore him six chil-
dren'- but by his excess in drinking, he kept himself,
his wife, and children, without even common necessa-
ries He then removed to the county oi Durham. His
wife then knew little more of religion than himself;
though she had formerly heard Mr. John Wesley call
sinners to the Lord Jesus. But she did not dare to
do after her marriage, her husband swearing, if he
had a wife who was inclined to the methodists, he
would burn her.

iced an
r could
rds re-
ir son,
I a per-
a few
; I en-
a pas-
ild ever
lO well
; its in-
ninated
wn that
> shun.
; to go
nission,
re.

IN THE

ne who
1 work-

aud in
. York-
LX chil-
himself,
lecessa-
m. His
limself;
iley call

dare to
g, if he
lists, he

As he now drew near his latter end, she got a cler-
gyman to attend him. But the clergyman observing
a peculiar hardness in him, toJd his wife it was to no
effect.

The night of his death, she read a prayer out of the
prayer book to him ; but he cried out, away with that
popish book. 8he then begged him to say the Lord's
prayer. He uttered some words with the utmost con-
tempt and indifference, and said, " Beam, I cannot
pray, I cannot pray, it is all over !"

About an hour or two before he died, Lis wife asked
him if he had any thing against her ? He replied, "I
have not ; but if I had taken thy advice I had not
beer I rought to this deplorable condition."

About two o'clock in the morning he said, " Hand
me down my clothes, for I must away," and died:

In the winter, about six weeks after his death, she,
with her helpless children, one of them sucking on her
breast, was carried in a cart to her parish, whence they
were ordered to the poor house, which was a place
where they used to confine bad women and lunatics.
Into this loathsome prison she and her infants were
thrust, with nothing to lie on, save a little straw, and
nothing to cover them. However after some time
they all dropped asleep. Towards morning she awa-
ked, began to bemoan her wretched condition, and
calling her husband by his name, said, "To what a
miserable state you have brought me and my inno-
cent babes ? We arc all to perish for want."

She had scarce spoke, when there was a terrible
rustling noise, as if the place were going to be un-
roofed, and a glimmering light with a sulphureous
smell. Then appeared her husband with fiends who
foi-med a circle round him. He seemed in exquisite
pain, and cringed and leapt while they scourged and
tormented him.

He said, "Do not grieve on account of your situation,
you will l)e soon taken out of this place. And you
and your children will be taken care of, and you will

it i.

•:

■mi

never perish for want. But as for me this h to be my
condition to all eternity f and then disappeared.

Stockton, Feb. 25, 1783.

W. COLLINS.

' Here ne may inquire, What is this eternity .' How
shall we pour any light upon the abstruse subject? It
cannot be the object of our understanding. And wuh
what comparison shall we compare it ? How mhnite-
Iv does it transcend all these? What are any tempo-
ral things placed in comparison with those that are
eternal ? Whict is the duration of the long-lived oak,
of the ancient castle, of Trajan's pillar, of Pompey's
amphitheatre? What is the antiquity of the Tuscan
urns, Though probably older than the foundation of
Rom'e; yea, of the pyramids of Egypt, suppose they
have remained upwards of three thousand years;
when laid in the balance of eternity ? It vanisheth

into nothing.

Nay, what is the duration of the everlasting hills,
figuratively so called, which have remained ever since
the gene' . deluge, if not from the foundation of the
world, in comparsion of eternity ? No more than an
insignificant cypher. Go farther yet, consider the du-
ration from the creation of the first born sons of God,
of Michael the archangel in particular, to the hour
when he shall be commissioned to sound his trumpet,
and to utter his mighty voice through the vault of
heaven. "Arise, ye dead, and come to judgment!"
Is it not a moment, a point, a nothing, in comparison
of unfathomable eternity ? Add to this a thousand, a
million of years, add a million of millions of ages, be-
fore the mountains were brought forth, or the earth
and the round world were made : what is all this in
comparison to that eternity which is past ? Is it not less,
infinitely less, than a single drop of water to the whole
ocean? Yea immeasurably less than a day, an hour,
a moment, to a million of ages. Go back a thousand

millions
of etern

Are V
the eter
pare it y
are acqu
from si>
compare
or fours
compare
Methusc
have su
vens aiK
heavens
of it sha
of tliat (

In oi
ed that
there w«
earth : s
hilated,
vet thai
would 1
thousan
to etern
of sand

To ii
your mi
ocean tc
tween t
drop of
years; ;
ocean w
in a thoi
tion to (
ocean.

Look
are in tl

^^k

be my
:.LINS.

'' How
ject? It
nd with
infinite-

tempo-
Lhat are
-ed oak,
ompey's

Tuscan
ation of
>se they

years ;
wiisheth

ng hills,
er since
[1 of the
than an
■ the du-
of God,
he hour
trumpet,
vault of
gment !"
iiparison
isand, a
ges, be-
lie earth
this in
not less,
le whole
an hour,
housand

m
'*'■?

.• "i^

85 - ,

millions still. Yet you are no nearer the beginning
of eternity. ,

Are we able to form a more adequate conception of
the eternity to come? In order to this, let us com-
pare it with the several degrees of duration, which we
are acquainted with. An ephemeron dy lives six hours,
from six in the evening till twelve. This is a short life
compared to that of a man, which continues threescore
or fourscore years. And this itself is short, if it be
compared to the nine hundred and sixty nine years of
Methuselah. Yet what are these years, yea, all that
have succeeded each other from the time that the hea-
vens and the earth were erected, to the time when the
heavens shall pass aw^.y, and the earth with the works
of it shall be burned up, if we compare it to the length
of that duration, which never shall have an end !

In order to illustrate this, a late author has repeat-
ed that striking thought of St. Cyprian. Suppose
there were a ball of sand, as large as the globe of
earth : suppose a grain of this sand were to be anni-
hilated, reduced to nothing, in a thousand years:
yet that whole space of duration, wherein this ball
would be annihilating, at the rate of a grain in a
thousand years, would bear infinitely less proportion
to eternity, duration without end, than a single grain
of sand would bear to all the mass.

To infix this important point the more deeply in
your mind consider another comparison. Suppose the
ocean to be so enlarged as to include all the space be-
tween the earth and the starry heavens. Suppose a
drop of this water to be annihilated once in a thousand
years ; yet that whole space of duration, wherein this
ocean would be annihilating, at the rate of one drop
in a thousand years, would be infinitely less in propor-
tion to eternity, than one drop of water to that whole
ocean.

Look then at those immortal spirits, whether they
are in this, or the other world. When they shall have

' i '

Y^^^^^

■

: 1 1

■1

1 'if

nil ;;if ; ^^

lived thousands of thousands of years, yea, millions
of millions of ages, their duration will be but just be-
gun ; they will be only upon the threshold of eterni-
ty.

But besides this division of eternity into that which
is past and that which is to come, there is another di-
vision of eternity, which is of unspeakable importance.
That which is to come, as it relates to immortal spi-
rits, is either a happy or miserable eternity.

See the spirits of the rigliteous, that are already
praising God in a happy eternity. We are ready to
say. How short will it appear to those who drink of
the rivers of pleasure at God's right hand P We are rea-
dy to cry out,

" A day without night
They dwell in liis sight.
And eternity seems as a day !"

But this is only speaking after the manner of men.
For the measures of long and short, are only applica-
ble to time, which admits of bounds, and not to un-
bounded duration. Tliis rolls on ^recording to our
low conceptions,) with unutterable, inconceivable
swiftness ; if one would not rather say, it does not
roll, or move at all, but in one, still immoveable ocean.
For the inhabitants of heaven cease not day or night,
but continually cry. Holy, holy, lioly is the Lord, the
God, the Almighty : who was, and who is, and who
is to come! And when millions of millions of ages
are elapsed, their eternity is but just begun.

On the other hand, in what a condition are those
immortal spirits, who have made a choice of a misera-
ble eternity ; I say, made choice : for it is impossible
this should be the lot of any creature, but by his own
act and deed. The day is coming, when every soul
will be constrained to acknowledge, in the sight of
men and angels.

millions

just be-

eterni-

,t which
ther di-
ortance.
rtal spi-

al ready
eady to
Irink of
are rea-

>f men.
pplica-
to un-
to our
eivable
oes not
ocean.
• night,
►rd, the
id who
)f ages

e those
inisera-
ossible
is own
ry soul
ight of

t.^fV

"No dire decree of thine did seal,

Or fix the unalterable doom :
Consign my unborn soul to hell,

Or damn me from my mother's womb."

In what condition, will such a spirit be, after the
sentence is executed, Depart ye cursed, into everlast-
ing fire, prepared for the devil and his angels?
Suppose him to be just now plunged into the lake of
fire, burning with brimstone, where they have no rest
day or night but the smoke of their torment ascend-
eth up for ever and ever ! Why, if we were only to be
chained down one day, yea one hour, in a lake of fire,
how amazingly long would one day, or one hour ap-
pear? I know not if it would not seem a thousand
years, But, astonishing thought ! After thousands of
thousands, he has but just tasied of his bitter cup !
After millions it will be no nearer the end, than it
was the moment it began.

What iiien is he, how foolish, how mad, in how
unutterable a degree of distraction, who seemeth to
have the understanding of a man, deliberately prefers
tempoml things to eternal ? Who (allowing that ab-
surd, impossible supposition, that wickedness is hap-
piness : a supposition utterly contrary to all reason, as
well as to matter of Ijxct,) prefers the happiness of a
year, say a thousand years, to the happiness of eterni-
ty ? In comparison of which, a thousand ages are
infinitely less than a year, a day, a moment ! especial-
ly when we take this into the consideration, (which
indeed should never be forgotten,) that the refusing of
a happy eternity implies the chosing of a miserable
eternity. For there is not, cannot be any medium
between everlasting joy and everlasting pain. It is a
vain thought, which some have entertained, that death
will put an end to the soul as well as the body. It
will put an end to neither the one nor the other ; it
will only alter the manner of their existence. But

111

r r

■ ■ - ■ 'f :

■'I

when the body returns to tlie dust, as it was, tlie spU
rit will return to God that gave it. Therefore at the
moment of death, it must be unspeakably happy or
unspeakably miserable. And that misery will never
end.

" Never ! Where sinks the soul at the dread

sound !
Into a gulpli how dark, and how profound !"

How often would he, who had made the wretched
choice, wish for the death of both soul and body ? It
is not impossible he might pray in some such manner
as Dr. Young supposes,

" When I have writh'd ten thousand years in

fire,
Ten thousand thousands, let me then expire !"

Yet this unspeakable A lly, this unutterable madness,
of preferring present things to eternal, is the disease of
every man born into the world, while in his natural
state. For such is the constitution of our nature, that
as the eye sees only such a portion of space at once, so
the mind sees only such a portion of time at once. And
as all the space that lies beyond this, is invisible to the
eye, so all the time that lies beyond that compass, is
invisible to the mind. So that we do not perceive,
either the space or the time, which is at a distance
from us. The eye sees distinctly the space that is near
it, with the object which it contains. In like manner,
the mind sees distinctly those objects which are with-
in such a distance of time. The eye does not see the
beauties of China. They are at too great a distance.
There is too great a space between us and themj
therefore we are not affected by them. They are as
nothing to us : it is just the same to us, as if they
had no being. For the same reason the mind does
not see either the beauties or the terrors of eternity.

'"^'^^mm^^

manner

rs in

ure

riadness,
isease of
natural
ire, that
once, so
36. And
le to the
pass, is
)erceive,
distance
t is near
manner,
re with-
see the
listance.
i them;
y are as
J if they
nd does
eternity.

We ure not at Jill jilll'ftcd hy tlicin, hecanse they aiv
so distant Innii us. On tjij's account it is that' they
u|)|H'ar to us as n()thinl,^ just as if they had no exist-
ence. Mcanvvlii'o we are wholly taken up with
things present, whcth-'r in time or space ; and things
appear less and less, as they are more and more dis-
tant from us, cither in one resi)ect or the other. And
so it must be; such is the constitution of our nature,
(ill natine is changed by Ahnighty grace. But this is
no mamier of excuse for those who continue in their
natund l)Iindness to futurity; because a remedy for it
is provided, which is found by all that seek it.l-Yea,
it is freely given to all that sincerely ask it.

This remedy is faith. I do not inean that which is
the faith of a heatiien, who believes that there is a
God, jind that he is a rewarder of them that diligently
seek him ; but that which is defined by the apostle.
An evidence or conviction of things not seen : a divine
evidejice and conviction of the in\isible and eternal
worhl. This alone opens the eyes of the under nnd-
ing, to see God and the things of God. T- *

were, takes away, or renders transparent the
tral)le veil.

" Which hangs 'twixt mortal and immortal being."

len

" Faith IlmuIs its realizing light,
The clouiis disperse, tlie shadows i\y :

The invisible appears in sight.
And God is seen by mortal eyo."

Accordingly, a believer (in the spiritual sense) lives in
eternity, and walks in eternity. His prospect is en-
larged. His view is not am longer bounded by pre-
sent tlu'ngs : no, nor by any earthly hemisphere, though
It were, as Milton speaks, "Tenfold the length of his
Terrene." l^aiih places the unseen, the eternal world
4 IV

y. ■ ■

i!w

■^i

c.Mitiii.ially l)Hoiv liis Auv. CnnscMiuciitly lie locks
not at thc'lhin^^s that arc srcMi :

•♦Wi'iiltli, IiniiDiir, i>l<'iisiirfs, or wliiiti'lse.
This sliort-oiuluiing world can give."

Tliosi' are not hi^. aim, tlie ohwc\ of his pursuit, his
desire or liappiiii'ss : iml at tiic tiiiii!;s that arc not
seen, at the favour, the inia^a-, au«l tiic gh»r\ iA'(iin\:
as well kuowin.^-, that the thin.L's uiiich arc sivn arc
temporal, a vapour, i shiuiow, a drcaui that vanishes
away; whereas the ihiiiKs that are not sicn, are et.r-
nal, real, solid, and unciiaiiL^cahle.

Bis/top Ilairs (tvcount of <i Uniiarlnltlf Dmtm.

IN my youth, when T was at Caml>ri(i<;-e, my bro-
ther ]i(Mny lyiui,^ with me, early one morning I
<lreame(l that my motlier passed hy with a sad couii-
tenanee, and tohl nic, that she would not come to my
Connneneenicnt, (having- ])roniiscd at that time to
come to Cand^ridgc) wiien 1 iclatcd this dream to my
brother, (i)oth ol' us wakini^' together in a sweat,) lie
protested he had dreamed the very same. The \\v\{
Carrier hiought us word ol'our mother's death.

How can this l)e accounted lor <ui njcrclv rational
principles:*

E.rh'dct of (( Lcflcr It. o HirlKwd Sosli, l'!s(/.

Sir,

I WAS not long since called to visit a poor
gentleman, ere while ol' the most robust
body, and oi' tiie gayest temper J e\er knew. Jjiit
when r visited him ; Oh ! how was the lijlory det)art-
ed I'rom him! I found him no more that spiightly

mid vivacious ^oii of joy, wliicli lie used
|;m,^llisllill,^^ piiiinn- iiwnv, and witliciiii

I .A ..: 1 1 <• / < 1*11. '

^ under

Imt
II

<|iastciiino- liaiid of (io,i. Hj.^ ii,„i,^ j-,^.^.|;i^. ,^,,^j ^^.^.^^^^
l.liiin-, his coiiiitciiaiico lorlorn and gliasUv, and tlie
litdc invnlh he iiiid left, soMa'd out in sorrovvful sh^ha^
His i.ody liastciiiiiir j.^;iitv to the dust, to lodge iirtlie
silent grave, the land ofdarkncvss and desolation. His
soul just g(,ing to (un\ who gave it, preparing to wing
its way unto its long home, to enter upon an un-
chafgeahle and eternal Stat . When [ was cojue up
iiilo his ehand)er, and had seated myself on his hed
he lirvt east a most wishlul h)ok upon nie, and then
hegan as well as h(> was uhle to sjx^ak ; Oh! that I
Imd been wise, that I had known this, that I had con-
siuered my huter end. Ah ! Sir, death is knockin<r at
Jiiy door: ni a lew hoins more I shal' draw my 'last
gasp ; and tlnMijudgement, the tremendous judgement '
How shall I appear, unprepared as I am; bdore the
all-knowmg and oimiipotent (iod. IJow shall I en
dim^ the day ol his eoming! When I mentioned
among many other tilings, that strict holiness, which
he had lornierly so slightlv esteemed, he replied with
a hasty eagerness, Oh ! that holiness is the only ihiiicr
I now long lor. I have not words to tell hovv
liU',liiy I value it. 1 would gladlv part with all mv
estate, large as it is, or a world to obtain it. Now my
henighted eyes are enlightened, I clearly discern the
iiiugs that iu-e excellent. What is there in the place

,.7 , ' ; ;■"• " ""t 1.-, iiieie ui me ptace

whither I am going, but Ciod i> (),■ wliat is there to be
(iesired on earth but religion ? IJut if this God should
restoivyou to healtii, (said I, think you that you would
all(>r your lormer course !» I eall heaven and earth to
wiliiess, said \u\ I would labour lo- holiness as I
shall soon labour for lile. As for riches and pleasures
iiiHl the applauses of men, [ account them as dross and
'hn.g, iM, more to my happiness, than the feathers that
he on the lloor.— Oh ! if the righteous .hulge would
try me once more; il he would but reprieve and spare

I • i ■ *

•

n.d a little longer; in what a si)iiit would I spend the
remainder of my days ! I wonld knovy no otlier
business, aim at no other end, than perlectmg myself
in holiness. Whatever contributed to tliat, every
means of grace, every opportunity of spiritual improv-
ment should be dearer to me than thousands of gold
and silver. But alas ! why do 1 anmse myself witli
fond imaginations? The best resolutions are now iu-
sicrnifieant, because they are too late. The day in
which 1 should have worked is over and gone, and I
see a sad, horrible night approaching, bringing with
it the blackness of darkness for ever. Heretolore, woe
is me ! When God called, I refused ; when he invited,
I was one of them that made excuse. Now therefore
I receive the reward of my deeds; fearfulness and
trembling are come upon me: I smart, and am in sore
anguish already; and yet this is but the beginning of
sorrows! It doth not yet appear what 1 shall be;
but sure I shall be ruined, un(h)ne, and destroyed with
an everlasting destruction.

This sad scene I saw with mine eyes : these words,
aiid many more equally allecting, I heard with mine
ears, and soon after attended tli unhappy gentleman
to his tomb.

The appearance of the Duchess of Mazaritie.
(Con(ini(v<lfrom jxujc (5.5.J

ON our incjuiring if she felt any inward (h'sorder
which should give room for the melancholy ;i[)-
prehensions her message testified, she re})lied in the
negative; yet, said she, with a little sigh, you will
soon, very soon, behold me pass from this world
into that eternity vvhicli once I doubted, but am now
assured of.

As she spoke these last words, she looked full in

luy face, as it were to ieinin(i me of the convei-satioii
vve frequently had held together on that subject.
I I lold her, 1 was heartily glad to find so great a
Ichange in her ladyship's sentiments; but that 1 hoped
slie had no reason to imagine the conviction would be
fatal; which she oidy answered with a gloomy smile;
iind a clergyman of her own persuasion whom she had
sent for, that moment coming in, we all quitted the
room to leave him at liberty to exercise his function.

It exceeded not half an hour before we were called
in again, and she appeared, after having disburthened
licr conscience, to be more cheerful than before; her
eyes, which were as piercing as possible, sparkled
hvilh an unconunon vivacity; and she told us she
slioulddic with more satisfaction, as she enjoyed in her
last moments, the presence of two persolis the most
agreeable to her in this world, and in the next would
be sure of enjoying tiie society of one, who in life, had
[been the dearest to her.

We were botii beginning to dissuade her from
Igivingway to thoughts, which there seemed not the
kust probability of being verified; when she put a
Lsto[) to what we were about to urge, by saying,
i"Talk no more of that— my time is short, and I
I would not have the small si)ace allowed me to be with
you wasted in vain delusion. Know," continued she,
I ''I have seen my dear Duchess of Mazarine. I per-
ceived not how she entered, but turning my eyes to-
wards yoiider corner of the room, I saw her stand in
the same form and habit she was accustomed to ap-
pear in when living; fain would 1 have spoke, but
hud not the power of utterance: she took a little cir-
cuit round the cluunber, seeming rather to swim than
walk ; then sto^jped by the side of that Indian chest,
and looked on me with her usual sweetness. Beau-
clair, said she, between the hours of twelve and one
this night you will be with me.— The surprise I was
in at iirst being a little abated, 1 began to ask some

||-:!Pi

questions concerning the future world f was so soony

visit; but on the opening of jny lit)s lor that pnrposel

he vanished from my sight I know not how," I

The clock was now striking twelve, and as nk
discovered not the least symptoms of any ailment, we
again aimed to remove all a})prehensi()ns of a dissolu.
tion ; but we had scarce begun to speak, when on a
sudden her countenance changed, and she cried out,
"Oh! I am sick at heart!" iVlrs. Ward, who all tliii
time had stood leaning on her chair, applied .some
dro])s but to no e/lect ; she grew still worse; and in
about half an hour expired, it being exactly the time
the ap[)arition h;ul foretold. '

1 ha\ e been so particular in relating all the circuni.
stances of this aflair, as well as to prove 1 could not
be deceived in it, as to show that Madam de I3eauclair
was neither \aporisli nor sup(>rslitious, as many believe
all are who })retend to see any thing snpcrnatund. ]
am, indeed, \ery ready to ;dlow that the force of hm.
gination may ini})<.sc uj)()n the sejises, and that it fii-
quently has done so, and that the stories told ns in oiii
iidimcy leave ideas behind them, which in our riper
years are apt to n)ake us fanciful : but in the case I
have mentioned, there could be nothing of all this'
the lady you may })erceive was so far from an\ appi^
hensions or prepossessions of that nature, that on the
contrary, she looked ui)()n them as ridiculous and ab-
surd, and convinced by nothing but the testimony of
her own eyes and ears.

It must be confessed such e\traordinar\' uwans of
worningusof our fate but rarely ha|)p(>n,' nor can i(
be su[)poscd departed spirits have the pouvr of visiiim
us at ideasure; for which reason I look upon all siul
agreements, as were made between these ladies as
liighly presumi)tuous, and when permitted to beVn]-.
liUed, we are not to imagine it done to gralif\- the vaipl
cm-iosity of those who donbt a future stale, but to
strengUicn the laith of those who l«elieve it

I liiiiik, liieierore, who am well assured of the truth
of siieh an iiieideut, I ought to eomiiiunicate it to tlie
IpiibHc, especially in these times, vv hen all the belief of
laiiotlier world, on which of consequence our good be-
jliaviour iu this depends, stauds in need ofeverv help
[for inaintaining any ground among us.

A Woman cured of a Ontccr hij a DrcfUH.

I -TANr: COTTERALL, of I -, was afflicted

[til witli a cancer in her mouth for sc\eral years, and

was brought very low both in body and mind,' and

cireimistances. Being in an agony of pain one day,

jwhile the surgeon was dressing the sore, she cried out

[in great earnestness, "My good God, look down

jiipou me in mercy, for Christ's sake." The surgeon

[being angry, innnediately left oli' dressing the wound,

bid her go to the God she called npon, and see if he

would help her, for he himself would have nothino-

more to say to her. The po(jr alHicted woman wa^

jgreatly shocked at his behaviour, and begged to know

what he demanded for his attendance. His demand

was exorbitant, and reduced her and her family almost

to want. However, at last slie paid all he re(|ui'red, and

returned home with a light pnrse, and a heavy heart.

Some little tii-e after this, the i)oor woman dreamt
tluee or four nights together, that she saw a man
who made a perfect cure of her cancerous complaint.
Upon tiiis she greatly importuned her husband to
take her to the place where she saw the man. He
thinking it was nothiiig but a dream, in consequence
of her sullering, begged her not to think of going
again from home, so ill as she was. Persisting",
however, in the thought of going to the place where
she saw the man, her husband consentech She went,
land had not Ijcen long at the place belbre she saw

. 1 ■;
4

^1'/

ll / '

the very i)e!-.S()H walk into llie room that she had
ill lier sleep. She immediately started up, thank
God, and running to the man, said, 8he was re
to see him. The man suiprised, (having nevei

seen

l^iceil

.seen

the woman before,) asked what she meant? O Si

*^ir,

said she, you are the person who is to eure my cancer
Good woman, said lie, I never cured a cancer iji i^n
life. At this reply the poor woman was east dowii
and cried out, then all is over. The man seein<»- tlie
woman in such distress, and a dei)lorahle object %
look upon, asked the cause of her apphing to him
She told him all the particulars before* related ; and
added, if you can help me, do. lie then bid her be
comforted, for he knew of something which had heei
of use, if she would try it, Any thing. Sir, you ad-
vise, I will most certainly try, said she. Pie accord-
ingly made her up an application, which she used
and, in a little time, she was (|uite cured of the cancer
and restored to perfect health. This happened up^
wards of fifteen years ago. I could mention the sur-
geon's name who treated her with such inliumanitv, if
it were expedient. He was a noted deist.

Simpson on Dreams,

A Nan-afire of the Death of the Hon. Pr. N .

Son to the late .

AT sixteen he w\as sent to the university of
where he continued five years, and 'behaved so
agreeably to his religious education, that he was
looked upon as a blessing and an ornament to hiJ
amdy At twenty-one he came to town, and entered

himself at to study the law.

His new acquainUuice began to rally hhn for his
religion; to whom he would say, - Gentlemen
you who pretend to reason, cannot think laui-hte;
a conclusive argument. If idigion be so absuni as

TV ^ i

you would liavo i.ie lu'lieve, why ,!,> yon not give
some fair reasons against it?" this, some of them
would attenjpt and though their argument at first was
as imsuccesshd as their raillery ; yet the poison sunk
by degrees, and at last tainted him as deeply as them-
selves. He was ad()])ted into their society, which met
to lay down rules, for being so critically wicked, that
the law should not he able to take hold of them.

He still kept a fair correspondence with his friend^
and ni sti-ange places was sober and reserved But
in secret, and among his acquaintance, as wicked as
good parts, abundance of temptation, and a fair es'tate
enanled hnn to be.

On Nov. 30, 1092, he was taken ill, and found,
notwithstandnig all Ins precautions, he had not yet
shook oil the expectation of another life. This mide
him throw himself upon his bed, and speak out into
these expressions ; -Whence this war in my breast ^^
What argument is there now to assist me agains't
matter ol fact? J)o I assert that there is no hell, while
Heel one m niy bosom P Am I certain there is no
after-retnbution, when I feel a present judgement '>
Do I afhrm my soul to be as mortal as my bodv
when this languishes, and that is as vigorous as ever'^
that anv one could restore to me my ancient inno'-
cence! Wretch that I am, whither shall I lly from
this breast i* ^ W hat will become of me ?

One of his old coini)anions now coming in, said
''How, now, brother? Why this n.elanchol^' look
and posture ? What is the matter ?" " The matter •
replied he; it is you, and your companions, who have
instille<l your principles into me, which now, when I
have most need of them, leave me in confusion and
despair. What comlort huso you now to fortify me
with against the learlul expectation of another life :>
Are 3.>u certain that the soul is material and mortal,
and tliat It will dissolve with the bo.lv? So certain
replied the other, that I venture my whole upon ||:

%^^

-7-

,1 (•

ti'l

Here I iutoniipkMl tlioni l>y eoiiiliii; into tlie room;

and applyinj,^ niyseH" to tlie siok [UMson, told liini that

I was a stranger' to him, l)nt hearing of liis illness, {

thought it my (inty to oiler him what ser\ iee I Mas

eapaide of. "I tliank yon, said he, and wonhl dcsjro

you to engage that gentleman who sits there and prove

to him the soul is not matti>r nor mortal." "That,

said I, is easily pro\ed. flatter is nm*\(M'sally allowed

to be inditferent to motion or rest ; that if it he in rest,

it will rest to all et<'rnity, unless sonu'thing else moves

it; and if it he in motion, it will eternally nio\<', uii-

less something else sto[)s it. Now yon w ho think the

soul matter, sav that it first mo\es the animal spirits

thev the nerves, these the limhs. Isnt to sav^ this, js

to say that matter moves itself, which is ahsurd.

Therefore the soul is not matter, and eonsequenth- notl

liable to be dissohed as matter is."

The siek gentleman answered only with a groan,
whilst his friend made haste out of the room. I was
surj)rised, and desired to know the I'eason of his (lis-
content. "Alas, Sir, said he, yon have undeceived
me now it is too late : 1 was afraid of nothing so nnicli
as the innnortality of the soul. Now \<>u have
assured me of that, you have ascertained me of a
hell, and a portion among those who have a[)ostatized
from their religion. You have now sealed my damna-l
tion, by giving me an earnest of it; 1 mean, an
awakened conscience, that brings my sins to my re-
membrance, by reckoning up the numerous catalogue,]
for which I must go ancl give account. () ajxtstate
wretch! from what hopes art thou lalltMi ! () that I j
had never known what religion was ! Then I had never!
denied my Saviour, nor been so black an heir of j)er{li-
tion." J stood speechless for s«}me time; but so soon I
as 1 couhl recollect myself, said, Sir, J would desire I
you would take care how you vi(date the merc\- of God,
and think so light of the sutlerings of Christ, as if tliov j
were not suflicient for the redemption of the greatest siii-

iier,

lis ]niiv he a (

ildi

sioii of the (levih If you am
conviiittMl tJie soul is iiiiinorlal, 1 hope it is lor a good
end. Now you ha\ e some tiuie to prepare for your

otci

'Han

„.jnuil weiiare. I o which he replied, "As to the
mercies of God in Christ, I once knew and tasted
what tliey arc; which is now niy^ present curse, in
that I am now sensible of my loss.' They are, 1 grant
you, siilhcient for those who have any share in them.
But what is that to me, who have denied Christ? who
have (laih crucified him afresh, and put him to an
ojxMi shame? The devil has nothing to do with the
torliue that I undergo. Jt is no delusion of his, hut
the hcst judgement of Cod. And vou have given me
sensible liorior of my sins, by i)roving my soul im-
mortal. IJad I gone straight to liell in niv old opinion
1 had endured hut one hell, wliercas I now feel two :
[ . .'an, not only an inexpressible torture which f
carry in my breast, but an expect<ition of 1 know not
what change. O that I was in hell, that I mio-ht feel
liic worst! and yet T 'dread to die, because Hit worst
will never lia\e an end !"

Ail this li(^ s])oke with so much eagerness, as is
scarce to be imagined. He was now got to bed
refusing all sustenance, and exceedingly sweating
through all the extremity of his torments. Before 1
took my leave, 1 desired to pray by him, which with
luuch reluctance he consented to.* In the midst of
prayer he groaned extremely, tossing himself as if he
was in the agonies of death. When jjiayer was over
i asked liini the reason of it. He answjred, "As the
damned in hell, who lift uj) their eves in torments
and beindd afar oil" the saints in Abraham's bosom'
have their torments there])y (hjubled, (iivst, by reflect-
ing on the misery they are in; and secondly, by ob-
serving the happiness they have lost: so f kiioVin^'-
luyscll to be hardened, and sealed unto daninatio*?
hearing the prayer of the righteous, to which (.'od's
ears are always open; this increases my torment, to

itHH

»'« '<m.

'^;-JK,

100

V'Y

■

think I am cxfliided from such a [)iiv ilege, and having
no portion left me, but weeping, wailing, and gnashinjr
of teeth for ever." *'Pray, Sir, said I, consider tliat
there is a vast diflerence between yon and thos(^ that
are in hell. They are lost irrecoverably fore\er, with,
out any hope or pardon : you are yet alive, and have
promises belonging to you in common with other sin-
iiers; Christ diedfor sinners; and Cod has sworn by
himself " I delight not in the death of a sinner, Imtl
would rather that he turn from his wickedness and live."
He replied with his usual earnestness, "1 will grant
there is as much dilference between me and those that|
are in hell, as between a common devil aud a devil in.
carnate. If these are irrecoverably lost, without op.
portunity of reprieve, or hopes of pardon, and 1 anil
yet alive. O, what then ! Avhat is the consequence!
Not that the promises belong in connnon to lue witlJ
other sinners ; nor to any sinners but to such as believe
and repent. If Christ died for sinners, it was for sucli
as repent and believe. But though 1 vvouhl, 1 can do
neither; I have outstood the (Uiy of grace, and
am hardened and reprobated. J f God delights not in
the death of sinners, it is such sinners as repent
and turn to him. But his justice will viiidicate|
itself on such obstinate sinners as me, who have de-
nied his power and providejice, both in niy words
and actions. Now he has met v\ ith me for it, and 01
it is a fearful thing to fall inlo the hands of the living!
God. If God was not against me, 1 should not value,
though all the power and malice of men joined to
engage me; though all the legions of hell contri\e(lto
torture me with the most consuming piuns ; but|
when an irreconcileable God looks down upon bis
creature in wrath, and consigns him over to eternal
vengeance; this is intolerable! inexpressible! Ah!
who can dwell with e\erlasting burning ! ve
that have any hope, tliat have not yet passed yoiirl
i\dy of grace, cry mightily to God (\i\y and niglitj

101

tliiiik IK) liilxmr Um imicli to .seciiro von from tl

mth of Cu)(l. O ! VVlio can stand l)eroie him
lien ho is angry? What stnbblo can resist the

consunnrig tn'o.

(To lie voiH'nnu'd.)

Mi{. Thomas IlAF,inrRTo\.

Of his Death.

Yon SCO tlic man ; yon sec his hold on heaven :
Ills comforter ho comforts : great in ruin,
With nin-elnclant grandenr///ms', not ///VA/.v
His sonl snblime ; and closes with his fate.

(f H^ Wednesihiy, So|)tend)or, 1710, and some days
\^ preceding, he was nnder great tronhle of mind ;
and a friend asked him that morning, how he had
rested tliat night? lie answered, "Not well, I have
been this night tossed with tlie thonghts of eternity.
1 iiavo been thinking on the terrible'things of God,*
and all that is diilicnlt in death to a Christian. All
my enemies have been ronnd abont me. I had a
great conllict, and faitii was like to fail. O that I
may bo kept now in this last trial, from being an
olienco to his people."

In tlio afternoon, when some of his brethren visited
him, ho said, " I am bnt young, and of little ex-
))orience, ImU this death-bed now makes me old ; there-
fore 1 exhort yon to faithfnlness in the Lord's work.
You will never repent this. He is a good master : l
iiavo always found him so. U I had a thousand
lives, I shouhl think all too little to be eniployed in
his service."

""hursday, Se[)tember 18, being asked in the morn-
ing, how he was? he said, " () what a terrible conflict
had 1 yesterday, bnt now 1 may say, I jiave fou«dit

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102

the good fight, 1 have kept the laith. Now lie hath
put a new song in niv month. Praise, praise is
comely lor tiie upright. Sliorllv I shall have another
sigiit oi'God than ever 1 had, and ix; more fit to praise
him tiian ever. O the thonghts of an inearnate God
are sweet and ravishing! yVnd O how I wonch-r at
nivseli; that [ (h) not love him more! that I do not
adniire him more! O that 1 eonhl liononr liim!
What a wonder I enjoy sneh eomposnre niuh'r these
pains, and in a view of approaching death ! O what
a mercy that I iiave tlie use of my reason, till 1 have
declared his goodness to me !"

To his wii'e he said, *' He came to me in the third
watch of the night, walking upon the waters, and he
said, I am Alpha and Omega, the hegiiuiing and the
end; 1 was dead ami an) alive, and live for evermore,
and have the keys of death and hell, lie stilled the
tempest of my soul, and there is a sweet calm."

When desired to he tender of his health, lie said,
" I'll strive to last as long as I can. I iiave no more to
do with my lime, hut to spend it thriftily for the
glory of God." Then he said, " ' shall see my Ke-
(leemer stand on tlie earth at the last day. ]]nt before
then 1 shall see the liamb in the midst of the throne.
it will be a glorious company, the spirits of just
men made perfect, and Jesus the Mediator of the new
covenant; O for grace! (irace to be patient to the
end !"

When the physician came, he said, " Doctor, as to
this piece of work, you aic near at an end of it. (lod
be with you, and persuade von to be in earnest: I
return you thanks for your diligence. Js my j)ul,se
low? lam well pleased it is. I woidd have been
content to have been awav hmu: eie now ; a few more
stiokes, and \ictory, \ictor}- for ever, through the
captain of om; salvation."

Now get acquainted with (iod. The little acquaint-
ance T have had with God within these two days, has

do his own
hed-side. .
on a white
looked quit
him a [)erse
beautiful,
voices, and
mv uncle i
twice or tin
sweet nmsi(

in a V(^ai
some monti
posed to tal
went aboan
look for ni}
tiler's door
pulled over
liaiid to put
and I saw t
he went tli
liiin. At t(

A few (hi
hours, a ii

p^mibm...

lO.'J

|),vn bettor tliiiii ten tliousiiiul linics the pains f }ki\<«
ht'cii at nil my Hie al)()ut relii^inii. It is trood to iia\e
hiiii to go to, wiieii we are tnrniiit,^ our laee to tlie
Av;iil. I le is known in Siun lor a sine reliiLije, a very
nrcseiit iiel|> in tronble.

(D) he ronl'nuicd.)

All (iHl/irnftf Arroiinf of sere ra I Aji/mri/iinis, \r.
(C(ui/}nii('<f Jhnii jKf(/(' I \.J

IN" a1)out six weeks I i;rew l)elter. T was tlion
ninsint^ one nii^iit, wlietlier I did well in desiiint^
ho might coniei* And I was i)raying that (iod wonld
do his own will, then ho came in, and stood by the
bed-side. Hut he was not in his usual dn^ss : he had
on a white roi.<e which reached down to his feet. He
looked quite well pleased. About one there Ktood by
him a person in white, taller than him and exceeding
beautiful. He came with the singing as of many
voices, and continued till near cock-crowing. Then
my uncle smiled and waved his hand towards me
twice or thrice. They went away with inexpressible
sweet nuisic, and I saw him no more.

In a year after this a young man courted uie, and in
some months we agreed to be m.arriiul. Hut he pro-
posed to take (mother voyage first, aii<l one evening
went aboard his shi|). About eleven o'clock going to
look for my mother, I saw him standing at his mo-
ther's door with his hands in his [)ockets, and his hat
pulled over his eyes, 1 went to him and reached my
hand to put up his hat. JJut he went swiftly by me
and I saw the wall on the other side of the lane part as
he went through, and then innnediately close after
him. At ten the next morinng he died. "

A few days after, .lohn Sim})son, one of our neigh-
bours, a man that truly feared God, and one with

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xvlioni I was parliculaily aeci.mintLMl wont to hv;x as
usual. Hi' sailed ..ul on Tuesday. I lu' I' riday ni^r|,t
lollowiiii,', lu'twi-i'ii iK'ven and twi'lvo oVloi'k, I liomd
one walking iu uiv room, and tnvry step sounded a;,
if he was sU'p[)iii,t;- ill water, iii' then cauio to the \w(\
side in his sea jack(>t all wet, and stretched his hand
over nie. Tiireo drops of water Tell on my breast, an,!
lelt as cold as iee, f strove to wake his wife, who kiv
with nio; l»nt I could not, any more than if she was
dead. Afterwards 1 heard he was east awjiy that
ni<,dit. Fn less than a numito he went away. Hut ho
eame to nie every nigiit, for six or seven id^hts lol.
h.vving, between' eleven and two. Before he came,
and when he went away, 1 always heard sweet nnisio.
Afterwards he eanie bodi day and ni.i-ht ; every nifrju
about twelve with the music at bis eominjij and goinir.
and every day at sun rise, noon, and sun set. H^
came whatever com [)any 1 was in; at church, in the
preaching house, at my class; and was always just
before me, changing his jjosture as I changed mine.
When I sat, lie sat; when I kneeled, he kneeled;
when I stood, he stood likewise. J would fain have
spoke to him, but 1 could not; when I tried my heart
sunk will \n me: mean time it allected me more and
more, so f^at f lost both my stomach, my colour,
and ni} oUcngla. Tliis continued ten weeks, while 1
pined away, not daring to tell any one. At last he
came four or five .ights without any nmsi , and looked
exceeding sad. On the fifth night be drew the curtains
of the bed violently tf) and fro ; still hjokins'; wishfully
at me, and as one (juite distressed. This lie did two
nights. On the third 1 lay down about eleven, on the
side of the bed. 1 (pnckly saw^ him walking up and
down the room. Being resolved to ftMcuk to him hut
unwilling any should hear, I rose an<l went into the
garret. When I opened the door, 1 saw him walk-
ing toward me, and shrunk back ; (m which be stop-
ped and stood at a distance. 1 said, " In the name

105

of lilt- l^'jitlicr, S(wi, and Holy (ihost, what is your
l)usiness vvitli nie!*" Ho juisweiiid, " Hotsy, CJod for-
irive you, lor kcfpint; me so lon<r iVoin my rest, Have
you i'orgot what you [)romist'd heloie 1 went to sea?
'To look to my children, ill was tlrowned? You must
stand to your word or 1 eaniiot rest." I said, '* [ wish
I was <lead ;" He said, " Say not so. You have more
to fijo tinoui^h helore then. And yet, if you knew as
inuc'ii as 1 do, you would not care how soon yon died.
You may hriniij the children on in their learniiii; while
they li\ o ; they have hut a short time." I said, " I
will take all the care \ can." He added, " Your bro-
ther has wrote tor you, to come to Jamaica: But if
you go it will hurt your soul. Yon have also thought
of altering your condition : but if you marry him you
think of, it will draw you from God, and you will
neither be hapi)y hen^ nor hereafter. Keep close to
God, and go on in the way wherein you have been
brought up." I asked, " How do you spend your
time?" lie answered, "In songs of praise. But
ol this vou will know more by and bv ; for where 1
am, you will smely be. 1 have lost much happiness
by coming to you : And 1 should not have stayed so
long without using other means to make you speak ;
but the Lord would not suller nie to fright you.
Have you any thing more to say ? It draws near
two, and after that 1 cannot stay. I shall only
come to you twice more before the death of my two
children. God bless you." Innnediately I heard
such singing, as if a thousand voices joined together.
He then went down stairs, and I followed him to the
first landing. He smiled, and 1 said, "I desire you
will come back." He stood still till I came to him,
I asked him one or two (piestions, which he immedi-
ately answered ; but added, " I wish you had not
called me back ; for now I must take something
from you." He paused a little and said, " I think
you can best part with the hearing of vour left ear."
4 P

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106

He laid liis liaiul upon it, and in llio instant it was as
deaf as a stone. And it was several years before 1 re-
covered the least hearing of it. The eoek eiowed as
he went out of the door ; and dien the music ceased.
The elder of his children died at about three years and
a half, the younger before he was five years old. He
'appeared befoie the death of each, but without speak-
ing: after that I saw him no more.

A little before JMichaelmas, 1703, my brother
George, who was a good young man, went to sea.
The day after Michaelmas <lay, about mi(hiight, I
saw him standing by my bed side, surrounded with
a glorious light, and loolsing earnestly at me. He
was wet all over. That night the sliip in which he
sailed, split upon a rock, and all the crew were
drowned.

On April 0, 1707, al)out midnight T was lying
awake, and I saw my l)rother John standing by niy
bed side. Just at that time he (bed in .bunaica.

By his deatli i became entitled to an house in Sun-
derland, which was left us by my grandfather, .b)liii
Hobson, an exceeding wicked man, wrio was drown-
ed fourteen years ago. 1 em[)loyed an attorney to
recover it from my aunts, who kej)t })ossession of it.
But finding more dilliculty than 1 expected in the
begininng of December I gave it up. 'rinee «)r four
nights as I rose from [> aver, a little before ehnen,
I saw him standing at a snudl distance. I cried ont,
"Lord bless me! what brings vou h(>rei*" Ho
answered, "You have given up tiie house: Mr.
Parker advised you so to do: but if you do, J sjiaii
have no rest. Indeed Mr. Dunn, whom you have
hitherto employed, will do nothing for you. Go
to Durham ; employ an attorney there, and it will
be recovered." His voice was loud, and so hollow
and deep, that every word went through me. His
lips did not move at all, (nor his eyes,) but the
sound seemed to rise out of the floor. WIkmi he

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107

bad (lone speaking, lie turned about, and walked out
of the room.

(To he conlhiui'(L)

K'nu) AlfrviVs Di/in/j Words to his Son.

Y dear son sit tliee down beside nie, and I will
\T.11_ deliver thee true instruction. I feel that my
hour is eoniing; my countenance is wan. My days
me almost done. 1 shall go to another world, and
thou shall be left alone in all my wealth. I i)ray thee,
stri\e to be a leather and a Lord to thy people, lie
thou a lather to the children, and a friend to the
widow. Comfort thou the poor. Shelter the weak,
and with all thy might right that which is wrong.
Govern thyscll" by law ; then shall the Lord love thee,
and (iod above all things shall be thy reward. Call
upon him to advise thee in all thy need, and he shall
help thee in all thou undertakest.

Ah Anecdote of Jlohert Leister, of Vpn'ort/t,
del ire red by hinistlf

I HAVE known the goodness of God for near
thirty years : but in spite of all my advice, my
five sons, and two daughters, all grown up, ran <m in
the broad way to destruction. I'liis cost me many a
l)rayer and tear, yet 1 saw no fruit of all m\^ labour.
Ill January last, 1 dreamed the day of judginent was
come. I saw the .hidge on his great" white throne.
The holy angels sat around liim in form of a half
moon, and all nations were gathered before him. I
and my wife were on the right band : but 1 could not
see any of my children. 1 said, I cannot bear this, T
must go and seek them : so 1 went to the left hand, and
found them all seven standing together, teariiigtheirbair,

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:».!

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108

beating their breasts, and cursing tlie day that over they
were born. As soon as they saw me, they all catched
hold of me, and said, " O lather we will never part
anv more." I said, " My dear chihiren I am come to
see if I can get vou out of this dismal situation, so I
took them all with me. But when we were come
within a bowshot of the Judge, 1 thought he cast an
angrv look, and said, "AVhat do thy children with
thee now? They would not take thy warning when
upon earth. They shall not share the crown with
thee. Depart ye cursed !" At these words 1 awoke
bathed in sweat and tears.

A while after, as we were all together on a Sunday
evening, I related my dream to them. No sooner did
I begin, but first one, then another, yea, all of them
burst into tears. And (jod fastened coiniction on
their hearts. Five of them are now rejoicing in God
their Saviour. And I know God is at work with the
other two; so that I doubt not but he will give them
also to my prayers.

The remainder of his children have since been
converted, and walk according to the truth as it is in
Jesus.

The Appnrilioii to Dr. Scoff, ^c.
(Conf'nuu'd J'nnu jki<jc 33.J

I LIVED in the county of Somerset, whore T left a
very goo«l estate, which my grandson enjoys at
this time. But he is sued for the })ossossion by my
two nephews, the sons of my younger brother.

Here he gave his own name, the name of his
younger brother, and the names of his two nephews;
but I am not allowed to publish the names in this re-
lation, nor might it be pro})er for many reasons.

The doctor then interrupted, and asked him how
long the grandson had been in jjossession of the estate?

109

vvliifli he t()l(l liiin was seven years, intiiiuiting that he
liad been so long dead.

Then he went on, and told him that his nephews
would l)e too hard for his grandson in the suite, and
so deprive him of the mansion house and estate ; so
tlia^ he would be in danger of being entirely ruined
and his family reduced.

Still the doctor could not see into the matter, or
what he could do to lemedy the evil that threatened
the family, and therefore asked him some questions,
for now they began to be a little better acquainted
than at first.

Says the dortor, and what am I able to do in it, if
the law be against him ?

Why, says the spectre, it is not that the nephews
have any right; but tlie grand deed of settlement,
being the conveyance of the inheritance, is lost ; and
for want of that deed they will not be able to make out
tiieir title to the estate.

Well, says the doctor, and what still can I do in
this case ?

Wiiy says the spectre, if you will go down to my
grandson's house, and take such persons with you as
you can trust, I will give you such instructions as that
you shall find out tlic deed of settlement, which lies
concealed in a })lace where I put it with my own hands,
and where you shall direct my grandson to take it out
in your })resence.

J3ut why then cannot you direct your grandson to
do this ? savs the doctor.

Ask me not about that, says the apparition, there
are divers reasons which vou may know hereafter. I
can (le[)en(l upon your honesty in it, in the mean time,
and you may dispose of matters that 3 ou shall have
your expenses paid you, and be handsomely allowed
for your troidjle.

After this discourse, and several other ex})ostula-
tions, (for the doctor was not easily prevailed upon to

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go, till the spectre seemed to look angrily, and even to
threaten hin) for refusing), he did at last promise to go.
Ha\ ing obtained a promise of him, he told him lie
might let his grandson know that he had formerly
conversed with his grandfather, (hut not how lately j
or in what manner) and asked to see the house : and
tliat in such an upper room or loft, he should see a
deal of old lumber, old cotters, old chests, and sucli
things as were out of fashion now, thrown by and
piled one upon another, to make room for fashionable
furniture, c<d)inets, chests of drawers, and tlie like.

Tiiat, in sucli a particular corner, was such a certain
old chest, with an old broken lock upon it, and a key
in it, which could neither be turned in the loek, or
pulled ont.

In that chest, says he, and that place, lies tlie
grand deed or charter of the estate, whicli conveys the
inheritance, and without which the iamily will be
turned out of doors.

After this disc(jurse, the doctor })roniised to go down
into the country and dispatch this important connnis-
sion: the apparition putting on a very pleasant and
smiling aspect, thanked him, and disappeared.

After some days, and within the time limited by the
proposal of the spectre, the doctor went down accord-
ingly into Somersetshire, and finding the gentleman's
house \ery readily, by the direction, knocked at the
door, and asked if he was at home, : and after being
told he was, and the servants informing their master
it was a clerg3'man, the gentlcMuan came to the door,
and very courteously invited him in.

(lo he concJuih'd in our ticrt.)

Ill

A True and Atrjul llc/ation.

IN tlie noighbouiliood of Hiiddersficld, in the West
Hiding of Yoiksiilie, lived E. 13. for many years
lie was held a aespeetable character, both for pietv
and industry, lie was the principal cause of bringin^r
the gospel into the place where he li\ ed : and through
Ills persuasion and influence many were brought to at-
tend the word; and found it the power of God to sal-
vation to every one that believeth.

Among others, a i)erson of the name of J. M. was
truly converted to God : and betw^een him and E. B.
there was a close, mutual friendshi[), which subsisted*
for many years. JJut, alas! in how many cases is
that word verified, the first shall ])e last, and the last
shall he first! K. B. forsook the good ways of God,
fell from his steadfastness, and became an unbelie\ in<^
apostate.

^ E. B.'s business led him to keep a cart, and fre-
Iquently take considerable journeys through the coun-
try. Hereby he became exposed'to many temptations :
especially from the conversation of men, who <rlorv in
their shame, by denying the Lord that bought them ;
and rejnvsenting the word of truth as a fiction, or a
cunningly devised fable. Their words ate as a canker.
At first he withstood them; but bv de'n'ees, he lost
his faith and love: and could hear with inditlerence,
the things of God abused; till at last he wallowed in'
drunkenness, blasphemed with the atheist, scorned
with the deist, set /us nionlh a/jainst the heavens and
became a most protligate charactei-. Hut the way of
transgressors is hard. He one day, on setting oti"
from an ah'house, his horses being nnwilling io go,
got into the cart, exclainiiiig, " 1 w-ill drive them to the
devil;" immediately they set oli'on a gallop, and soon
after tln^ cart was overturiuM], and he, falling nnder it,
was killed by the load falling on him. He was in a state

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112

of intoxication when the melancholy event ha])i)eneil;
and had just before been givinjr free scope to his licen-
tious principles, with all i)ossible energy and spirit.

J. M. hearing of this, was greatly atlected ; and
fearing that his friend was not happy, wished to see
him in his disembodied state. Acct)r(lingly it pleased
the almighty to indulge him in his i -quest. One nighU
just as J. M. was got into bed, he heard a voice from
without, calling him distinctly by his name, J. M. J.iM,
J. M. three times. Judging it was some one who wanted
his assistance, he got up, opened tlie window and looked
out; but seeing no person, he fastened the window;
and after walking two or three times across the room,
sat himself down on the side of his bed, and assayed
to go into it; but before he could lie down, be heard
a very loud knocking at his door, as if with a stick of
cane, and presently the si)irit of his deceased friend came
in and passed along the room, and turning roumi, stood
still before him at his bed's feet, leaning with his ariiil
on a chest of drawers. He had on (to ap[)earance) the
very clothes wdiicli he wore wIkmi he met bis untimelv
fate ; with his hat inclining on one side of bis iiead,
the way he usually wore it. The room was innnedi.j
ately filled with a gloomy kind of light. J. M. viewed
him very distinctly; but be seemed a [)icture of horroil
and despair, im[)ossil)le to be expressed.

J. M. now said, E. B. is it you ?

E. B. Yes it is me.

J. M. I wished to see you.

E. B. I was informed so.

•T. M. Do you believe there is a God now ?

E. B. Yes [ know it to my sorrow.

J. M. Are the torments of the damned so great aJ
the scripture would have us believe they are?

E. B. If all the devils in bell were assend)led to de-i
scribe them, they could not give you the idea of
thousandth part of them.

J. M. Who are those with you';* (for there seemeil

I! ■

e<l two Mjick appearances visible, yet indistinct, one
on eacli side) K. 13. answered, tliey are my gnards.
Iiinnediately those two fiends i\ew forward, with the
greatest rage and fury, to seize on J. M. ; but he cried
out, J plead the hhod of C/trtsf, I plead the hlood of
Christ, I plead the hlood of Christ, three times ; and
they shrunk back again to their place. On this, E. B.
said, Aye, i)lead hut the Iff ood of Christ , and all the
ilevils in hell can never harm you.

J. M. I fear you are not hapi)v.

E. B. Lost for ever! Lost for ever! Lost for ever!

On his departure, the room was filled with a stroiig
otiensive smell, like the smell of burning brimstone :
at least this was the most exact description, J. M.*
could give it.

How awful is the above account. The detail is ex-
act and correct. There is nothing laboured ; no new
conceit, but plain matter of fact, a relation unvarnished
and delivered with no other design than to alarm the
careless, and to set forth that great truth, " Our God
is a consuming fire." .T. M. is now alive, and his in-
tegrity such, as to give the fullest assurance to every
serious inquirer. Reader, be admonished. There is
God, and a just one. There is a hell, and a terrible
one. Thy soul is immortal, and after death it will be
required of thee. Wilt thou live in sin a few years,
and dwell in torments for ever? God forbid ! Arise
and call upon tl y God. Behold the Lord Jesus Christ,
plead his precious blood, and God shall be merciful to
thy unrighteousness, and thy sins and thy iniquities
remember no more.

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|i'li

Some tho,ujhls ou a, rrprrssion of Si Paul hlhefmi
Epistle lo the ThcssiiJohiaus, (. Imp. v. 2V>.

THE words, as literally translated as the English
tongue will bear, run thus: IVfay the whole of
vou, tlie'^pirit, and the soul, and the body, he pre-
served blameless.

What does St. Paul here mean, by dividing man
into three parts, the spirit, aiul the soul, and the

body. , , .

This creates what has been thought an nisurmouut-
able difficulty, by those who argue thns;

*'How is it possible to contradistinguish the soul
both from the spirit and from the body :* for it nuist
be either material or immaterial, matter or not matter:
there is no medium. JJut if it be matter, does it not
coincide with tlie body;* If it be not matter, does it
not coincide with the si)irit?"

But perhai)s a way may be found of untying this
knot, of unravelling 'tliis (hlliculty, by sinqdy decla-
ring the (at least prol)able) meaning of these three

term 3.

May not the spirit mean (so it has been understood
by the Christians of all ages) the highest principle in
man, the Immortal Spiilt made in the image of God
endued (as all s[)irits are, so far as we can conceive)
with self motion, understanding, will and liberty?

Is not the body, that portion of organised matter,
which every man receives in the wond), with which
he is born into the worhl, and which he carries with
him to the grave? \i present it is connected with
flesh anc' -dood. But these are not the body. They
are only I'le temporary clothing of the body, which ii
wholly })Uts ort' in the grave.

The soul seems to l)e the immediate clothing of the
spirit, the vehicle with which it is connected from its

;)

first existence, and wliicli is never seperated iVoni it
either in lile or in death. Probahly it consists oi" etlic-
real or electric (ire, the purest ol" all matter, it does
iu)t seem to he allected hy the death of the hodv, hut
envelopes the separate, as it does the embodied spirits;
jieitiier will it under<ro any essential chani^e, when it
is clothed upon with the hnmortal body at the resur-
rection.

^hiy Jiot the apostle have an eye to this, in those
remarkable words ('I Cor. v. 4.) *^We that are in this
tabernacle (this coiruptible flesh and blood) do groan
being burdened ; not lor that we could be unch)tlied
(divested of" all covering, which belongs oidy to the
father of spirits) but clotiied n[)on with the glorious
resurrection-body, covering both our soul an<l sj)irit.
This will swallow up, totally destroy that which was
mortal, name' , the flesh and blood, w hich alone was
lirble to death.

If we understand the words of the apostle in this
sense, all the dilliculty \anishes aw^ay. We allow
there can be no metliuni between material and imma-
terial. But still there is room for a wide and essen-
tial difierence between the soul and the body : the
latter implying tlKit original portion of matter, which
is clothed with Hesh and blood ; the former that vehi-
cle of etherial fire, which innnediately covers the ini-
inoital s[)irit.

See lUnilU'ifs Spinlnul Telescope,

Wnniini/ (/ireu hij a StntH(/e ^fessenf/er to James IV.
at /jiii/}t/t(/oir Church.

THAT there is a s[)iritual world inhabited by spi-
rits, angels, and happy beings, and that of a ve-
ry diflerent nature and cmstitution from what we live
in here, is a truth acknowledged by the whole Chris-
tiuii world ; and, although no angel has come dow^n
from heaven to declare and explain the nature of their

iJ^^'^^i;^'

iir.

:|-:i

heiiit; to us, nor any num wliilst in Hh? ixxly Iiiitli as-
cended up and seen it, yet that we should not he i-ii-
tirelv ignorant in this partieular, it has happened fioiu
time to time, tiiat many eredihle witnesses have, upon
some extraordinary occasions, received warnings and
messages from both tlie heavenly and hellish kingdom

of Spirits. , r 1 1

The following relation is taken from the annals of

the kingdom of Scotland.

Wliile James IV. stayed at liinllthgow, previous to
the battle of Flodden Field, in which he was killed, he
went into the church of St. JNlichael there, to hear the
evening prayer. While he was at his devotion, a re-
markable figure of an ancient man, with (lowing amhtT
coloured hair hanging over his shouldeis, his forehead
high, and inclining to baldness his garments of a fine
blue colour somewhat long, and girded together with
a fine white cloth; of comely and very re\erend aspect,
was seen encpiiring for llie king; when his nnijesly
being pointed out to him, he made his way through the
crowd till he came to him, and then with a clownish
simplicity, leaning over the canon's seat he addressed
him in the followhig words. "Sir, I am sent hither to
intreat you to delay your intended expedition for this
time, and proceed no farther, for if ye do, you will be
unfortunate and not prosper in yom enterprise, nor
any of your followers. I am further charged to warn
you, not to follow the actpiaintance, company, or coun-
sel of women, as you value your life, honour and es-
tate." After giving him this admonition, he withdrew
himself back again through the crowd, and disap})ear-
ed. When service was ended, the king en([uired ear-
nestly after him, but he could not be found or heard
of any where, neither could anv of the bv-standers Cof
whom many narrowly watched him, resolving after-
wards to have discoursed with him) feel or })erceive
how, vvlien or where he passed from tiiom, ha\ ing in
a manner vanished from their sight.

ih- like
Or like
Or like
Or like
F'en su(
Drawn (
Withers
The llo\
Tile sun
The r'oii

I /ike
Or like 1
Or like;
Or like i
Or like ;
Or like
K'en su(
Is here.
The gra;
The bin
The lion
'J'lie swji

liike 1
Oi' (in a
Or like i
Or like ;
Or like;
Or like
Ken siu
Is here.
The bull
The shu

with

117

On the Short nt'ss of llnmnn Life

TT IKK {IS a damask rose you see,
_il A Or like tlio hlossoiiis on a tree,
(h- like the IVa^raiit flowers 'u JVlav,
Or like the nioniing to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the goiud w hieh Jonah had :
Ken sueh is man, w hose thread is spun.
Drawn out, and eut, and so it's done:
Withers the lose, the hlossoni blasts,
'i'he (lower lades, the morning hastes,
Tile sun doth set, the shadows flv,
The ^ourd eonsumes, and mortals die!

liike to the «:jrass that's newly si)rung.
Or like the tale that's just hesiun.
Or like a hird that's here to-dav.
Or like the pearled dew of Alav,
Or like an hour, or like a s])an.
Or like the sinking of a swan :
K'en sueh is man, who lives hy breath.
Is here, is there, in life, in death :
The grass decays, the tale doth end,
The bird is liown, the dews ascend.
The hour is short, the span not long,
'J'he swan's near death, Man's life is done !

liike to a bid)ble on a brook,
Or (in a mirror) like a look.
Or like a shuttle in the hand.
Or like a writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream, '
Or like ihe gliding of a stream :
K'en such is man, w hose life is breath,
Is here, is tliere, in life, in death;
The bubble's burst, the look's forgot.
The shuttle's Hung, the writing's blot,

fi \

VL-^v,

IIH

Tlie tlionght is past, the (Ircam is ^nnv.
The water glides,— Man's lil'e is clone !

0<i

EXTRAOHDINARY FoRK WARM N(;, c^e.

(ConUinivil Jhmi jhu/c 12.)

THE monieiit he entered tiie rmnn he Cell down on
his knees at my I'eet, and told nie he was miser.
ahle. 'i'hat I alone was the eaus," of it. That instjiiitl
my fortitude forsook me, I ^i-ave myself up for lost;
and considering my fate as inevitahle, u itliout hutlier
hesitation consented to an union, the immediate result
of wliieh I knew to be misery, and its end <le;itli,
Tlie conduct of my husband after a k'W years, aiiiplv
warranted my demand for a separation ; f hoped lui
tliis means to avoid the fatal secpu'l of the prophecv
but won over by his repeate ' entreaties, I was jne.
vailed on to pardon, and once more to reside with liiinl
though not until after I had, as I su])posed, passtnl inv
forty-seventh year; but alas! I ha\e heard this dav I
from indis})utable authority, that I have hitherto laid
under a mistake with regard to my age, tliat I am hut
forty-seven this day ; of tlie near a|)proach of ni\' dcatlij
therefore, I entertain not the least doubt, but 1 do not!
(h-ead its arrival ; as armed with the sacred prece})t of
Christianity, J can meet the king of terrors witlioiitj
dismay; and without a tear bid adieu to the regions
of mortality for ever.

When I am dead, as the necessity of its concealmenti
closes with my life, I w ish that you my lady, won
unbind my wrist, and take from 'thence a l)lack rihandj
and let my son, with yourself, behold it. Lady H. here!
paused for some time, but resundng her conversation,
she entreated her son to behave as to merit tlie high
honour he would in future receive from a union with
Lord Tyrone's daughter. Ladv J5. theji expressed a I

the thing tlui
riches of the

-^fiKaBOBBBP^'* 'pwfliP^ftTT^^iw-

110 " ^

uisli to lie <lo\vii nil ji Im'(1 to rom|K)so luTsrlf to sleep.

Lady 'i|»d I'^'i' ^'"» iniinediately called her atteiid-

aiits'imd qiiitte<l the room, alter having; first desired
tlii'iii atteiiti\ely to vvateh their mistress, and sluudd
they observe ai<y ehaiinc in her, to call instantly. An
hour passed and all was silent in the room, they
listi'ued at the door and every thinj^ was still; but in
alxHit hall" an hour more a bell runir violently, they
tlew to her apartment, but before ihey reached the
door ol" it, they heard tht! servant exclaim, " My mis-
tress is dead." hady — then desiring the servants to
(jiiit the n»om, Lady IJ's son with herself approached
the heil of his mother, they knelt down by the side of

it. Lady then lifted up her hand, unboun<l the

black riband, and found the wrist exactly in the same
state Lady 1>. had desciibed, every nerve withered,
every sinew shrunk up. Lady IVs son as had been
predicted, is now married to fiOrd Tyrone's daughter:
itlie black riband and pocket book are now in the t)os-
sessjon of Lady Mary Cobl), by whom the narrative is
staled in Ireland; who, toireth'er with the Tyrone fa-
mily, and most of the princii)al nobility in that country,
will be found ready to attest the truth.

DciJLiN, Aug. l()th, LS()2.

i|i

On liKth'uu) al (lie thiiii/s iJial (ire hoI scch.

b ItT^'^ ^'-^^^ ''^<^''^^ ^^^ the things that are not seen,
JlJL is a person who is endowed with a blessed
and holy second sight, by which he is distinguished
lioiii other men; lie sees, not mournful objects onlv,
such as Collins and corpses ; but such objects as are
most cheering and delightful. The eves of his under-
standing are enlightened by the HolV Spirit to know
the thing that the natural man i)erceiveth not; the
riches of the glory of his inheriUuice in the saints.

120

Though llie good and L.id things of tliis viiiu wor],]
are always pressing on his senses, he is not cliiefly in.
thienced*^by them, as thongli tliey were the principal]
things. For the things abo\e, and the things that are
eternal, he judges to be no less real lor their being i^.
visible, and" distant. He h'rinly believes, frecpionth
thinks of, highly esteems, ardently desires, eariiestM
expects, and diligently labours after tlie enjoyment ofj
them. He bestows the cream of his thouglits io
meditating uj)on them : and talks about tliem, not by
constraint, when he is not able to avoid the discouisj
but naturally, and with a readv nn'nd.

Some have thought lum inca})able of pa\-ino- a
sufficient attention to the necessary alliiirs of this
world: as though one could not be fenent in spirit
without being slothful in business. J5ut this is a vile
slander. For, moderate inchistry is not a di\ersioD
from serious religion, but a singular help unto it'
and the spiritual man who holds the plougli, or lian!
dies the axe, is even in these common actions, more
holy than the carnal inan in his most solemn devo-
tions.

2. He esteems a man much more because he is
gracious, than because he is rich ; and can never be
induced to think, that proud sinners are happy
though they be elevated to the Aery sunnnit of
fortune. As would mucli rather choose to see his
children tinctured with the principles of true religion
than put in a condition to make a figure in the world
If he is in adversity, he derives not his comfort
from earthly enjoyments, but eternal tilings; these I
are the hills to which he lifts his eyes, and IVoni|
whence cometh his aid. U he is in prosperity, his
earthly blessings are not the chief source of liisjovi
and happiness; but in this he rejoices, that his nimel
is written in heaven.

3. As he who ascends a high mount, and from
its top surveys the plains below, will think lar

121

fields, but inconsiderate spots of land ; so he who is
set on the high places of eternity, and converses much
with everlasting things, will regard in a very diminu-
tive light, the most important business of this tran-
sitory life. His mind acquires a sublime turn, and
an elevated way of thinking, not to be easily taken
with slight and trifling vanities.

4. By this blessed temper of mind, he is habitually
disposed to perform spiritual duties; the frown is
struck from the blow of death ; his mind is strongly
fortified against afflictions of every sort ; and the edge
of all temptations is most eflfectually blunted. Ha-
ving obtained a view of that inefl?able glorious prize
of the high calling of God, he cannot possibly ihink
any pains too great to reach it. For this he can in-
stantly serve God day and night. For this he can
both labour and sufl^er reproach ; take joyfully the
spoiling of his goods ; and sometimes even resign his
breath in cruel flames. In vain does the present
world spread her blandishments, and arm her face with
frowns to shake his steady purpose, who looks not
at the things that are seen. What though the advan-
tages of religion are, in great measure, future; yet
his wise and enlightened soul is at no loss which he
should prefer. For an eternal advantage, that will
certainly come, is far to be preferred to a present one
that is of a short duration. O faith it is thine to
realize and render present the things that are invisible
to the corporeal eye ; whether by reason of the nature
of the things themselves, or by reason of their distance
from us in time and place. By thee inspired, we can
choose the sharpest afllictions, before the most poig-
nant pleasures : and esteem the most grievous reproach-
es, greater riches than the peculiar treasure of the most
wealthy kings."

, . ,'■.-'■

t ' " ..

^^^^H'

-fWfl

122

;H'

■

AN AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF SEVERAL AP1'ARITI0NS,&C.

( Continued from page \Q1.)

IN January, as I was sitting on the bedside, a quar-
ter before twelve he came in, stood before nie,
looked earnestly at nie, then walked up and down,
and stood and looked again. This he did for half
an hour; and thus he came every other night, for
about three weeks. All this time he seemed angry,
and sometimes his look was quite horrid and furious.
One right as I was sitting up in bed crying, when he
came and began to pull of the clothes. 1 strove to
touch his hand but could not ; on which he shrunk
back and smiled.

The next night but one, about twelve, I was again
sitting up and crying, when he came and stood at tiie
bedside. As I was looking for an handkerchief, lie
walked to the table, took one up, brought and dropt
it upon the bed. After this, he came three or four
nights and pulled the clothes off, throwing them on
the other side of the bed.

Tv»o nights after, he came as I was sitting on the
bedside, and after walking to and fro, snatched the
handkerchief from my neck, 1 fell into a swoon.—
When I came to myself he was standing just before
me. Presently he came close to me, dropt it on the
bed, and went away.

Having had a long illness the year before, having
taken much cold by his frequent pulling off the clothes
and being worn out by these appearances, I was now
mostly confined to my bed. The next night, soon af-
ter eleven he came again. I asked, "In God's name
why do you torment me thus? You know, it is
impossible for me to go to Durham now. But I
have a fear you are not happy, and beg to know
whether you are or not ? He answered, after a little
pause, "That is a bold question for you to ask.

123

So far as you knew me to do amiss in my life-
time, do you take care and do better." I said it is
a shocking alTair, to live and die after that manner.
"He replied, it is no time for reflections now ; what
is done, cannot be undone." I said it must be a
great happiness to die in the Lord." He said,
' Hold your tongue ! Hold your tongue ! At your
peril never mention such a word before me again ;
I was frighted and strove to lift up my heart to God.
He gave a shriek and sunk down at three times,
witli a loud groan at each time. Just as he disappear-
ed there was a large flash of fire, and I fainted
away.

Three days after, I went to Durham, and put the
affair into Mr. Hugill the attorney's hands. The
next iiigiit, about one, he came in • but on my taking
up tlie Bible he went away. A month after he came
about eleven . 1 said, " Lord bless me ! What has
brought you here again?" He said, "Mr. Hugill has
(lone nothing but wrote one letter : you must write
or go to Durham again. It may be decided in a few
days." I asked, " Why do not you go to my
aunts, who keep me out of it P" He answered, " I have
no power to go to them. And they cannot bear
it. U I could, I would go to them, were it only to
warn them ; for I doubt where I am I shall get too
niauy to bear me company." He added, " Take care,
there is mischief laid in Peggy's hands; she
will strive to meet you coming from your class. I do
not speak to hinder you from going to it, but
that you may be cautious. — Let some one go
with you and come back with you; though
whetlier you will escape or no, I cannot tell."
I said, "She can do no more than God will let
lier." He answered, " We have all too little to do
witli h m. Mention that word no more. As soon
as this is decided meet me at Boyldon Hill, be-
tween twelve and one at night." I said, "That is
t lone place for a woman to go to at that time of

!^^m^^i

j i

^^ •

(

124

night, I am willing to meet you at the ballast hills,
or in the church-yard." He said,—" That will not
do. But what are you afraid of?" I answered,
"I am not afraid of you, but of rude men."
He said, " I will see you safe, both thither and back
again." I asked, " May I not bring a minister with
mei*" He replied, " Are you thereabout? I will not be
seen by any but you. You have plagued me sore
enough already. If you bring any with you, take
what follows."

From this time he appeared every night, between
eleven and two. If I put out the fire and candle, in
hopes I should not see him, it does not avail. For
as soon as he came, all the room was light, but with
a dismal light, like flaming brimstone. But when
ever I took up the bible, or kneeled down, yea, or
prayed in my heart, he was gone.

On Thursday, May 12, he came about eleven, as
I was sitting by the fire, I asked, "In God's name
what do you want?" He said, "You must either go
or write to Durham. I cannot stay for you till it is
decided ; and I cannot stay where I am." When he
went away, I fell into a violent passion of crying,
seeing no end to my trouble. In this agony, 1
continued till after one, and then fell into a fit.
About twojl came to myself, and saw standing at the
bedside, one in a white robe, which reached down to
his feet. I cried, " In the name of the Father, Son,
and Holy Ghost. — " He said, "The Lord is with
you. I am come to comfort you. What cause
have you to complain and murmur thus ? Why
do you mourn thus for your friends? Pray for
them, and leave them to God. Arise and pray." 1
said, " I can pray none." He said, " But God will
help you ; only keep close to God ; you are backward
likewise in praying with others, and afraid to receive
the Lord's supper. Break through that backward-
ness and that fear. The Lord bless you and be
ever with you i" As he went away, I heard many

thing : get
coming is ai
Before he c
and the roo
eyes, and al

Wednesd
up stairs a
towards me
by me on tl
a strong sm
It got into
down and U

On Frida_
when I the
sage. I lo
Scott, of Y
turday I h£
that day. '.

On Sundc
from a friem

"I wrote
was put in j
her old visi
time, came
Boyldon hi
twelve. Yo
call you to (
them any a
come and ca
Slie said, " ]
sire me to m
leave now?'

;ven, as
s name t
ther go \'
ill it is I
'hen he I
crying, I
;ony, I

a fit.
; at the
own to
ir, Son,
is witii

cause

Why
ay for

ly." I

(d will
^kward
receive
k ward-
en (1 be
many

125

voices singing Hallalujah, with such melody
as I never heard before. All my trouble was gone,
and I wanted nothing but to fly away with them.

Sat. 28. About twelve, my grandfather stood at
the bedside. I said, " In God's name what do you
want?" He said, "You do not make an end of this
thing: get it decided as soon as possible. My
coming is as uneasy to myself as it can be to you."
Before he came, there was a strong smell of burning,
and the room was full of smoke, which got into my
eyes, and almost blinded me for some time after.

Wednesday, July 21, About sunset, I was coming
up stairs at Mrs. Knott's, and I saw him coming
towards me out of the opposite room. He went close
by me on the stairs-head. Before I saw him I smelt
a strong smell of burning ; and so did Miss Hosmer.
It got into my throat and almost stifled me. I sat
down and fainted away.

On Friday, July the third, I was sitting at dinner
when I thought I heard one coming along the pas-
sage. I looked about and saw my aunt Margaret
Scott, of ? wcastle, standing at my back. On Sa-
turday I had a letter informing me that she died on
that day. Thus far Elizabeth Hobson.

On Sunday, July 10, I received the following letter
from a friend to whom I had recommended her.

*' Sunderland, July 6, 1768.

"I wrote you word before, that Elizabeth Hobson
was put in possession of the house. The same night
her old visitant who had not troubled her for some
time, came again and said, " You must meet me at
Boyldon hill, on Thursday night a little before
twelve. You will see many appearances, who will
call you to come to them ; but do not stir, neither give
them any answer. A quarter after twelve, I shall
come and call you ; but still do not answer nor stir."
She said, " It is an hardship upon me for you to de-
sire me to meet you there. Why cannot you take your
leave now?" He answered, ''It is for your good that

126

1 desire it. I can take my leave of you now. But if
I do I must take something from you which you
wouhl not like to part with." She said, "May not a
few friends come with me?" He said, "They niayj
.^ut they must not be present when I come."

That" night, twelve of us met at Mr. Davidson's
and spent some time in prayer. God was with us of
a truth. Then six of us went with her to the place,
leaving the rest to pray for us. We came thither a
Httle before twelve, and then stood a small distance I
from her. It being a fine night, we kept her in our
sight, and spent the time in prayer. She stood there
till a few nnnutes after one. When we saw her move
we went to meet her. She said, thank God it is all
over and done. I found every thing as he told me,
I saw many appearances, who called me to them,
but I did not answer or stir. Tlien he came and
called me at a distance : but I took no notice. Soon
after he came up to me and said, " You are come
well fortified." He then gave her the reason, whv
he required her to meet him at that place ; and why
he could take his leave there, and not in the house,
without taking something from her. But withal he
charged her to tell this to no one; adding, "If you
disclose this to any creature, I shall be under a neces-
sity of troubling you as long as you live. If you uo
not, I shall never trouble you, nor see you a:iy more,
either in time or eternity." He then bid her farewell
waved his hand and disappeared.

IlEFLECTJONS ON OUR SAVIOUR's COMING TO JIDG-

MENT.

HOW awful an event does our great Redeemer here
offer to the serious contemplation of all man-
kind ! In the glory of his Father accompanied with
a mighty host of angels. He shall descend from
heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangei,

and with
earth, and
tries and
the living
God; or !
doleful crie
twinkling <
from their
cession, the
its dead. ]
ness of som
countenene
arising to
how amaze
meiice they
would they
strong as ii
ment. As
from afar, !
deepest sile
sands of tl
having bro
parts of th
tudes, singi]
that the da^
shall be thr(
alted fj'om
intricacies <
of God vine
his blood, c
every thing
ble for eve
scattered! a
away ; as w;
ed perish at
eous be glat
them exceed
is the Lord
And now

'•ll

^ ^^W..i.l

avidson'i
ith us of I
lie place,
thither a |

distance
er in our 1
3od there
ler move

it is all
told me, I
:o them J
ime andfe
!. Soon
re come
on, why f
md why J
e house,
ithal he
"If you
a neces-

you do
ly more,
farewell,

> Jl DG-

ler here
11 mail-
ed with
d from
hangel,

127

and with the trump of God, making all lieaven,
earth, and hell to resound. The dead of all coun-
tries and times hear the tremendous call. Hark!
the living filled with joy exult at the approach of
God; or seized with inexpressible terror, send up
doleful cries, and are all changed in a moment, in the
twinkling of an eye. Behold ! the dead press forth
from their graves, following each other in close pro-
cession, the earth seems quick, and the sea gives up
its dead. Mark the beauty, the boldness, and the glad-
ness of some, springing up to honour; but the ghastly
couiiteneiices, the trembling, the despair of others,
arising to shame and to everlasting contempt. See
how amazed and terrified they look I with what vehe-
mence they wish the extinction of their being ! Fain
would they fly, but cannot : impelled by a force as
strong as necessity, they hasten to a place of judg-
ment. As they advance, the sight of the tribunal
from afar, strikes new terror; they come on in the
deepest silence, and gather round the throne by thou-
sands of thousands. In the meantime, the angels
having brought up their bands from the uttermost
parts of the earth, fly round the numberless multi-
tudes, singing melodiously v/ith loud voices, for joy
that the day of general retribution is :ome, when vice
shall be thrown down from its usurpation, virtue ex-
alted from its debasement *o a superior station, the
intricacies of providence unravelled, the perfections
of God vindicated, the Church of God purchased with
his blood, cleared o. them that do iniquity, and of
every thing that ofiendeth, and established unpecca-
ble for ever. Let God arise! let his enemies be
scattered! as smoke is driven away, so drive them
away ; as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wick-
ed perish at the presence of God. But let the right-
eous be glad! let them rejoice before God! yea, let
them exceedingly rejoice! Psal. Ixviii. 1. *'For strong
is the Lord God who judgeth." Rev. xviii. 8.
And now the Son of man appears on the throne of

128

M hi

his glory, and all nations, princes, warriors, nobles,
the rich, the poor, all entirely stript of their attend.
anc> and every external distinction, stand naked
and'equal before him, silently waiting to be sentenced
to their unchangeable state : and every individual is
filled with an awlul conciousness that he in particu-
lar is the object of the observation of the Almigluy
God, manifest in his sight, and actually under bis
eye/so that there is not one single person concealed
in the immensity of the crowd. The judge who can
be biassed by no bribe, softened by no subtile insinu-
ations, imposed upon by no feigned excuses, having
been \imself privy to the most secret actions of eacli,
needs no evidence, but distinguishes with an unerring

certainty. |

He speaks ! " Come from among them my people j
that ye receive not of their plagues." They seperate, ?
they feel their judge within them, and hasten to their
places, the righteous on the one hand of the throne,
and the wicked on the other ; not so much as one of
the wicked daring to join himself to the just,
Here the righteous, most beautiful with the brightness
of virtue, stand serene in their looks, and full of hope
at the bar of God, a glad company! Whilst the
wicked confounded at the rememberance of their
lives, and terrified with the thought of what is to come,
hang down their heads, inwardly cursing the day of
their birth, and wishing a thousand and a thousand
times that the rocks would fall on them, and the
mountains cover them ; but in vain, for there is no
escaping nor appealing from this tribunal.

Behold! with mercy shining in his countenance
and mild majesty the K ing invites the righteous to
take possession of the kingdom prepared for them
from the creation of the world ; but with angry frowns
de drives the wicked away, into punishment that
shall have no end, no refreshment, no alleviation,
everlasting punishment! the rejoicing! O the
lamenting! The triumphant shouting of ascend-

ing saints, c
the Lord !
shrieking of
hear the (lev
nient of an
Now tliej
from them,
would be su
the Son of (
vants, the 1:
being at an
noise the 1
with ferven
that be the:
dissolves !
making wa^
Itapiiear !
the hand ol
liabitation 1
by them a:
great and
blessed soci
Here Go
to his servt
faces, and
tality, glor
of jovs, fro
throne ol
of life; an
sorrow noi
pain ; but
blessing t<
every breai
the Father
sublimest
vine repast
tenderest f
an iniinuvt
servants oi

nobles,
attend.

naked
ntenced
idual is
particu.
miglit)
(ler bis I
ncealed
^ho can
insinu-

having
)f each, i
mening

people
eperate,
to their
throne,
5 one of
le just,
ghtiiess
af hope
list the
►f their
come,

day of ,
lousand
md the
e is no

itenance
eous to
>r them
• frowns
tnt that
iviation,

O tilc

ascend-

129

incr saints, caught up in the clouds, to be ever with
the Lord ! Tlie horror, the despair, the hideous
shrieking of the damned, when they see hell gaping,
hear the devils roaring, and feel the unspeakable tor-
ment of an awakened conscience.

Now they bitterly cry for death : but death flies
from them. Now they envy the righteous, and gladly
would be such : but all too late ! Lo ! the Son ol God
the Son of Cod bows his head, the signal for his ser-
vanf^ the heuvenir: and the earth depart, their work
beiiiJj' at an end. See, with what a terrible thundering
noise the heavens pass away, the elements melt
with fervent heat, and the earth, and all the works
that be therein, are burnt up ! the frame of nature
dissolves! earth, seas, skies, all vanish together,
niakiu''- way for the new heaven and the new earth.
It anr-eai ! The happy land of promise, formed by
the hand ol God, large, beautiful and pleasant, a ht
habitation for his favourite people, and long expected
bv them as their country. Here all the righteous,
meat and small, are assembled, making one vast
blessed society, even the kingdom and the city ol L.od.
Here God manifests himself in a peculiar manner
to his servants, wipes away all tears from of their
faces, and adorns them with the beauties of immoi-
talitv, glorious to behold. Here they drink fulness
of iuvs, from the crystal river proceeding out ot the
throile of (Jod and the Lamb, and eat of the tree
of life- and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow' nor crying, neither shall there be any more
pain ; but every one happy in himself, imparts the
blessino- to his fellows; for mutual love warms
every breast; love like that which subsists between
the Father and the Son ; mutual conference on the
sublimest subjects refreshes every spirit with the di-
vine repasts of wisdom, and joys flowing trom the
tenderest friendship, fixed on the stable foundation of
an iiniiioveable virtue, gladden every heart. All the
servants of God serve him in perfect holiness, see his

■ m

\ k

■H

^■ii'i

' ?

130

. / 1 1

, ! - ■ i

face, feel transports of joy, and by the reflection of
his glory, shine as the sun in the firmament lor ever
and ever. And there shall be no nipjht there : and
they need no candle, neither the light of the sun;
for the Lord God hath given them light, and they
shall reign for ever and ever.

Happy day, happy place, and happy peoi)lc!
blest hope of joining that glorious Society ! AH the
servants of God shall serve him, and see his face.
Serve God, and see his face! What an immensity of
felicity is here ! Imagination faints with the fatigue
of stretching itself to comprehend the vast, the uri-
measurable tiiought.

THE APPARITION TO DR. SCOTT, kC.

(Continued from 2)ugc WO.)

AFTER the doctor had been there some time, lie
observed the gentleman receive him with unexpec-
ted civility, though a stranger, and without business.
They entered upon many friendly discourses, and the
doctor pretended to have heard much of the family,
(as so indeed he liad) and of his grandfiither; for
whom, sir, says he, I perceive the estate more inmie-
diately descends to yourself.

Aye, says the gentleman, and shook his head, iny
father died young, and my grandfather has left things
so confused, that for want of one principal writing,
which is not yet come to hand, 1 have met witli a
great deal of trouble from a couple of cousins, my
grandfather's brother's children, who have put me to
very great expenses about it. And with that the
doctor seemed a little inquisitive.

But I hope you have got over it, sir? says he.

JNo, truly, saj's the gentleman, to be so open with
you, we shall never get quite over it, unless we can

fiiul this o
shall find,
after it.

f wish wit
the doctor.

I do not d
about it last

A dream £
it was that y

I (hcamed
came to me,
lielpcd me tc
the man.
IW 1 should I
tjie doctor.

Nay, says
help me to V

Aye, sir, s
after it indei
but I would
help you to
search ?

To-morro^
to do it.

Ihit, says
to search ?

Wiiy, rej:
that my grai
preserve this
some that w
tiiey could,
am resolved
it, if it is abc

Truly, sa;
that you ma
fmd it, and
things to be
preserve thei

If it were

131

tion of ■
or ever

1 h

»- • aim

e sun;

i\ the)'

)lc!

\n the

s face.

isity of

fatigue

lie un-

me, lie
expec-
isiiii'ss.
11(1 the
(aiuily, [
3r; for
inime-

1(1, my
things
/ritiiig,
with a
lis, mv
; me to
lut the

11 with
we can

iiiul this old deed ; which, however, 1 hope we
shall find, for I intend to make a general search

after it. n i .

I wish with all my heart you may Imd it, sir, says

the doctor.

I do not doubt but we shall ; I had a strange dream
about it last night, says the gentleman.

A dream about the writing ! says the doctor, I hope
it was that you should find it then.

1 (Ireained, says the other, that a strange gentleman
came to me, that I had never seen in my life, and
helped me to look for it. I ('o n'jt know but you are

the man.
1 should be very glad to be the man, I'm sure, says

the doctor.

Nay, says the gentleman, you may be the man to
help me to look after it.

Aye, sir, says the doctor, I may help you to look
after it indeed, and I'll do that with all my heart j
hut I would much rather be the man that should
help vou to find it ? Pray, when do you intend to

search ?
To-morrow, says the gentleman, I have appointed

to do it.
lint, says the doctor, ui what manner do you intend

to search ?

Why, rei)lies the gentleman, 'tis all our opinions
that my grandfather was so very much concerned to
preserve this writing, and had so much jealousy that
some that were about him would take it from him if
they could, that he hid it in some secret place ; and I
am resolved to pull half the house down but I'll find
it, if it is above ground.

Truly, says the doctor, he may have hid it, so
that you may pull the whole house down before you
find it, and perhaps not then. I have known such
things to be utterly lost by the very care taken to
preserve them.

If it were made of something the fire would not

I '

.1 '• .<

13-2

destroy, says the gontleiiiaii, I wojild burn the house
down but I wouUl find it. . „ , , ,

I suppose you ha\e searclied all the ohl gentle.
man's ehests *and trunks and coders over and over,

says the doctor. .

Aye, says the gentleman, ami turned tneni all in.
side outward, and there they lay in a heap up in a
great lol't or garret with nothing in them; nay, vve
knocked three or four of them in i)ieoes to search for
private drawers, and then I burnt them for uiigcr,
though they were fine old cypress ehests that cusl
money enough when they were in fashion.

I am sorry you burnt tiiem, says the doctor.

Nay, says the gentleman, I did not burn a scrap ot
them till they were all split to pieces, and it was not
possible thev could be anything there.

This made the doctor a little easy, for he began to
be surprised when he told him he had split sonieof
them and burnt them.

Well, says the doctor, Tf I cannot do you any
service in your search, Til come to see you again to-
morrow, and wait upon you during it with my best

good wishes.

Nay, says the gentleman, I do'nt design to part
with you, since you are so kind as to ofler nie your
help ; you shall stay all night then, and be at the

first of it.

The doctor had now gained his point so far as to
make himself acquainted and desirable in the house.
and to have a kind of intimacy ; so that though he
made as if he would go, he did not want many
entreaties to make him stay therefore he consented
to lay in the house all night.

A little before evening, the gentleman asked him
to take a walk in the park; but he [)ut it oft' with a
jest. I had rather, sir, said he, smiling, you'd let
me see this fine old mansion house, that is to he de-
molished to-morrow ; metliinks I'd fain see the house
once before you pull it down.

With all my
hini innnedi
apartments,
and coming
came uj), o(
]5ut, sir,
higlier ?

There is

old lofts ful

tlie turret, a

0, let m

(lector, I lo

the magnifi

of fashion i

VVhv, 'tv

No, no, !

have seen i

pray let us

the doctor

After th(

large hous

great room

great deal

says the (h

()! thai

hecauiie tl

the room J

chests, CO!

are i)iled

ceiling.

With tl
for this w;
he went tt
but he foil
had descri
been told
with the (
which wo
On my

J house

gentle.
1 1 over,

all in.
np in a
lay, vve
ii'ch for
linger,
lat cost!

scrap ol
A'jis not I

ogan to
some of

oil any
[];ain to-
iny best

to part
ne your
I at the

ir as to
c house,
uiigli he
t many
msented

:c(l him
with a
ouM let
> be de-
le house

133

With all my heart says the gentleman. So he took
him iuuncdiately up ; lairs, shewed him all the best
apartments, and all his fine I'urniture and pictures;
aiid coming to the bead of the stair-case where they
came up, oltered to go down again.
But, sir, says the doctor, shall we not go up

higher ?

There is nothing thei ' <ays be, but garrets and
old lolts lull of rubbish, a.id a place to go out into
the turret, and the clock house.

0, let me see it all, now we are going, says the
(lector, I love to see the old lofty towers and turrets,
the magnificence of our ancestors, though they are out
of fashion now ; pray let us see all now.
VVhv, 'twill tire you, says the gentleman.
No,'no, says the doctor, if it do'nt tire you that
have seen it so often, it wo'nt tire me, 1 assure you :
pray let us go ui). So away the gentleman goes, and
the doctor aftei' him.

After they had rambled over the wild part of this
large house, I need not describe, be passed by a
great room, the door of which was open, and in it a
great deal of lumber,.— And what place is this pray ?
says the doctor, but not offering to go in.

()! that's the room, say::; the gentleman, softly,
because there was a servant attending them, Jiat's
the room I told you of, where all the rubbish lay, the
chests, coders, and tvunks : look there, see how they
are i)iled up, one upon another almost to the

ceiling.

With this the doctor goes and looks about him :
for this was the place he was directed to, and which
he went to see. He was not in the room two minutes
but he found every thing just as the spectre in London
had described : he went directly to the pile he had
been told of, and fixed his eye *^upon the very chest
with the old rusty lock upon it, with the key in it,
which would neither curn round nor come out.

On my word, sir, says the doctor, you have taken

■■

i I

134

^'■%

i. <

pains enough, if you have nimaged all these drawers,
chests, and coffers, and everything that may have
been in them.

Indeed, sir, says the gentleman, 1 have emptied
every one of theni myself and looked over all the old
musty writings one by one; with some help indeed;
but they every one passed through my hand, and un-
der my eye.

Well sir, says the doctor, I see you have been in
earnest, and I find the thing is of great consequence
to you; I have a strange fancy come into my head
this very moment : will you gratify my curiosity with
opening and emptying one small chest or coder that
I have cast my eye upon? There may be nothing
in it ; you are satisfied I believe that I was never here
before, yet I have a strange notion tiiere are some
private places in it; which you have not found,
perhaps there may be nothing in then) when they are
found.

The gentleman looking at the chest, said, smiling,
I remember opening it very well ; and turning to liis
servant, Will, says he, don't you remember that chest?
Yes, oir, says Will, very well, I remember you wore
so weary you sat down upon the chest wlien every
thing was out of it ; you clapped down tlie lid, and
sat down, and sent to my lady to bring you a diam of
citron, you said you was ready to faint.

Well, sir, it is only a fancy of mine, and very likelv
to have nothing in it.

No matter for that, says the gentleman, you shall
see it turned bottom up again bel'ore your face, and
so you shall the rest. If you do but si)eak the word.

Well, Sir, says the doctor, if you will oblige me
with this one I will trouble you no farther.

Immediately the gentleman causes the coffer to be
dragged out and opened ; for it could not be locked,
the key would neither lock it nor uidcck it. When
the papers were all out, the doctor turning his face
another way, as if he would look among the papers,

but taking
down, and
strikes his (
again hastil;
to the chest,
upon it, as i

However
gentleman s
for I would
he, out of 1
continued a
chisel.

Yes, sir,
liannner anc

As soon
me say a be
ting; I ha^
I'll lay you

The gent
chest, looks
thing : he i
mean i^ sayi
art I hope,
an empty c<

Not I, i\\
magician, n
again tlie w

The gen
frighted, foi
sat compose

At last u
chisel, and
knocks upc
don't you 1

Hear wh
stand you i

Vt'hy the
bottom, sa'
hollow ?

rawers,

Y have

mptied
:lie old
uJeed ;
nd uii-

)een in
juence
y head

Y with
er that
othinu
31' here

some
found,
ey are

iiiling,
to his
:liest?
I wore
every
i, and
am of

likely

shall
;, and
.rd.
;e me

to be

eked,

Vlien

faoe

ipers,

135

but taking little or no notice of the chest, stooped
down, and as if supporting himself with his cane,
strikes his cane into the chest, but snatched it out
a^rain hastily, as if it had been a mistake, and turning
to the chest, he claps the lid of it down, and sits down
upon it, as if he was weary too.

However he takes an opportunity to speak to the
gentleman softly, to send away his man for a moment,
for I would speak a word or two with you, sir, says
he, out of his hearing : and then recollecting himself,
continued aloud, cannot you send for a hanmier and a

chisel.
Yes, sir, says the gentleman : go Will fetch a

hanuner and a chisel.

As soon as Will was gone, Now Sir, says he, let
me say a bold word to you, I have found your wri-
ting-; I have found your grand deed of settlement:
riUay you a hundred guineas, I have it in this cofter.

The gentleman takes up the lid again, handles the
chest, looks over every part of it : but could see no-
thing : he is confounded and amazed ! What do you
mean 1^ says he to the doctor, you have no unusual
art I hope, no conjuring in hand, here is nothing but
an empty co filer.

Not 1, upon my word, says the doctor, I am no
magician, no cunning man, 1 abhor it : but I tell you
again the writing is in this coder.

The gentleman knocks, and calls as if he was
frighted, for his man with the hammer, but the doctor
sat composed again upon the lid of the cofler.

At last up comes the man with the hammer and
chisel, and the doctor goes to work with the chest,
knocks upon the Hat of the bottom : hark ! says he,
don't you hear it, sir? don't you hear it plainly?

Hear what? says the gentleman; I do'nt under-
stand you indeed.

Vt'liy the chest has a double bottom, sir, a false
bottom, says the doctor; don't you hear it sound

hollow ?

■mm

136

IfL

In a word, they immediately split the inner bottom
open, and there lay the parchment spread abroad flat
on the whole breadth of the bottom of the trunk, as a
quire of paper is laid on the flat of a drawer.

It is impossible for me to describe the joy and
surprise of the gentleman, and soon after of the whole
family ; for the gentleman sent for his lady, and two
of his daughters, up into the garret among all the rub-
bish, to see not the writing only, but the place where
it was found, and the manner how.

You may easily suppose the doctor was caressed
with uncommon civilities in the flimily, and sent up
(after a week's stay,) in the gentleman's own coach
to London. I do not remember whether he disclosed
the secret to the gentleman or no : I mean the secret
of the apparition, by which the place where the wri-
ting was to be found was discovered to him, and who
obliged him to come down on purpose to find it; I
say, I do not remember that i)art, neither is it nia-
teiial. As far as I have had the story related, so
far, have I handed forward : and I have the trutli of
it affirmed, in such a manner that I cannot doubt
it.

THE BREVITY OF HIMAN LIFE.

TT^HAT is Life? — a Breath : a Dream :
▼ T A bubble on a rapid stream :
A lurid shade, with scarce a ray :
A short and stormy winter's day :
A falling star: — a morning flower:
A passing Cloud : — an Autumn Sijower :
A Hying Shuttle : — nay, — a span :
80 short and frail the life of man.

A ^^^

XX Deersl
Yorkshire,
upon her
those days
iifHicted, t(
cure a hon
children,
lages ; bu
of her mai
as those s(
customers
drcn were
pained — ai
bly and i
her little a
Elijah, wh
cars are v.
listen to Ik

That th
eternity, ta
that even
sullicienth
trntii, expi
us, that as
air," neitlu
stances ihi

Not ma
kind rcgar
niarka])le <
ly redeetii
person of
came to '.
a (lability \
int;' her ci
plied. He

3y andf
i whole
nci two
lie rub-
i where

aressed
sent up
I coach
sclosed
3 secret
he wri-
1(1 who
d it ; I
it nia- ;
ted, so
ruth of
doubt

137

SINGULAR DREAM.

A POOR, but pious woman, now living at
Deershaw, in the neighbourhood of Holmfirth,
Yorksliire, having a large family, chiefly dependent
upon her for suL stence, was necessitated, during
those days of scarcity with which Britain lately was
idlHeted, to attempt making brooms, in order to pro-
cure a liomcly and but scanty meal for her helpless
cliildren. She disposed of them in the adjacent vil-
lages; but being self-taught, this necessary article
of her manufacture was not so neat and serviceable
as those sold by others ; the consequences were, her
customers com})lained — her trade declined — her chil-
dren were nearly starving — her mind was much
pained — and she earnestly cried unto the Lord, hum-
hly and simply entreating him to instruct her in
lier little and mean employment. The Lord God of
Elijah, whose eyes are over the righteous, and whose
cars are o})eii unto their prayers, condescended to
listen to her petition.

That the High and Lofty One who inhabiteth
eternity, taketh knowledge of our mean aftiiirs ; and
that even the hairs of our head are numbered, is
sulliciently demonstrable from scripture. To this
trutii, experience also adds its testimony; and assures
us, that as he is not unmindful of the " fowls of the
air," neither is he regardless of the most trivial circum-
stances that happen in his meanest follower.

Not many nights had elapsed, after soliciting the
kind regard of heaven, ere she had the following re-
niarka])le dream. 8he fancied herself at work, deep-
ly rellecting on her helpless situation ; when a young
person of graceful iigure and lovely countenance,
came to her with a broom, and with the greatest
affability presented it to her ; at the same time recpiest-
ing her carefully to examine it. 8he readily com-
plied. He then 'oegjui to unfold it bv little and little,

: '. t
^ 1

■'ifi

J»'?'Wv

188

■■ \

I ■ i

»1'

|i !

and charged her to observe the manner thereof.
After this he proceeded to put it again together,
enjoining 'her to give diligent attention thereto.
This completed, he suddenly disappeared, and she
instantly awoke. So powerlully was her mind nn-
pressed by the circumstance, tliat, tliough it was
midni'dit, she immediately arose, and began to fold
a broom as nearly as possible in the way she had
been directed ; which, when finished, w^as, as she sup-
poses, the handsomest she ever made.

Her business from that time increased ; — her wants
were liberally supplied ; and, by means of this gracious
interposition, her family has ever since been decently
apparelled, and comfortably supported.

Thus verified are the words of inspiration, "The
young lions do lack, and suder hunger, but they that
seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.

— <s>—

OBSERVATIONS ON DREAMS.

THERE may be dreams without a[)paritions
as there may be apparitions without dreams;
but an apjiarition in a dream may be as really an
apparition as if the person who saw it was awake:
the difierence may be here, that the apparition in a
dream is visible to the soul only, for the soul never
sleeps : and an apparition to the eyesight is visible in
common perspective.

How is it then that wo see in our dreams the very
faces and dress of the i)erson we dream of? nay,
hear their voices, and receive due impressions from
what they say, and oftentimes speak to them with our
own voices articulately and audibly^ although \vg are
fast asleep. What secret power of the imagination is
able to represent the image of any person to itself,
if there was not some appeaianco, something placed
in the soul's view, by a secret but invisible hand, and
in an imperceptible manner? wiiich something is

■

in all respi
apparition,
person wi
DUilofic(d
The Sci
pressions
this of ap
3. " God
been said,
him, there
but God a(
lech was as
apparition,
said to him
the a p pari
text does n
talked to,
fully: "A
a righteous
to expostui
said he nc
knew he w;
remarkable
hut the inai

Again, ir
xxxi. 24. '
by nigiit, a
parition, an
to him, and
that lied rea:
spoke to hi
spake to me

Certainly
they aiiswe
knew that
the vision o

There are
sacred histo
Solonion, I

IHO

in all respects and to all purposes, as completely an
apparition, as if it was placed in open sight when the
person was really awake. Lcacon and Walker n
Di(i/o/ic((l Disquisition OH Spirils. 4to. 1611.

The Scripture confirms this opinion by many ex-
pressions directly to the purpose, and particularly
this of appearing, or apparition in dream, Gen. xx
3. " God came to Abinielecli in a dream ;" had it
been said, that Abimelcch dreamed that God came to
him, there might have been exception to the parallel;
but God actually came to him; and although Abime-
lech was asleep and in a dream, it was not the less an
apparition, for God came to him, and spoke, and
Sciid to him : and in the 4th verse, Abimelcch spoke to
the apparition. Whatever the shape was that the
text does not mention, but Abimelcch knew whom he
talked to, that is evident, for the text mentions it
fully: "And he said. Lord, wilt tliou slay also
a righteous nation? "and so he goes on, verse 5th,
to exi)ostulate and plead for himself and his people,
said he not unto me, she is my sister? so that he
knew he was speaking to the Lord. The text is very
remarkable ; it is plain that there was an apparition,
but the man was asleep, and in a dream.

Again, in the case of Laban, pursuing Jacob, Gen.
xxxi. 24. " God came to Laban the Syrian in a dream
by night, and said unto him." Here again is an ap-
parition, and a speaking ai)i)arition too : God came
to iiim, and God spoke to him : and Laban owns, not
that lie dreamed of God's appearing, but that God really
spoke to him, verse 29. "The God of ycflu' father
spake to me yesternight, saying."

Certainly in those dreams God spoke to them and
they answered : and when they were awake, they
knew that it was God that spoke, and gave heed to
the vision or ap[)ariton of God to them.

There are many more instances of the like in the
sacred history ; as first, in the remarkable case of King
SoloiHon, I Kings, iii. 5. "The Lord appeared to

■

]

\ '

jr.iiiir

>iMi

110

h§

1 • 1

" II

Solomon in a dream by niglit, and God said, ask wliat
shall I give thee."

This is called in tlie Scripture, a dream, ver. 1.).
"And Solomon awoke, and behold it was a dream;"
and yet it is all confirmed: and the petition that
Solomon made, though in his sleep or dream, is
accepted and answered as liis real act and deed, as if
he had been awake.

That passage of Solomon is very remarkable to
the case in hand : If my readers please to believe that
there was such a man as Solomon, and that he had
such a dream : they must allow also that it was a real
apparition. God appeared to him in a dream.

To bring it down a step lower : as God had thus
personally appeared to men in dreams, so have infe-
rior spirits, and we have examples of this too in tlie
Scripture, Matt. i. 20. ''While he thought on these
things, behold the angel of the Lord appeareil unto
him in a dream." And again, ^Tatt. ii. l:). ''Behold
the angel of the Lor<l a|)peare(l unto .foseph in a
dream, saying; And a third time it is re[)eated : "The
angel came again to him in Egy[)t," ver. 10th of the
same chapter : When lierod was dead, " Jiehold an
angel of the Lord appeareth in a dream to .iose[)h in
Egypt."

1 will for once suppose that no man need desire any
any farther evidences than these, for the reality of the
thing itself: we may bring it down from hence, by ;
just parrallels, to matters within our own reach ; ex-
perience will furnish us with particular jiassages suf-
ficient: aiid some account I shall gi\e you within the
compass of our own times, such as come within the
verge of my own knowledge, or of the knowledge of
such as [ have good reason to give credit to, I believe
a variety will be acceptable, and much more useful
than a bare repeating of what others have said. If I
find it needful to quote what others have published,
you have it justly marked as a quotation, that you
may search for the truth in its oiiginal.

Before I
story, it is ;
God toapi
ap[)ear alsc
occasions, S;
appears in
many exar
»Scrii)lure.

It is app
licence to a
a terrible c
devil wouk
capable ol,
tune, reduc
tormented
lyft him n
relieve him
pin-ase witl
night with
with rest,
.lob himsel
Rcarest me
Not that <
terrible fori
to give a 1
and exertcf
We are noi
to scare an
as he can s
than himse
ill person,
j)MSsible, w
was able.

The gre[
tics of life,
tiiiguish b
such as arc
a (lis tempo
mlud : but

141

IJefove I come to (quotation, or to collection of
storv, it is needful to observe, that as it has pleased
Go(f to a|>[)ear in this manner, and to cause angels to
appear also in tlic same manner, and upon special
that occasions, so 1 make no fpiestion but the devil often

appears in (beams too: and I mi^ht give but too
iiianv examples of it, as particularly one in the
Scrii)ture.

It is ajiparent that God gave Satan a kind of general
licence to alHict Job, oidy not to kill him ; with such
a terrible conniiission, it might be expected that the
devil would fall on him with the utmost fury he was
capable of, or allowed to take : he ruined iiis for-
tune, reduced him to misery, murdered his children,
tormented him with boils and sores: in short
kft him nothing but potsherds and an ill wife to
relieve him : as he had worried him, to use a moderate
pinase within an inch of life, he followed him in the
night with a[)i)aritions, lest he should recruit nature
with rest, and be a little refreshed with sleep,
.lol) himself complains of it. Job vii. 14. "Thou
scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me with visions."
Not that God appeared to Job in any frightful or
terrible form ; but the devil to whom God was pleased
to give a liberty of ali'ieting Job, took that liberty,
and exerted his malice to the utmost of his power.
We are not indeed told what methods the devil took
bv to scare and terrify the poor distressed suHerei ; but

as lie can show us nothing uglier ami more frightful
than himself, so it is very likely he appeared to him
in person, and that in the most surprising manner
j)Mssible, with all the eircumstances of horror that he
was able. But to pursue my subject.

The great and perhr*^s one of the greatest ditTicul-
tics of life, I mean that relates to dreams, is to dis-
tinguish between such as are real apparitions, and
sucii as are only the product of an encund)ered brain,
a distempered head, or, which is worse, a distempered
maid : but .some dreams are so significant, and tliere

• 'P^

..-ii

142

,.f|

j .

;5;' 'fi

■

UK s

follows such an immediate visible cflect, answering the
designed illumination, that it cannot but be signifi.
cant. — Beaumont on Spirits.

The following story I had from the mouth of the
very person who was chiefly concerned in it. 1 mean
the captain of the ship itself.

One Captain Thomas Rogers, commander of jl ship
called the Society, was l)ound on a voyage from Lon-
don to Virginia, about the year 1001.

The ship was hired in London, and being sent
light, as they call it, to Virginia, for a loading of
tobacco, had not many goods in her outward bound,
suppose about two or three hundreil tons, which was
not counted a loading, or indeed half her loading, the
ship being very large, about five, hundred tons
burden.

They had a pretty good passage, and the day before
had an observation, whereupon the . jates and proper
officers had brought their books and cast up their
reckonings with the captain, to see how near they
were to the coast of America; ihcy all agreed tiiat
they were at least about an hundred leagues distant
from the cape of Virginia. Upon these customary
reckonings, and withal heaving the lead, and finding
no ground at an hundred fathoms, they set the watch,
and the captain turned in, (as they call it at sea,) that
is, went to bed.

The weather was good, a moderate gale of wind,
and blowing fair for the coast ; so that the ship might
have run about twelve or fifteen leagues in the niglit,
after the captain was in his cabin.

He fell asleep, and slept very soundly for about
three hours, when he waked again, and lay till he
heard his second mate turn out and relieve the watch,
and then he called his chief mate, as he was going olf
from the watch, and asked him how all things fared :
who answered, that all was well, and the gale fresh-
ened, and tliey run at a great rate ; but it was a fair

wind and c
slce|) again
About a
dreamed th
did wake,
tiling bade
it was so
sleep, and
several tim
reason, yet
to sleep : a
he heard it

A NAUR A

HE now
the ^
no one in
he perceiv:
relation of
do I snller,
ills fury ?
pity is no
as some ci
from the to
Httle, then
that I was
years, to pi
led to him
of millions
of my tor
Eternity !
words for €

if \

Ijcfore

)roj)er

tlitiir

they

I tliat

113

wind and a fine clear night ; so the captain went to
sleep again.

About an hour after he had b'^en asleep again, he
dreamed that a man pulled him, or waked him, and he
did wake. I am not sure, bnt I think he said, the
thing bade him get up and look abroad. But whether
it was so or not, he lay still and composed himself to
sleep, and was suddenly awaked again, and thus
several times ; and though he knew not what was the
reason, yet he found it was in)possible for him to go
to sleej) : and still he heard the vision say, or thought
he heard it sa}^ turn out and look abroad.

(to he conlinued.)

A NAURATIVE OF THE DEATH OF THE HON. FR.
F T SON TO THE LATE .

Continued from pcf<je 101.

HE now spoke with so deep a concern, the tears all
tlie while trickling down his cheeks, that
no one in the room could forbear weeping; which
he perceiving, said, "and can ye weep at the bare
relation of the cflects of God's wrath? What then
do I snller, who actually lie under the very weight of
Ills fury? Refrain your tears for me; it is in vain;
pity is no debt to me. Nothing is so proper for me
as some curse to complete my misery, and free me
from the torment of expectation." Here he paused a
little, then looking toward the fire, he said, " O
that I was to broil upon that fire a hundred thousand
years, to purchase the favour of God, and be reconci-
led to him again ! But it is a fruitless wish ! Millions
of millions of years will bring me no nearer to the end
of my tortures than one poor hour ! O Eternity !
Eternity ! Who can properly^ paraphrase on those
words for ever and ever !"

w VR

1 .

now bcffan

to grow late, so \ took iiiv le;ivo of

111

him for that night, promising to come agani the next
day when I found his mind in the same condition ;
but his body much weakened. There were with
him three or four divines, who had been at prayer,
which thev told me had the same uneasy cihcX upon
liim as before. One of them rcnunded him, that
8t. Peler denied his master with oaths and curses, and
was yet received again into his favour, lie replied,
It is true, St. Peter did deny his master as 1 liavc
done, but what then? His Alastcr prayed for him,
that his faith should not fail, and accordingly lie
looked him into repentance, and assisted him by his
Spirit to perfect it. Now if he would assist me to
repent, 1 should do so too: but he has justly with-
drawn his intercessions from me. 1 have so often
grieved the Holy Spirit, that God has taken him away
from me, and in the room thereof, has left me the
Spirit of Impenitence and Ueprobation.

The night being far worn, we all took our leaves,
wishing him good rest, and a happier condition the
next day : to which he re})]ie(l, " Gentlemen, 1 tliaiik
you, but my happiness is at an end, and as for niv
rest to night, all the ease 1 expect, will be in wishing
for the day; as in the day time 1 wish for the niirlit.
Thus I spend the little remainder of my miserable
moments, in a fearful exi)cctation of my dissolution, '
and the account I must make upon it. But, Ccntk^-
men, a good night to you, and remember mc to con-
firm you in the religion I have disowned, that you
may stand more cautiously by my folly and secure
the happiness I have forfeited."

The next day came several of his friends out of the
country, having had an account of his circumstances.
One of them told him, that he and several rnoie of
his relations came to town on purpose to see him,
and were sorry to find him in so weak a condition.
(for now he was nothing but skin and bone, tlie
agonies he lay under, doing the work of the (pii

luKCSt

consumptio
conimon civ
relations i'
the will of
I may propi
rej)robate, a
are my relat
dissolve in £
daunied is p
of torment,
same eternit
So that simj
will Join us
had only he
himself in s
quire of soni
rate. He
iniagiiiini; tl
" You imagi
I were eithei
not. No, m
rather more
was in perfe
am thereby i
into. Woul
skeleton, in
disj)ised my
joined mysel
nued this coi
(juity was ri]
of God overt
est, and the <
I have denies
Jesus, there i
sinners. If
soul from he
no, if we sin
ledoje of the
for sin, but £

leaves,
"Jii the
tliaiik
for niv
isljiiig
night,
^crable
lution,
»eiitle-
o con-
d you
seen re

of tlie
:aiices. [j
101 e of i

dltion, %
ic, the I
lickcst

115

consumption.) He answered, ''I am obliged in
coinnion eivility to thank you all; l)ut who are my
relations*!' Our Saviour said that such only as did
the vvill of his heavenly Father were his relations ;
I may properly say that none but the Atheist, the
reprobate, and all such as do the work of the devil,
are my relations. The little tie of flesh and blood will
dissolve in a moment, but the relation 1 have to the
dannied is permanent. The same lot, the same place
of torment, the same exercises of blasphemy, and the
same eternity of horror, will be common to us all.
So that similitude of torments, place and duration,
will Join us in a very strict union." His friends, who
Iiad only lieard he was distracted, hearing him deliver
liiinself in such terms, were amazed, and began to in-
quire of some of us, what made him talk at such a
rate. He hearing them whispering together, and
inia'^iiiin^- the cause, called them all to him, and said :
"You imagine me melancholy, or distracted : 1 wish
I were either, but it is part of my Judgment that I am
not. No, my appreiicnsion of persons and things is
ratlier more quick and vigorous than it was when I
was in perfect health, and it is my curse; because I
am thereby more sensible of the condition I am ftillea
into. Would you be informed why 1 am become a
skeleton, in three or four days ? Know then, I have
(lispised my Maker, and denied my Redeemer; I have
joined myself to the atheist and prophane, and conti-
nued this course under many convictions, till my ini-
quity was ripe for vengeance ; and the Just Judgment
of God overtook me, when my security was the great-
est, and the check of my conscience the least. Since
I have denied that salvation which cometh by Christ
Jesus, there is no other Mediator or Intercessor for
sinners. If there be, wlio is he, that can redeem my
soul from hell, or give a ransom for my life? No,
no, if we sin wilfully after we have received a know-
ledge of the truth, there rcmaineth no more sacrifice
for sin, but a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery

■ u

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I It

140

ill:

:|«l

indignation, which shall consume the adversary.-.
There remains no more sacrilice for sin ! T'iat is the
wound that pierces my soul ; Jesus Christ was the
only expiatory sacrifice God would acce])t. I not
accejjtiiig, I would say, I dispisiiig this, there now
remains no other for mc to accept of; no other to
make an atonement and satisfaction for me. " 'J'here
is no other name under heaven given, but the name
of Jesus whereby we may be saved." And it is tlii>
Jesus whom I have reproached, ridiculed, and abused
in his members, nay, to whom I have induced otlieri
to do the same. I know not what some divines
mean, who say, "lie that desires to repent, in some
measure does it," I experience the contrary. A fruit-
less wish, that comes not to act, is no more than a
conviction, which shall lay such persons under great-
er damnation. You would have me supplicate thai
mercy I Iiavc abused? Alas, that 1 have no hopes I
but what depend upon abused mercy ! JJut whv suidl
hopes? I have no hopes? My hopes are frus-
trated, my expectations are cut of; and what remains
behind? Why am I bid to hope and believe?
what mockery is this upon me! To lind me in
misery, and bid me be happy, witliout allbrding me
any power of being so! but I am spent, and can
complain no more ; would to God the cause of my
complainings would cease ! the cause of my complain- 1
ings ! This renews my grief, and summons up the '
little strength I have left to complain again. Like
an extinguishing llame, that collects at once all ih
elementary matter, fur oiie great blaze before it
expires. It is just so with me; but whither am I
going? Ashe said this he fainted away, and lay in
a swoon for a considerable time; but by the help of
some spirits, we brought him to himself again ; as soon
as he opened his eyes, he said, "O cruel, unkind
friends! To awaken me from a dream in which I had
a cessation from my tortures." This he spoke with
so lively a concern, that no one of his relations

could refrai

but your ve

tiitr person

be one of ni

hast it woi

bu uiiiuituri

troubled at

friends, and

uitli me; ii

llie hittcrne:

can be in <h

and anguisl

already so g

IVrliaps liiis

what think }

hour to eteru

all time ? Ca

wliicli includ

dependent oj

and torture,

God ? No, n

cast them no

nor the vvors^

You mav

would make

ever, in the i

had the prud

lainily, and (

ble. They t

hjdgings ; bi

away several

his chamber.

After a litt

himself thus

you have brc

It iiad been s<

my lodgings

l.,.V.,,... LV,,. l'

I must bid y(

rsary.-.
t is the
was th{
' not
?re now
other to
" There
le name
i is thiv

ahuseii
il others

divines
n some
A IVuit-

tiian a
!• groat-
ite thai
» hopes
V said I

.s soon I
inkind ||
1 liad
:• witii
lations

147

could refrain from tears. " You weep, (said he,)

but your very tears eome too late : was I li!:e ano-

tiier person that goes out of the world, it would

be one of my greatest troubles to see you weep ; or at

least it would add much to my pains. For he must

bo unnatural and senseless, that would not be

I troubled at the afllietions of others, especially his

friends, ami relations. Hut the case is otherwise

with me; my cup is full, and runs over already:

the bitterness of my soul is as great as it possibly

can be in this world, and my heart is full of horror

and anguish. No grief can add to nunc, being

already so great that it is incapable of receiving more.

Perhaps this may seem a paradox to you at first: but

what think you of I'inie and Eternihj ? Can one add an

hour to eternity, which comprehends and swallows up

all tinie:^ Ca.. one add anything to the wratii of God,

which includes the fury of devils aiid men, this being

dependent on that 1* and can any one add to my grief

and torture, who am fallen into the hands of the living

God!' JNo, no, reserve your tears for your sins, and

cast them not away upon one, who is neither the better

nor the worse for them."

\ou may easily imagine, what impressions this
would make ui)on the si)irits of !ms friends. How-
I ever, in the midst of their grief and amazement, they
I had the prudence to think of the reputation of their
iamily, and to [)ro\ ide for as much secrecy as possi-
^ ble. They therefore conveyed him by night to other
j lodgings; but he was grown so weak that he fainted
I away several times in the chair. They got him into
■ his chamber, and to bed as soon as they could.

After a little rest he yet found strength to express
himself thus ; I am not concerned to iiupiire whither
you have brought me, or your reasons lor so doing.
It had been something, had you changed my state with
my lodgings ; but my torments are rather greater than
helore. For 1 see that dismal hour just at hand, when
I must bid you a sad farewell."

(7o be continued.)

1
■

■Hi

,f •

^^H ! '^ta^^By

^^^H ^i^H^^^i

148

i ^W

iv :

Mr. Thomas Halibluton.
(Continued from Pa(/e 103.)

WHAT a strange hardness is in the hearts of men!
But whether they will hear, or whether they
will forbear, it is our duty to speak ; and when we
are dead and gone, what we spoke in the name ot the
Lord, may take hold of them.

To the apothecary he said, ''Study religion in
youth, when you come to be as 1 am, you will find
no comfort without it. I give you this as a solemn
warning from God, if you come to be hardened by
the frequent sight of men in my state : you may come
to be hardened for ever."

When advised to be quite a little, he said, how
should a man bestow Iiis last breath, but in com-
mending the Lord Jesus Christ, God clothed in our
nature dying for our sins !" And when again pressed
to be tender of his body, he said. " O but my heart is
full!" And then desiring a minister to pray for liim,
he said, " Pray that God mjiy have pity on a weak
thinjs he is not able to bear much in the conflict !"

Lrthe night time he said, ''This growing weak-
ness of my eyes is a sign of a change ai)nroaching.
If he shut my eves, he will open my eyes no more to
behold vanity. ' But I shall behold him in righteous-
ness, and when I awake, I shall be satisfied with his

likeness." , , ,

Afterv/ards he said, "If this be tnc last day of my
conflict, I could humbly desire the Lord, that lie
would condescend to be tender to one that loves his
appearing ; that as he has dealt wonderfully with me
hitherto, so he may deal tenderly with me, even to
the end, in loosing the pins of my tabernacle, and
helping me to honour him by a composed resignation
of myself into his hands."

Finding some sweat on his face, he sai<i, " T fancy a

greater [chai
bless his 111
that one wh
be so untha]
an evil hean
have an ene

When or
rest; he an;
not to put r
Lo, here is
cacy of his
at the right
utteimost, t
shut my ej
my soul ent
is my desire
will there b
tninged iho

To one a\
" I am not
there is a s\
wards him,
iiuniber hii
remembered
and said. 1

When he
I am going
Koly,'llol}
their streiig
gle. I cam
have it ; bu
had lain sti
He ansvverc
Cud, pleasa

Afterwar
said, "My
God, and h
he said, "

men !

they

m we

of the

on in
11 find
olenin
led hy
come

1, how
coni-
in our
)ressed
icart is
ir him,
I weak
ct!"
weak-
iching.
iiure to
ituous-
ith his

of my
hut he
ivcs his
'ith me
;veii to
ie, and
jiiatidii

faiicva

149

sicater [change is near. 1 can compose myself, I
bless his name, I know not how it comes to pass,
that one who has met with so much of God, should
be so unthankful as to doubt him in the least! O what
an evil heart of unbelief have I ! O that I should yet
have an enemy in my bosom !"

When one aid, Sir, I think you have need of
rest; he answered, "I have no need of rest, were it
not to put me in ease, to finish my course with joy.
Lo, here is the power of Christ's death, and the effi-
cacy of his esurrection! I find the advantage of one
at the right hand of God, who is able to save to the
uttermost, that is the sight I long for : he will but
shut my eyes, and open them in glory. To have
my soul entirely submissive to him in all things, that
is my desire. And so it will be shortly, then never
will there be a reluctant thought, never one more es-
tranged Ihought from God !"

To one who asked if he was not faint, he answered,
"lam not faint; 1 am refreshed as with wine. O
there is a sweet calm in my soul. My desires are to-
wards him, and the remembrance of his name. Re-
mtniber him ! Why should not I remember him, that
remembered me in "my low condition ? He passed by
and said. Live ! And when he says, he gives^ life."

When he was desired to sleep he answered, " Those
I am going to, sleep not day or night, but cry. Holy,
Kolvriloiy ! They that wait on tlie Lord shall renew
their strength, and mount up with wings as of an ea-
gle. I cannot get my heart in a right tune, as I would
have it; but it will be so in a short time. After he
had lain still a little, one said, "You have not slept."
He answered, No; I had much work ; but blessed be
Cud, pleasant work."

Afterwards, when his wife asked how he was, he
said, "My dear, 1 am longing for the salvation of
God, and hastening to it." Then seeing her very sad,
he said, "My dear, encourage yourself; here is a

!'■<

150

t '

•M

fflV

I ! ,!',

,■-'' 1

■

body going to clay, and a soul going to heaven, wiiere
1 hope you are to come.

Friday, Sept. 10. About five in the niorniuo-
wlien lie was desired to try if lie could sleep, he an^
svvered, JNo, no: siiould I lie here altogether useless?
Should I not spend the last of niy strength, to show
forth his glory P" lie iheii held up his hands, which
were much swelled, and said, " Lame hands and
lame feet : but see a lame man leaping and rejoin-

Feeling some jiaiii, he said, "This is one of the
forerunners of the change, the great change.
when shall I be admitted to see the glory of the l.>''dier
house? Instead of that clouded night of a created
sun, to see that clear and perfect gIor\ ."
(To be concluded in the next.)

The AinwiUTio^ o/' 8ni George Vilmers, faOnj
of the iJwn Duke of Jjuehing/iam, lo one Mr. Parker
to warn the Duke against sonicthin//, which if mi]
prevented ivoxdd end in his death ; ivhirh so j'vll oul
he not regarding the advice; and soun after he mil
stabl)ed by one John Fclton an o//icer.

INHERE were many stories scattered abroad at
J- that time of several prophecies and predictions
of the duke's untimely and violent death; amon^rst
the rest, there was one that was upon a better founda-
tion of credit. There was an oilieer in the kin<^\s
wardrobe in ^yindsor Castle of good reputation ior
honesty and discretion, and then' about the age of
fifty or more. This njan had in his youth been^rcd
in a school in the parish where Sir George \ illjers
the father of the duke lived, and had been inuch che-
rished and much obliged in that season of his age hy
the said Sir (ieorge, whom afterwards he uever.saw
About six months before the miserable end of the
Duke of Buckingham, at midnight, this man bein-^

ill his bed

very good

of his bed,

undrew th(

him, and a

The poo

heing askei

him, and 1

the presen

clodies he

seemed to I

him to be t

that he was

from him, ^

his son, the

(lid not son

or at least t

against him

time.

After tin

man, (if he

till niornini!

considered i

The next

appeared to

the same tin

severe than

done as he

had not, ga\

he expected

(lid not perl

peace of min

upon which

njorning, wa

exceedingly

of all partici

to persuade

and consider

from the dt

lie ai).
seless?
o show
. vvhich
Js aii(i

I'ejoic-

of the
?e.

Ir'i^her

-rented

father
*(irkci\
if nut
11 out,

ad ill
ctioiis
oiigst
'.inda-
<iiig's
)ii lor
ge of
bred
lliers,
. clie-

haw.
f the
3eirig

161

ill his bed at Windsor where his office was, and in
very good health, there appeared to him at the side
of his 1)0(1, a man of a very venerable aspect, who
undrew tiie curtains of his bed, fixed his eyes upon
liim, and asked him if he knew him ?

The poor man, half dead with fear and apprehension,

being asked the second time whether he remembeied

liiiii, and having in tliat time called to his memory

tlie presence of Sir Cieorge Villiers, and the verv

clothes he used to wear, in which, at that time, he

seemed to be habited, he answered him, that he thought

him to be that person, he replied, he was in the ri<dit,

that he was the same, and that he expected .i service

from him, which was, that he should go from him to

his son, the Duke of ]5uckingham, and tell him, if he

(lid not something to ingratiate himself to the people,

or at least to abate the extreme malice which they had

against him, he would be suliered to live but a short

time.

After this discourse he disappeared, and the poor
man, (il he had been at all waking) slept very well
till morning, when he believed this to be a dream, and
considered it no otherwise.

The next night, or shortly after, the same person
appeared to him again, in the same place, and about
the same tune ol the night, with an aspect a little m.re
severe than beft)re, and asked him whether l\e hid
done as he had required of him ; and perceivino- iie
had not, gave him some severe reprehension, i: uf him
ht" expected more conipliance from him, and tiiat if he
(lid not perform his connnands, he should enjoy no
peace ol mind ; but should always be pursued bV him •
upon which he prcjmised to obey him. But the next
niormiig, waked out of a good slecj), though he was
exceedingly perplexed with the lively representation
ol all particulars to his memory, he was still willing-
to persuade himself that he had only dreamed"^
and considered that he was a person at such a distance
Irom the duke, that he knew not how to find out

152

■

• I 'H

any admission to liis presence, much less to be be-
lieved in what lie should say ; so with great trouble
and unquietness, he spent some time in thinking wliat
he should do, and in the end resolved to do nothinf^ in
the matter.

The same person appeared to him a third time witli
a terrible countenence, and bitterly reproached him for
not performing what he had promised to do. The
poor man had, by this time, recovered the couraf^-e to
tell him, in truth he had deferred the execution of
his commands upon considering how dillicult a thm
it would be for him to get any access to the duke!
having acquaintance with no person about him, and if
he should obtain admission to him, he never vvv)uld be
able to persuade him that lie was sei]t in such a man-
ner : that he should at least be thought to be mad or
to be set on, and employed by iiis own, or the malice
of other men to abuse the duke, and he should be sure
to be undone.

The spectre replied as he had done before, that he
should never find rest till he had performed what he
required, and therefore, he had better to dispatch it;
that tlic access to his son was known to be verv easv
and that fev/ men waited long for him ; and for the
gaining him credit, he would tell !iim two or three
particulars, which he charged him never to mention to
any person but tiie duke himself; ami he siiould no
sooner hear them than he .shoidd believe all tiie rest
he should say ; and so, repeating his threats ho left
him.

In the morning, the poor man, more confirmed hv
the last appearance, made his journev to [.oudon
where tlie Court then was ; he was verV well known
by h5ir Kalph Freeman, one of the masters of request^
wlio had married a lady that was nearly allied to the '
duke, and was himself well received by him To him
this man went, and though he did not acquaint hiii,
with all the particulars, he said enough to let him
know there was something extraordinary in it; and

the kno

of the 11

desired t

duke in

be thou<:

liini, aui

privacv,

Sir ^R

tlic diik

his i)lea;

he did ii

the man

knew of

The ci

condcsce

early to

attend h

land by

the man

walk am

iiecessarv

Sir li;

morning,

landing,

aside in c

vauts beii

Sir italpl

heiu* a wo

and Willi

easily ob.

eve ahva^

the conlcj

traoi'dinar

The m;

that when

gain him

iluYsi not i

and he sw

oulv bv I

153

inie with
1 liini for
lo. The
uirage to
:(ition of
t a thinf
le duke,
n, and if
v\)ul(l be
I a man-

mad, or
e malice

be sure

that he
iVliat he
)ateli it;
ry easy,

for the
Jv three
ntioii to
oiild no
tiie rest

lie left

ined bv
iondoii.
known
•equests
I to the
To him
int him
ct him

the knowledge he had of the sobriety and discretions
ol tiio man, made the more impressions on him • he
desned that by his means he might be broii<rht to 'the
duke m such a place, and in such a mannerlis should
bethougntm, ahrming that he had much to sav t.
hun, and of such a natuie as would require m\ich
privacy, and some tihio and patience in hearing

Sn- lialpli proniised that he would speak first to
the duke oi him and then he should understand
his j) easure : am] accordingly the first opportunitv,
he did imorm him ol the reputation and honesty of
tlie man, and then what he desired, and what he
knew ol the matter.

The duke, according to his usual openness and
coiidescention, told him, that he was the next dav
early to hunt with the king ; that his horses should
altem him at La.nbeth Bridge, where he should
land oy hve of the clock in the morning: i^nd if
tlie man attended him there at that hour, he would
walk and speak with him as long as should be
iiecessarv.

.Sir Ralph^ carried the man with him the next
morning, ami presented him to the duke at his
kuHimg, who received him courteouslv, and walked
aside 111 conference near an hour; none but his ser-
vants being at that hour in the place, and they and
jMr Kalpii at such a distance, that they could not
hear a vvord, though the duke sometimes spoke loud
aiul with great emotion, which Sir llalph the mon'
easily observed, and perceived, because he kept his
eye always fixed upon the duke, having procured
lie conlerence up somewhat he knew was very ex-
traordmary. *^ '

The man told him in his return over the water,
that when he mentioned those particulars that would
gain hmi credit, (the substance whereof he said he
durs not unpart unto him) the duke's colour changed
and he swore that he could come at that knowled-o

^ : : t:

:'™P*F

f. „,„l OUIV bv th{^ (IpvII • To.. th'U flmcio ,^n -• 1 '^^^

I, aii'j ' r^ '-* -; .!.! iiidi liiObe panic uiars were

- ,'i

154

only known to himself and to one person more
who he was sure would never speak of it. '

How strongly does this confirm the opinion, that
the soul when departed, has a knowledge of tlie
actions of the living, and willing to do them any
office of good, if permitted.

The duke pursued his purpose of hunting, but
was observed to ride all the morning with great
pensiveness in deep tiiought, without any delight in
the exercise he was upon; and before the morning
was spent, left tlie field, and aligiited at his mo!
ther's lodgings in Whitehall, with whom he was
shut up ior the space of three or four hours, the
noise of their discourse frequently reached the 'cars
of those who attended in the next rooms. And
when the duke left her, his contenance appeared
lull of trouble with a mixture of anger ; a counte-
nance that was never before observed in him in anv
conversation with her, towards whom he had a pro-
lound reverence ; and the countess herself (for thou^rh
she was married to a private gentleman, «ir Thonfas
Urompton, she had been created countess of Buck-
mgnam shortly after her son had first assumed tliat
title,; was at the duke's leaving her, found overwhelm-
edm tears, and in the highest agony imaginable.

Whatever there was of all tiiis; it is a notorious
truh that when the news of the duke's murder
(which happened witliin a few months after,) was
brought to his mother, she seemed not in the least
degree suriuised, but received it as if she had fore-
seen it; nor did afterwards express such a degree
of sorrow as was expected from such a mother, for
ine IC8S ol such a son.

,J^'%'^'''y \''^^^^^^ with some little circumstan-
tal di/ieuiue by several considerable authors, who ^

yLrr; '^ %''" h ^*^' "^"^^ '"'^''''^^^ V^'^' of it,
Vide Baker s Chronicle.

secret token was an incestuous breach of modesty

between

iatod to

and that

sure the

none bill

astonislu

tlie man

A cor

Clement

would k

f^'pportun

duke tha

ga\c hin

mail wou

and froi]

danger. —

Tin's r(

thors; vi;;

his : Lori

Mr. Jjakc

Mr. Fia\e

■iJL tune ji

the city, 1

himself in

with the m

doni negle

most in fan

tions to his

attention w

woman, noi

certain day,

ture to the i

is it possibh

iiieiit which

Io5

beliveen the duke and a certain laclv too nea.li, ,-»
lato, .0 inn, which it surprised the di^ke to hear^of
and hat as he thouglit he Imd good reasons to L'
sine the lady wou.J not tell it of herself so he H,n? i !
none hnt the devil conld tell it be i ' her Jlt^t]
iistonished Inni, so that he (vas verv f-ir frnnV ,■!;.• •
.l-en,a„ slightly or laughing alTis tfl^g """'"'°

A considerable time hpf'nrn +Mc. i i .-.

Clen,ent Tlnoekmorton d "Ld hu 'T"'''' '^''^
would l,ill his grace, theref"::' he" ook' thTs"
'VVO,'.n,My to advise inn, to wea,- a privvr coat • S
duke thanl<ed him for his cour.sel ler7kindlV but

Zn u'oui'd %,^zie '^: a"; "'7^^' ^-^^

and iron. a„> l^^^Z: C'aSXndTd'to

tho.s'Ai7'M?7''l,''7,''^'"' ''y '"'■«« different au-
Is Ion r ; '^."'^."''™'%'<=r, in a work of
Ills. JjOin LJai'endens Historv ^t l?..„i j .

M,'. ]Jakcr's Chronicle It k ^ 1 ^"8''?'"^ i ^^d

Mr Fhvel i,i iV' ;• , '''^° mentioned by

lui. 1 ia\u, in his licatise on the Soul.

A DVIMG PROSTITI TE.

A VOUNG man, scarcely nineteen and it .1,.*
wi.l. the niostXndZ; f '^ZT^ X'^'Y

t':; -s ^hX'' 7uri^'/? ^^^--5 "

won.an, not mo:f t "' siLLTel ^ff "' ^n""^
certain day, which w-is l\T„ , 1 ^T ^ "S*"' *^n »
tnie to the nlr, hoi.sel? ^' '',' """"' '^"h rap.

-ti-iwe^ioexpt'r iifdircioT'o^:-; "^T "f

'-. which seized him, whet, ir^^s XS"t

5i!
I''

-ill ; !

1 ^0

■I ¥

uiiliappy wretch died tli(3 preceding Fridiiv cveiiino-
and that in a allocking manner, that humanity must
shudder at the hare imagination ; and the bosoms of
the guilty be eliilled with the terror at tlie thought.
kSlie, witii great distress, (U^clared on Friday morn-
ing, tliat she knew iierseli' to be struck with dcalli,
and (hinined to all eternity, in her raving, sjie he-
quently cried out, that the devil UAi] her so, and
that he would drag her to endless torment at six
o'clock. Her agonies were inexpressible, so that
even the wretches, her com})anions and sisters in
iui(|nity, whom she earnestly exhorted to repent, or
they would assuredly follow her to the bottomless
pit, were so much a/l'ected at it as to mention a
necessity for sendiiig for a clergyman : but the mi-
serable girl, \vith screams of horror exclaimed, no-
thing could save her, that the fatal sentence was
already pronouijced, and that there was no probabi-
lity of foi-giveness or escape. The wicked man who
kept the hou.sv, desired earnesaly to see her ! but she
would by no means consent to his request. tell
him, said she, that I curse him in the bitterness of
my soul, and wish him with my latest breath, that
he may veiy soon follow me to endless miserv. I
shall long for his arrival, that I myself may help to
torment him. It is to him 1 owe my destruction.
Heat first seduced me to guilt and rnifi when I was
but thirteen years of age. Perdition, no doubt, will
be his portion, as well as of numbers besides, who,
like him, have laboured for the destruction of inno-
cence and virtue. She several times jumped out of
bed, and screaming in a most dreadful' manner, cried
out, "\ou fihali not have me yet! it is not six
o'clock." 8he contiimed raving thus till tiie hour
;die had so often mentioned : the clock struck six
and she expired.

J Wli

When m

i\n(l deej

A voice,

The sold

And lo!

A shapeli

Sullen.

And flow

Deep sun

And swet

At length

And thu5

What £

Thou dari

Is then th

Pare as h

What are

'J'liat mai

The angel

And issue

Not of the

But own 1

Shall then

This lordh

Who from

And drop^

A\ hose cai

Devourii]"

Look rouii

See grandt

What mill

iiotween tl

Tin; VISION.

{I'rom the/ourlh v/i(fj)(cr of Jou,),

^^rWAS at tlio (lark and silent hour of night,
J V> hen airy visions skim heloro the sight, '
When men entranced in hahny sleep are laid'
i\ii(l deeper slnmhers every sense invade :
A voice, shrill sounding, liierced my listein'mr ear
TIjc solemn accents still methinks 1 hear. ^ '
And lo! arose before my wonderin"- eves

A shapeless spectre of stupendous s^ze:
»Snllcn, it liie approached with awlul grace,

And IVowiiing dreadful stared me in the lace;

Deep sunk my heart, my luur erected stood.

And sweaty drops my shaking limbs bedevved.

At length a voice the solemn silence broke :

Am] thus, in hollow tone, the phantom spoke
AMiat art thou mortal man ? thou breathing Jlod^

Jhou daring rival of thy author, God ?

Is then this heap of ani^nated dust.

Pure as his maker? as his maker just?

"\\ iKit are the gifts to human nature given,

'J'hat man usui])s the attributes of heaven''^

The angelic hosts, that on the Godhead wait
And issue forth his ministers of fate : '

Not of themselves perfoiin his great command,
but own his guidance and o'er-ruling hand
Shall then presumptuous man his actions sway,

J Ins lordly tenant of a lump of clay ?
AVho from a sordid man derives his birth,
And drops again into his mother earth •
J\ hose carcase mouldering in the silent tomb
Devouring re])tiles mangle and consume.
Look rouml the surface of this earthly ball •
See grandeur vanish, and even nations fall ''
What millions die, the race of being run,
Between the rising and the setting sun ! '

II ! i

'tti

li '

s ;

I^^H^H

1 *

ir)H

ti>i

i ■ i ^tl

►See man cacli hour ivsign his iJoeling bieatl),
And sink unliecdod in the jaws of death !
Thus falls tliy boasted wisdom, mortal man,
A cloud its substance, and its date a span!
'J ny short perfection on thy life depends.
At death's great period all thy knowle(Jge ends.

APPARITION 01" THE LAMM) OF COOL.

V17HAT I know concenung the matter is this •
ft The servant of Dr. iMen/ie, J^hvsician at
Dumfries, told his master and many others, that the
Laird of Cool, lately ihml, ajipeared to him, rode
him down, and killed his horse : that he appointed
him to meet him some time after, at such a place
which he promised to do. J3ut Mr. W ( then minister
of Dundries) advised him to break that promise.

Mr. Ogilvie ( then im'nister at Imierwick, near

Dunbar) on hearing this blamed AFr. Paton much,

saying. Had he been there, he would not only have

advised him to keep his promise, but would have

gone with him. The ensuing relation of what fol-

lowed, wrote in J\Ir. O's own hand, was found in his

desk after his death, by Mrs. Ogilvie. «he gave to

Mr. Lundie, now minister at Oldhamstocks, who

gave it to me.

JAMES HAMILTON.

What follows is transcribed from IMr. Lundie's Copy.
On Feb. 3. 1722, at seven o'clock at night as I
was coming up the burial-road, one came ridin^ up
after me. Looking back, I called., Who is there'^
He answered, the Laird of Cool. Thinking it was
some one who wanted to put a trick upon me, I
s ruck at him with my cane. It found no resistance,
but flew out of my hand, to the distane of about

ZJl%Jv u .^ ""^''^^'^^'^ ^'''^ ^^^^ ^^ "P' but found
OO.U0 difhcuity in mounting, partly by reason of the

ramping

ran thro

liiiii aga

what is

♦' You Ik

I asked

He aiisw

for advisi

and said,

.«elf!" C

We that

know nol

fuilil yoi

Dumfries

into my t

I do not 1-

tion, that

are in soi

when von

Hy \iiis

and while

or not, he

with ama.

noise, as

Wiien I c«'i

pale, inqui

little uneas

thereby ea;

meditate oi

On the 1

sun-set, n(

Cool came

not afraid :

am not abr

stronger th

as safe fron

us have a

some in fori:

liVJ

, iio;ir
mucli,
r have
1 have
It Ibl-
in his
Lve to
who

rainpin- of my horse, partly by a trembJincr which
ran through my joints. Ho stopt till I came up to
Iimi again, an( said - If you arc laird of Coo)
u-hat is your business with me?" He ansvvpred'
"\ou have undertaken what {^v, in Ridsdale would ''
[asked in surprise, " What have I undertaken?"
Ho answered - Last Sabbath you blamed Mr. Paton
lor advising the young man not to kee.) his nromis,>
'•"';' ;?'^;>'^;Vr'"^^l<''' 'V'^'"S to go with him your-'
IV •'. ?^' V''V,"^°''""^' >'^^"' ^''^^t I .aid so? C
We that are dead know many things that the living
knmv nothing about. All 1 want is, that you would
h.lhl your promise and deliver my commission to
Dmnfnes upon such an errand? O. It never entered
into my thoughts. C. What was in your thoughts
do not know : but I can depend upon my infonna-
tion, that these were your words. J3ut I see vou
are in some disorder: I will wait upon you again
when you have more presence of mind.

Hy this time we were come below tli'e church-yard
and while 1 was consideiing whether I had proiiiised
or not, he broke Irom me through the church-yard
with amazing violence, and with such a whizzing
noise, as put me into more disorder than befon?
When I came to my house, my wife seeing me verv
pale, inquired, -what ailed me?" I told he^- I was a
little uneasy, and desired something to drink. Beino-
ihercby eased and refreshed, I retired to my closet tS
meuitate on ihis astonishing adventure '

On the fifth of March, 1722, as I was riding about
sun-set, near^ William White's Marsh, the laird of
Cool came riding up to me again, and said, - Be
not alraid : I will do you no harm." I replied - I
am not afraid ; for I know he in whom 1 tru'st is
stroiiger than all of you put together." C. You are
as sale Irom me, as when 1 was alive. O. I'hen let
us have a free conversation together, and give me
^ome luloimation about theaflairs of the oihei world

1(>0

.wi

!. ^ -

C. What iiiforiDation do you want from inc i^ ()
Are you in a sl:itc of happinoss or not!* C Tliat is
a question I will not answer. Ask sometliiiH»- elsr
O. 1 ask then, What sort of body is tluit y(ju aniioar
in? C It is not the same body wherein 1 was wit-
ness to your marriage, nor that in which I (]ie,|.
That is rotting in the grave. But it is such a b(j(|y
as answers in a mnnjeiit. J can fly as fast in this
body as without it. Jf I would go to London, to
Jerusalem, or to the moon, 1 can perform all these
journies ecjually soon, for it costs me nothing but a
thought. This body is just as llect as your lliouglit.
In the same time you can turn your thoughts to Uo'nie!
T can go there in i)erson. 6. But tell me, Have
you not yet appeared before (iod, and recieved scu.
ter.oe from h'm as a judge? C. Never yet. O, It
is commonly believed,* there is a particular judgment
day. C. TSo such thing, no such thing. Tliere'is ijo
trial, no sentence till the last day. Tiie heaven <n)o,l
men enjoy inunechately after death, consists in^ tl.
serenity of their minds, the satisfaction of a good coii-
science, and the certain hope of gloiy everlastiii.'
and in being with Christ and his saints. °'

To he continuciL

A REMARKAIJI.E OCCTRRENCE EXTRACTED FRO.AI 3I0R-
TO N, WHO TOOK IT FR031 DR. II. MORE.

JN the northern part of England ( 1 think Lanca-
X slnre, for I had the storv from a clergyman of that
county) the minister befoic he began to read prayers |
at church, saw a paper lying in his book, which h*^ '
supposed to be the bands of Ararriage. IJc opened '
It, and saw written in a fair and distinct hand, words
to the following purport. -That ,Tohn P. and
James D. Had murdered a travelling man had rob-

jed him

ore hard

asked hi

in the [)

hnt the

the pap(

those ol

The X.

told him

of his pc

nothing

of white

minister

must cei

imagined

of paper.

of (lod ii

vailed on

clerk anc

and separ

contradici

sexton w

lodged su

he was tin

was there,

houses, in

and goods

vet thev c

positive pi

reeol lectin

to be bii]

which had

searched, a

the sexton

his accom

executed.

1110 ? (j_

ling else
u apj)ear
was wit.

I (lied.

II b(j(lv
I' ill tin's
luloii, to
Lill these
In' Init a
tlioii^lit.
o Uoine.
0, Have
'ed SOI).

t. O. it
id.^iueiit

iVQ is IJO

311 good
i ill tlie
•0(l con-
rlasliiig,

M MOR-

liaiica-
of that
prayei's
ieh he
opened
^vords
*. and
d rob-

ue-lhimofhis oneots, and burled Inn, in sud, an
orchard. J he nnnister was oxtreinelv startled -iiul
asked his clerk hastily, if he had plaLl any C
ni the prayer hook. The clerk declared he had ,,of
hi.t (he numster prudently concealed the contents ot'
the paper for the two names therein contained were
thase ol the clerk, and sexton of the church

7 he nnn.ster then went directly to a magistrate
fold liini uhat had ha,)pened, and took the paper out
o( Ins pocket to read it, whei. to his great urprise
nothing appeared thereon, but it was a plain iiece
oi.w ae paper! The iustice on that aUu ed' tl 1^
innnster ol whnn and fancy, and said that his head
n.nst eertan. y have been distempered, when he
unagnied such strange contents upon a blank nieee
n paper. The good clergyman plainly saw the hand
ol.odni Ins matter, and by earnest entreaties p.e-
vailed on the justice to grant his warrant against\he
clevk and sexton ; who were taken on suspici;n
and separately confn.ed and exaniinecl, when so^nanv:
con radictions appeared in their exannnation : for tl le
sexton who kept an alehouse, owned the havimr
odged such a man at his house, and the clerk sa d
he was tha evenn.g at the sexton's, but no such man
was there, that jt was thought proper to search tS
houses, m winch were fotmd seveml pieces of ^ok
and goods belor.gmg to men that travel the courUr •
yet they gave so tolerable account of these thit no
l)o,s.t.veproo could be ma.le out, till the clerg ma"
reco ectmg, that the paper n.entioned the deact'bt Iv
to be buried ni such an orchard, a circumstancl
which had befme slipped his memorV, thrrec was
searched, and the body was found : on hear r g wl^d
I.e sexton confessed the fact, accusing the dJk a
^.^acconiphce, and they were bo^ accoi-dlngi;:

. f

■^'

■t'

•fl-,'

1 ■

/ «1.:,

TiiornnTS on I coii. xv. 28.

77je>j s/m// the son ^//.so himself he suhjecl unto him
that put all fhint/s under him, that god may he all
in all.

SOME understand that by the Son here is meant
only the human nature of Christ, hut tlie huniaii
uatiire is subject now; and 8t. Paul speaks of a
subjection that eommcnces n'hen all thin(js are suh.
clued. Cameron and others, undej-stand it of a clearer
display, of the natural subjection of tlie human na-
ture of Clirist to the Deity than we have now, for
now the Deity rcii,nis by the man ; but tlie human
nature of Christ hath no share in the government of
the church now.

Tiie essential attributes of tlie Deity are inconi-
munica' le, and so is the c.vereise of them. AVe sliail
then indeed enjoy felicity as the human nature of
Christ enjoys it now, by an immediate coinmunica-
tion from God : but tliis will be owing not to Christ's
subjection ; but to our elevation. 'J^he passage can-
not be understood of the human nature merehi ■
because St. Paul says, the Son shall be subject • now
it is not usual with St. Paul to express merdv t'le
human nature of Christ by his word. Besides h^
opposes the .s7//^yVc//V7j of the Son to his dominion^
No\v it is certain he reigns by hi,, divinity, and I'lot
merely by his human it}^

In short, the ai)ostle speaks of a momentary sub-
jection, the last act of his meditoriat kingdom', con-
sequently an economical act agreeing with his divine
imtLire, without prejudice to his e(piality. It \s what
St. Paul calls ver. 2\. a delivering up of (he hhn.
domto the lather. Glorious act! the Sou pivsents
to the lather, at the last day, an account of his
whole economy, lor public approbation : The worM
judged--t!ie rif-hteous rewarded— the wicked punish-
ed-.devjls coidiiifd—death swallowed up in victory

— clcrn

holy ni

t/tou ha.'

is, all tl

will ext

absolute

of man.

God ]

dividing

|)0\vc)', ;

God has

(Inin, to

kinds of

lie will c

tent, ass

perfectioi

in kind, ,

low degr

/// a /I, he

ces shall

God also

not all th

erring, an

not filled

church.

ours as m

tan. llei

of which

but wiicn

in the etej

have the s

luVS of till

called nati
assemblaiTi
siinremelv

il:

103

-clcriial salvation finislie.I— heaven pooplp.l witl,
lioiy n,nltitu<le-^./„,W ,„,, „,„( „„ ,/„.„,.^,^^ —
Iho, ha,ly,nj me! l|,en will r,v,cl fe „« ;„ „„ „,^^
,s all Ih.ngs ,H a 1 ins »«,«/.v ; this imports that God
will extend 1ms divine eoniinunion-will bestow an
o'inin l"''''^"^"""' ""'1 "i'l IJc'coine the plenitude

God has communicated himself to man in nature by
<livul,ng his favours: one creature is an image of his
pcnvor, another displays his ,visdom. So in grace
G«<l has distributed his gifts, to one a word of wL-'
<io„i to another a gilt of healing, to another diTers
kuids of tongues, liut when God becomes all in all
lie will comnuinicate all his blessings in all their ex
tout, assembling all in mie. God will also bestow
pel ection. Go. nnght give to one creature all graces
.11 kni.l, and at the same time he might leave them fn
b«. uegreos of excellence. But when he become" ««
<" "/ . 1.0 will give a perfection of degree, anlTn gf
cos shall be earned (o their highest pitch of excellence
God also will become tlie plenit.ide of man. God vvas'
not ail things .n Adam. JMutabiliiv, a possibilit of
oiTing a,id ,ly,ng. were parts of liumani y, vaeniUes

not Idled iip.-God is not all things in il o miii tm!
r iiiivli *k:i. *..^..i I • I *■"'" fe> 111 iiie miiituut
cl.HKli. hill, tiouble, sickness, death, all these are
m..s as ,...•» : or our. as fallen men deriving from Sa!
tail. 1 ere in our ,est state, we resemble the , ooti
« Inch hall only ,s illnminate.l ata time 1-11^2
I.U wnrn (.od becomes all in ,dl, we shall be immersed
n the eternal light 01 our God, as tho,se, who at noon
lui.e tie sunn, then- zenith, are all involved in the

ciliulnali.ie nor grace, hut glorv ; for glorv is -in
as.soiiibla;;e ol all ti.e I.ene.lictions of Goditaf degiS
supremely perfect-filling the whole man. ^

iv • i

iJfi

104

.:i:

? .1

A rcmarlahlc nnrraUve of (lie Apparition of a yoiDin

fjcuilewoman to her sweetheart, taken down in writiii,,

from the youufi man's own month, by the Edild'r,

who, from the yonny mans sober beharionr, Ix;'.

liives the Account to be true.

THIS young genllowoman Jived at M. Tves', in
Cornwall, and (lied of the sniall-pox in )Se})tein.
ber, ]70i;and \\vr sweetheart was the son ol" Mi-.
Haine, a very repuiable butcher and grazier, at Scar.
about twenty miles from Plymouth, ' 'J he match was
not approved of by the young' woman's friends; and
during her illness, they would not suller the young man
to come to see her though she greatly desired to see
iiim. Al)out the time of her illness, he also was taken
sick of a fever, and conhiied to his room ; so that it
was above a month after her death, before she made
her first apj)earancc to him ; which is as follows :

After I had recovered from my illness, eavs he, 1
went out one afternoon on my father's horse for a little
airing ; and, returning home just at dusk, about a niilo
from my father' s house, 1 saw something, as on horse-
back, pass very swiftly by me ; which so allVighted iiiv
horse, that he tlev/ home with me as fast as possihlt",
and I was also much alliighted. A short time jifter
this she appeared again to me, and then J knew Im ; :
iind .vhat is remarkable, when I was on horseha.
she appeared on horseback : aiid when I wt.s on foot,
she appeared so too; and her appearances to 3;ui were
so frequent, that she became quite faniiliar, an- 1 T had
Jio fear at all on seeing her ; which she never failtl
to do if I wa{> abroad : but she never aj)peared to n.-
in my father's house.

It was above a month before I had anv power «dvra
nie to speak to ber, although I thought to do itivom
tune to time, but could not speak; though she LWe
me all the opportunity she could, by walking oft( n bv
my side, or very near me. 'I'his was a great tioublt

to me, ti
gi'cat W(
[ rcla
some o
gave litt
only [)h
peiied,
power t(
My k
worslii])
and one
light the
and can(
she appe
Now (loi
the verv
violently
distance
hand ; m
what alii'
had so oi
there was
nie in m\
story, ur^
me wiiai
bad consc
A kw
tiler's hoi
mind to u
speak to
went out
appeared
name of t
me P and
shrunk hi
cold as ch
speaking l
liist night
y not s]

x'V:,'

166

» '!/oii)ui

Edilo'r,
'Mu\ he.

yes, ill

V3J)U'1I1-

of Mr.
it Scar.
tc'Ii was
Is; and
ug man
1 to see
IS til ken

that it
^ made
s ;

! lie, 1

•a little
a mile
horse-
ted JIIV
CJS.sihle,
e jifter

-V hi ; ;

seha- i ;
I foot,

J were j

T had

failel
to n.^

r givra

IVom
; gave
ten hv

10 libit i

to me, as well as to her; and it hegan to brin.^ -i
threat weakness upon me. ^

' [ related the thing to my father and motlier, a.nl
some o hers ; but they, not believing n,y relalio
gave httle heed to what I said, and thought wa
only phrenzy; tdl the foHowing eircum.^ance hap-
pened, which was a week before God -avo nl-
power to speak to her. ^

My father and mother used to <^ro to n nl-,. r.f
worship l,cIo,,,i„, to M. Wesley, alo.,T a , T off !
|ii.. o je eve.ui.g about ihis time, I went will, ll,ei,i t,
i,g a Ihcm l,on,e, a.s 1 ofto„ ,lkl, wit), a hClam o
ai»l can.lle, and coming 1„ me along theliiX™"
j^^e ap,,ea,e,lto ,„c as nsnal ; I safd to n?faUe'
AcHvciontyonseel.er:' the.e, there she isf an ai
the von- n,on,ent I spoke, the lautho.n was twi ted

vio Mil/ \' out fA ..... 1 I 1 ,1 »'»viDicii

rable
my

no enlly out ol tny |,a„d and Hung to a coi.side
. ..tuMce i,o,n n,e, ,|,e ring o( it' rcnaining i„ a,y
li^ >" ; "V ather and mother uere now boU. so, e^
vhjU allnghled at tiiis, and began to believe wha I
|a,l so often related to then, Sf the ap . " t'o „ uj
there was some truth ir. it. A .ioetor, '« ho a t^ndev
tne m my diness, to whom I had also related he
story, urged n,e by all means ;o speak to her tell ne
me what words to use ; and said, it .,i,r| t be of
ba, conse,,uence il- 1 neglected it lo„«r

A lew nights after this, as I was siting i„ mv fa-
tl..'. s house, It was strongly ir.pressed upon ,nv

:Snrcr'tS;g?;^:b!:.t''i^^^

kstii h," "■T;''"^"'''^^-""' """ --as the ve,y
,V itot spoken to ,ne now, said she, 1 should have

SBH

I-? :i

\ i

, I'J ' I 3',

i i

Iiad power to do you some mischief. Tiien she re-
iated to me what she had to say about her faniily,
who had crudlv hindered her from seeing some of
her dear relations.* After telling me out her wliole
mind, she gave me plain directions concernmg her-
self. ' We conversed together near two hours, ill]
twelve o'clock ; and I promised, if possible, to fulfil
all iier instructions. Accordingly, 1 set out early
next morning, rode near iifty miles, to dillerent
parts, fulfilled her commands, and got back safe to
my father's house. She appointed me to meet her
that night, if 1 had done my business before twelve,
at tlie church-door where she was buried ; tliis was
about two miles from my fatlier's house. Slie met
me at the .church porch, exi)ressed her entire ai)pro.
bation of all that I had done, saying, she should
now be at rest, and wou^ ' ' ouble me no more.

After a short disco' se. which she cliarged mc
never to divulge, she c: ' My time is nearly ex-
pired, follow me into the church. The door open-
ing, she entered the church, wliicli was illuminated
with the most glorious light ; and my hearing the
most soft and lieavenly music betokened her happi-
ness. She bid me take notice when tlie music began
to cease, to go then out of the church ; whicli T did;
and being very glad that all my trouble in this all'air
was ended, I hastened away and saw her no more.

J. KAINE.

* This younfr lady lived ami died with her relations, who
having most other ])ro{HTty in llieir hands, concealed her sick-
ness from her frifiids : their not bein^,^ siiliered to visit her, was
supposed to he the cause of her disqniet, and of Mr. llainu"!*
conlercncc with her.

aniJoh

U the E

to those a
five [)rinc(
i have sc
parts, and
for thirty
after so n
the great*
best estate
i would Ci
counsellor
the whole
hour's enj<
else foisak
prayer,"

A RE

riMlE fo]
JL by a

Edal, in I
Twenty
came out (
moaial all
countrv, t
called the
foiuid abo
sinking ar
One Jai
a fortnight
was most
coiiscienet
leu weeks

167

AN ANECDOTE.

S]\l John MaaoUy Privy-counsellor to king Henry
the Eiglitli, on his death- bed, delivered himself
to those about him to this purpose : " I have seen
five princes, and have been Privy-counsellor to four,
J liave seen the most remarkable things in foreign
parts, and have been present at most state transactions
for thirty years together, and have learned this
after so many years experience, that seriousness is
the greatest wisdom, and a good conscience the
best estate ; and was 1 to live my time over again,
i would change the court for a cloyster ; my Privy-
coiinsellor's business for a ([uite retirement ; and
tlio whole life 1 have lived in the palace, for one
hour's enjoyment of God in the eliapel ; all things
else foi sake me, beside my God, my duty, and my
praver,"

i .j i/^i, I

1 i ■

if^

A REHlAllKAliLE PUNISHMENT OF MURDER

n^lE following melancholy account was given me
JL by a worthy man, Mr. Thomas Marsha)! of
Edal, in Derbyshire, Dec. J 7th, 1778.

Twenty years ago, a young gentleman and lady
oanie out of Scotland, as is supposed, upon a matri-
iiioaial allair. As they were travelling through that
country, they were robbed and murdered, at a place
called the Winnets near Castleton. Their bones were
louiid about ten years ago, by some miners who were
sinking an engine-pit at the place.

One James Ashton, of Castleton, who died about
a fortnight ago, and who was one of the murderers,
was most miserably aillieted and tormented in his
conscience. lie had been dying it was thought, for
len weeks; but could not di(3 before he had confessed

iM iiiy

■hi V

!Im I

IGS

llie wliole allair : But when ho had done this, he
ilied iiunu'diaU'ly.

He sdd, Nicholas Cock, Thomas Hall, John
Bradshaw, Francis Ijiitler, and iiiniself, meeting the
above senlleman and lady in the Winnets, pulled
them o/i' their horse, and dragged them into ii ham
belon« nig to one of them, and took iVom them two
hundrcd ponnds. Then seizing on the yoniig gcMi-
tleman, the young lady (who Ashlon siiid was Uie
fairest woman he ever saw) intreated them, in the
mosc piteous manner, not to kill him, as she was the
cause of his coming into that country. But not-
withstanding all her intreaties, they cut his throat
from ear to ear! They then seized the young lady
herself, and, though she entreated them, on liJi
knees, to si)are her life, and turn her out naked : yet
one of the wretches drove a miner's pick into her
head, when she dropt down dead at his feet. IJaviiig
thus despatched them both, they left their bodies iii
their barn, and went away with their booty.

At night they returned to the barn, in order to
take them away ; but thev were so terrified with u
frightful noise, that they durst not move them : and
so it was the second night ; but the third night,
Ashton said, it was only the devil, who would not
hurt him; so they took the bodies away, and buried
them.

They then divided the rnoney ; and as Ashton was
a coal-carrier to a Smelt-mill, on the Shellield road,
he bought horses with his share ; but they all died in
a little time. Nicholas Cock lell from a precipice,
near the place where they had committed the nunder,
and was killed. Thomas Hall hanged himself. .b)liii
.I5radshaw was walking near the place where they had
buried the bodies, when a stone fell from the hill and
killed him on the spot, to the astonishment of every
one who knew it. Fiancis Butler attempted many
times to hang himself, but was prevented ; however,
lie went mad, and died in a most miserable manner.

Thus,
justice, ('
the hand <
How tiue
our path, i
ways !

THOU

IT was tl
fathers
excellent i
i>(l are eni
stippose tl
the trans fi
glorilied L
tlien convc
ministering
creatiu'es b
aiH/c'ls) ma
service of
aflections.
more than
Saviour to<
of men. t:
capacity c
inclination
properly st
whom they
came P It
tians, that
patriarchs,
appeared tc
the apparit
have reason
called ange

gCMl-

Ls tlie

n tile

s Ihu

iiot-

tlii'diit

JiUlj'

I liur
: yet

many ;
vcver,

iiiiier.

Thus, tljoiigli they escaped tlie hand of human
justice, (which sehlom happens in such a case,) yet
tlie liaiid of God found tljeni out, even in this world,
How true then is it, lliat tliou, O Lord, art about
our pati), and about our bed, and spiest out all aur
ways !

THOUGHTS CONCERNING SOULS DEPARTED.

(Extracted from an ancient Author.)

IT was tlie opinion of the most ancient and learned
fLiti)ors of tlie greatest philosoi)hers, and many
excellent men among the moderns, that souls depart-
ed are embodied in ethereal vehicles. In such they
suppose that tlie souls of 31oses and EHas appeared at
the transfiguration on the Mount. They were not
glorified bodies without souls ; for how could they
then converse with our Lord ? Angels are said to be
ministering spirits: but may not reasonable human
creatures be made so too? and (as they are like unto
aiu/cls) may they not be as proper at least for the
suvice of men ! They have the same nature and
affections. They feel our inlirmities, and consider us
more than abstract spirits do. For which reason our
Saviour took not upon him the nature of angels, but
of men. Souls departed have life, sense and motion,
capacity of being employed, and no doubt have
inclination to it; and whither may they be more
properly sent, than to those of their own nature, to
whoni they are allied, and from whom they so lately
came P It is supposed both by the Jews and Chris-
tians, that the soul of the Messiah appeared to the
patriarchs, and was the angel of the covenant. He
appeared to St. Stephen, though then in glory. Of
the apparitions of angels recorded in scripture, we
have reason to think that some were human souls,
called angels from their office.
^ z

if Jiiif '

] '. v

170

i'
1

A NARRATIVE OF THE DEATH OF THE HON. JR.
5. — T, SON OF THE LATE •

(Concluded from page 107.)

MY business calling me away for a day or two,
I came again on Thursday morning, pretty
early. When I came in I enquired of his friends
how he had spent liis time ? They told me his ex-
pressions were much shorter than before ; but what
he did speak, seemed to have more horror and despair
in it. I went to his bed-side, and asked him how
he did ? He replied, Damned and lost for ever !
I told him the decrees of God were secret. Perhaps
he was punished in this life to lit him for a better,—
He answered, " They are not secret to me, but dis-
covered, and are my greatest torment. My j)unisli-
ment here is for an example to others, and an earnest
to me of my own damnation. I wish there was a
possibility of getting above God ; that would be a
heaven to me." I entreated him not to give way to
so blasphemous a thought; — for — Here he interrupt-
ed me. " Read we not in the Revelations of those
that blasphemed God, because of their pains, I am
now of that number. () how I do but envy the hap-
piness of Cain and Judas /" But, replied I, vou
are yet alive and do not feel the torments of those
that are in hell." He answered, " This is eitlier true
or false. If it be true, how heavy will those torments
be, of which I do not yet feel the uttermost ? But I
know that it is false, and that I now endure more
than the spirits of the damned. Fur I have the .same
torture upon uxy s])irit as they have, besides those I
endure in my body. I believe that at the day of
judgment the torments of my mind and body will
both together be more intense; but as I now am, no
spirit in hell endures what f do. How gladly would
I change my condition for hell !" Here he closed

his eyes a -

now and

but soon a

again, and

my minute

the last pul

cayed mai

and hell!

shall I say

ah, the for

to! Nothi

Here his sf

be (lying, v

agony; in

turned awa;

to hinder hi

gave over.

not (ill som

sters ! are y

giving me i

intolerable r

your happii

grace. H '

it? Ifhev

for it ?" I

God is be(

strong as to

signs me c

none that is

for I — Here

struggle, ai

covered, wil

had been r

insuperable

pired.

171

his eyes a little, and began to talk very wildly every
now and tlien, groaning and gnashing Ids teeth;
but soon alter opening his eyes; he grew sensible
again, and felt lus own pnlse, saying, " How lazily
my minutes go on ! When will be the last breath,
the last pulse that shall beat my spirit out of this de-
cayed mansion, into the desired regions of death
aiui liell! O! I find it just at hand ; and what
shall I say now P Ani J not afraid again to die^^
ah, tiie forlorn hope of him that has not God to go
to! Nothing to t\y to for peace and comfort '"
Here Ins speech failed him ! weall believin«r him to
be (lying, went to prayer, which threw hinr into an
agony; in which, though he could not speak he
turned away his laoe, and made wiiat noise he could
to hinder himself from hearing. Perceiving this we
gave over. As soon as he could speak (which was
not (dl some time after) he said, " 'i^ygers and mon-
sters ! are ye also become devils to 'torment me by
giving me a prospect of heaven, to make hell more
intolerable? "Alas ! Sir, said 1, it is our desire of
your hapinness that casts us down to the throne of
grace. 11 G(ui denies assistance, who else can give
^ . .1, )^/^ not have mercy, whither must we go
for It : He rei.lied, " Aye, there is the wound :
God IS become my enemy, and there is none so
strongas to deliver me out of his hands! He con-
signs ine over to Eternal Vengeance, and there la
none that is able to redeem me ! Tliis cannot be :
lor 1-Here his voice failed again, and he began to
struggle, and gasp for breath : which having re-
covered. With a groan so dreadful and loud, as if it
had heen more than human, he cried out, the

insutidrable pangs of hell and damnation!" and ex-
pired.

> J

1 1^

172

ill

.'/

Mr. Thomas Halihurton.
(Concluded from Page 150.)

AFTER some time's silence, lie took leave of his wife
and children, saluting and speaking to them all,
one hy one. Then he said, " A kind and allectionate
wife you have been to me. The Lord bless you, and
he shall bless you." To a minister that came in, he
said, " Brother, I am upon a piece of trying work.
I am parting with my wife and children, I am resolv-
ed, I bless his name ; thougli I have had one of the
best of wives, yet she is no more mine, but the Lord's."
Then to his son he said, " God bless the lad, and let
my name be named upon him. But O, what is my
name ! Let the name of tlie Lord be named upon
him. Tell the generation following, how good God
is, and hand down this testimony."

After that he spoke to his servants, and said, " My
dear friends, make religion your bufsinesis. 1 charge
you all, beware of graceless masters; seek to be with
them that fear the Lor(i."

Then he said, " Here is a demonstration of the
reality of religion ; that I, a poor, weak, timorous
man, once as much afraid of death as any ; I that
have been many years under the terrors of death,
come now in the mercy of God, and by the power of
his grace, composedly, and with joy to look death in
the face. I have seen it in its paleness, and in all its
circumstances of horror. I dare look it in the face in
its most ghastly shape, and hope within a while to
have the victory."

A while after he said to those about him, " this
is the most honourable pulpit I was ever in ! I am
preaching the same Christ, the same holiness, the
same happiness I did before. I have much satisfaction
in that. — I am not ashamed of the gospel I iiave

preached.
I am not
man in tl
hoi)e of tl
the death
the begin]
(as my st
token for
me a toke

Then p
Lord Jcsi
breast, lik
I hear hin
come awa
stumble n

Then 1
prayer, sa
wait as th^
am weary
so long a
delay !

O ! I ai
gin or cut
with me f
is written
the half ol
me much
in my life
bones are
me; and

When c
hand in lu
find he is
conqueror
d-d!" I
Gotl that i
I am ; ai
under m}
martyrs c

•■y \

173

preached. I was never ashamed of it all my days, and
I am not ashamed of it at the last. Here am T a weak
man, in the hands of the king of terrors, rejoicing in
hope of the glory that shall be rovealed ; and that by
the death and resurrect on of despised Christ. When
the beginning of the trouble was upon me, I aimed
(as my strength would allow) at tliat, show me some
token for good ; and indeed, I think God hath showed
rue a token for good."

Tiien perceiving his spirits faint, he said, " Come
Lord Jesus, receive my spirit, fluttering within my
breast, like a bird to be out of a snare. — When shall
I hear him say, the winter is past; arise my love and
come away ; come and take me by the hand, that I
stumble not in the dark valley of death!"

Then he desired a minister to pray ; and after
prayer, said, " Lord, I wait for thy salvation. I
wait as the watchman watcheth for the morning. I
am weary with delay ! () why are his chariot-wheels
so long a coming ; I am sick of love, I am faint with
delay !

O ! I am full of matter ! I know not where to be-
gin or end. The si)irit of the Lord hath been mighty
witii nief O the book of God is a strange book! It
is written within and without. I never studied it lo
the half of what I should ; but now God hath given
me much of it together. Never was I more uneasy
in my life : and yet 1 was never more easy. All my
bones are ready to break; my hand is a burden to
me ; and yet all is easy !"

When awakened out of sleep, he said, " I am now
hand in hand, grappling with my last enemy : and I
find he is a coixjueiable enemy ; yea, I am more than
conqueror." One said, "A strange champion, in-
(Ii.:d!" He answered, " I, not I, but the grace of
God that is in me. By the grace of God, I am what
I am ; and the God of peace hath bruised Satan
under my feet. I have often wondered how the
martyrs could clap tjieir hands in the fire : I do not

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174

wonder at it now, I could clap my hands though
you held burning candles to them, and think it no
hardship, though the flames were going about
them. And yt^t, weie the Lord withdrawn I should
cry, and not be able to bear it, if you but touched my
foot."

Monday, Sept. 22. At half an hour past two, he
asked what hour it was, and said, " Early in the
^noruing my friends shall be acquainted, for [ expect
this cough will hasten my deliverence. Well, well;
I shall get out of the dark cloud ; within a little I
shall be in Abraham's bosom ; yea, in his, who
carries the lambs in his bosom; and am I sure of
goodness and mercy to follow me. O how good is
he to a poor worm ! Let us exalt his name together.
It is the constant employ of all above, day and night.
They see and sing : they have a clear vision. O when
shall I see his face, who is fairer than the sons of
men! Yea, who is brighter than the sun in his
strength ! "

To a minister he said, ''Could I have believed
(but I am an unbeliever) that 1 could have had
this pleasure in this condition : Once or twice Satan
was assualting my faith. I walked in a sort of carnal
frame, and I thought I had lost my Jewel ; but now
he will stand by me to the end. What shall X render
to him: my bones are rising through my skin: and
yet all my bones are praising him."

After struggling with a deduction in his throat, he
said, " This is a messenger from God to hasten me
home. The other day I would have gone away
without this glorious evidence of the grace of God.
But this is more for my advantage, that I am thus
tried and comforted. 1 said. Why are his chariot-
wheels so long a coming. But I will not say so any
more. Yet a little whi: >, and he that shall come will
come, and will not tarry."

Then he said, " If I should say that I would speak
no more in the name of the Lord, it would be like a

fire Avithi

in a maze
as thougl
but the g
that supp

To his
dear, at
'Tis an e
more, am
the body
God, my
ness."

Then t
much exh
on my bn
tarries foi
do ? ilov
part of thi
Tis the ]
give the c
of pain,
a long tin
not a dis
little sugg
together, i
had then c
since the J
posed thoi

Some t
Lord. E'
must not \
post, but I
work. Tl
But 'tis ea
salvation.'

He mei
a battle lli
of the war
rolled in b

175

fire witliin my heart." And some looking at him as
in a maze, he said, " Why look ye steadfastly on me,
as though by my might or power I were so ? Not I,
but the grace of God in me. Tis the Spirit of God
that supports me."

To his wife he said, "Be not discouraged, my
dear, at the unavoidable consequences of nature.
'Tis an evidence that there is but a very little time
more, and death will be swallowed up in victory :
the body will be shaken in pieces, and yet blessed be
God, my head is composed as it was before my sick-
ness."

Then to some present he said, "My moisture is
much exhausted this night, but the dew lies all night
on my branches, the dew that waits not for man, nor
tarries for the sons of men. O what cannot grace
do ? How have I formerly repined at the hundredth
part of this trouble ! O study the power of religion !
'Tis the power of religion and not the name, will
give the comfort I find. I have peace in the midst
of pain. And O how much of that have I had for
a long time past : My peace has been like a river ;
not a discomposed thought. There have been some
little suggestions; when my enemies joined in a league
together, and made their great assault upon me. I
had then one assault, and I was likely to fall. But
since the Lord rebuked them, there is not a discom-
posed thought, but all is calm."

Some time after he said, " Good is the will of the
Lord. Every one of these throes is good ; and I
must not want one of them ; I must not fly from my
post, but stand as a sentinel, for this is my particular
work. This would be hard work without Christ :
But 'tis easy with him, for he is the captain of my
salvation."

He mentmned the pain in his head, but said. " In
a battle there must be blood and dust. Every battle
of the warrior is with confused noise, and garments
rolled in bl ^d. 'Tis meet I should be so hard put

ItM

! i

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to it, that 1 may know to whom I owe my strength.
that I were at the thorne above, that the glimmer-
ing sight were taken away, that this unsteady faith
might terminate in vision !"

Then lie said, " If I am able, though I cannot speak,
I'll show you a sign of triumph, when I am near
glory ! !"

To his wife he said, " My dear be not discouraged,
though I should go away in a fainting fit. The Lord's
way is the best way. I am composed. Though my
body be vexed, my spirit is untouched."

One said, " Now you are putting your seal to that
truth, that godliness is great gaij. And I hope you
are encouraging yourself in the Lord." As a sign of
it, he lifted up his hands and clapped them. And in
a little time, about ieven in the morning, he went to
the land, where the weary are at rest.

A true account of the manner and conversion of
Colonel Gardiner, a few years l>efore he fell in
battle ; taken down in writing from his own mouth,
by two intimate Jriends of his, viz. the Rev. Dr.
Doddridge, and the Rev. Mr. Spears, Minister at
Breutisland. — Also his death.

THIS remarkable event (says Dr. Doddridge)
happened about the middle of July, 1791 ; he
thinks it was on a Sunday evening. The Major had
spent the evening with some gay compaiiy, and had
made an unhappy appointment with a married woman,
whom he was to meet exactly at twelve o'clock. The
company broke up about eleven; and not judging it
convenient to anticipate the time appointed, he went
into his chamber, to kill, as he said, the tedious hour
with some book, or other amusement ; but it very
providentially happened that he took up a religious
l30ok, which either his mother, or hie aunt, had slipt
into his portmanteau. The book was entitled,

"The Chi
written bj
it, he shoi
spiritual ii!
some dive
it for a fe'
notice of j
while the
to me sev(
in a very
but to his
the cross,
glory, anc
a voice, v\
effect, " C
and are tl;
an audibh
senses, lit
upon it as
from God
non, (saic
I sunk do
continued
whetlier a
while he c
than us us
during th
that ciimii
fore engro
the chair,
ceived; ai
he was rei
rnent and
as the vih
had all his
by his sin
now saw,
derful a vi
and acted
6

W'l

177

"The Christian Soldier, or Heaven taken by storm !"
written by Mr. Watson ; and guessing by the title of
it, he should find some phrases of his own profession
spiritualized in such a ir,anner, as might afford him
some diversion (as he said,) he resolved to dip into
it for a few minutes, but yet he took no particular
notice of any thing he read in it. But on a sudden,
while the book was open in his hand, (as he related
to me several times,) there was presented to his sight,
in a very lively manner, not to his imagination only,
but to his bodily eyes, the Lord Jesus Christ upon
the cross, surrounded with a refulgent light and
glory, and that a voice, or something equivalent to
a voice, was impressed upon him, in words to this
effect, " Oh sinner ! did I suffer all this for thee?
and are these the returns?" But whether this was
an audible voice, or a strong impression upon his
senses, he did not presume to affirm, but looked
upon it as a vision of an extraordinary nature, as
from God ; and struck with so amazing a phenome-
non, (said he,) " there remained hardly life in me ;
I sunk down into an arm chair on which I sat, and
continued (I know not how long,) quite insensible,"
whether asleep or not, he could not say, but after a
while he opened his eyes, and saw nothing more
than usual; nor did he, (as he declared to me,)
during the remainder of the night, once recollect
that criminal and detestable assignation, which be-
fore engrossed ail his thoughts. He then rose from
the chair, in a tumult of passion not to be con-
ceived ; and walked to and fro in his chamber till
he was ready to drop down in unutterable astonish-
ment and agony of soul ; now appearing to himself
as the vilest monster in the creation of God, who
had all his life time been crucifying the Lord Christ
by his sins, and disobedience to his precepts, and
now saw, (as he assuredly believed, by so won-
derful a vis^ion) all the horrors of what he had done
and acted ; and yet, at the same time, he saw, (as he
^ 2 a

178

said,) both the majest}^ and goodness of God In
sparing such a rebel, and the chief of sinners ; that
he ever had abhorred himself, as disserving nothing
at God's hand, but wrath and eternal damnation.
And that, from this moment, he became the greatest
penitent before God and man ; abhorring himselfas
in dust and ashes; and so continued to the day of
his death ; attributing all to the free unmerited grace
of Christ, to one of the vilest of sinners : and never
mentioned the name of God, or of Christ, but with
the greatest reverence ; and yet the Lord so lilted
up the light of his countenance upon him, at differ-
ent times, and strengthened his faith in him, that
he never after doubted of his salvation, through the
above merits of the Redeemer. He had also a fore-
sight of his death in a dream, as he related himself,
" I thought, (says he,) I saw my Saviour walking
before me over a large field, (the \ery field of battle
where he fell,) and the Lord turned round and
smiled upon me ; so that I never after doubted of
his aid and protection, nor of rny interest in his
precious blood.

He died of his wounds received at the battle of
Preston Pans.

Though this, and the followihg relation are not of
the most striking order of apparition stories, they,
notwithstanding carry in themselves internal marks
of a supernatural revelation in these latter times, and
serve to prove in geiieral that providence has not left
man entirely alone, but that his grace is yet sufficient.
If any degree of credit can be given to any thing of
this kind, the assent must be granted to respectable
witnesses, who have no interest to delude, and whose
characters remove them too far from the temptation
of fraud to practise deceit.

HE lay
last ii
no longer,
comes out
second ma
the forecas
and all we

The mai
know him
answered,
what's the

Says th(
very uneas
own fancy
I know no

There a
the mate.

Says the

South-v\
coast, and

That's al
some other
to his cabii
stood bv h
a voice, " I

Upon thi
says the ca;
water had ^

About ai

Heave aj

There's n
but if you ]

I don't ki
I think, an(

179

Observations on Dreams.
(Continued from pafje 143.)

HE lay in this uneasiness near two hours ; but at
last it increased so upon him, that he could lie
no longer, but got up, put on his watch-gown, and
comes out upon the quarterdeck : there he found the
second mate walking about, and the boatswain upon
the forecastle, the night fine and clear, a fair wind,
and all well as before.

The mate wondering to see him, at first did not
know him: but calling. Who's there? the captain
answered, and the mate returns, Who, the captain !
what's the matter. Sir ?

Says the captain, I don't know ; but I have been
very uneasy these two hours, and Sv^mebody, or my
own fancy, bid me turn out and abroad, though
I know not what can be the meaning of it.

There can be nothing in it but some dream, says
the mate.

Says the captain, how does the ship cape ?

South-west by south, says the mate, fair for the
coast, and the wind east by north.

That's all very good, says the captain ; and so after
some other usual questions, he turned about to go back
to his cabin ; when, as if it had been somebody that
stood by him and spoke, it came into his mind like
a voice, " Heave the lead, heave the lead."

Upon this he turns again to his second mate : Mate
says the captain, when did you heave the lead ? what
water had you ?

About an hour ago, says the mate, sixty fathoms.

Heave again says the captain.

There's no manner of occasion, Sir, says the mate :
but if you please it shall be done.

I don't know, says the captain, 'tis needless indeed,
1 thn}k, and so was going away again ; but was. as

Li "

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iii.

1. ;

I '

'!§'

180

it were forced to turn back as before, and says to the
mate, I know not what ails me, but I cannot be easy;
come, call a hand aft and heave the lead.

Accordingly a hand was called, and the lead being
cast or heaved, as they rail it, they had ground ai
eleven fathoms.

This surprised them all, but much more when at
the next cast, it came up seven fathoms.

Upon this the captain in a fright bade them put the
helm a-lee, and about ship, all hands being ordered
to back the sails, as is usual in such cases.

The proper orders being obeyed, the ship stayed
presently and came about, and when she was about,
before the sails filled, she had but four fathoms and
a half water under her stern ; as soon as she filled and
stood off, they had seven fathoms again, and at the
nextcast eleven fathoms, and so on to twenty fathoms;
so he stood off to seaward all the rest of the watch, tu
get into deep water, till day break when being a clear
morning, there were the capes of Virginia, and all the
coast of America in fair view under their stern, and
but a few leagues distant ; had they stood on but one
cable's length farther, as they were going, they had
been bump a-shore (so the sailors call it) and cer-
tainly lost their ship, if not their lives.

Now, what could this be ? Not the devil, that we
may vouch for him ; he would hardly be guilty of
doing so much good ; hardly an angel sent from
heaven express, that we dare not presume ; but it
was the work of a waking providence, by some in-
visible agent employed for that occasion, who took
sleep from the captain's eyes ; as once, in a case of
infinitely more importance, was done to king Aha-
suerus. This we may conclude, had the captain slept
as usual, and as nature required, they had been all
lost; the shore being flat at a great distance, and as
I suppose, the tide low, the ship had been aground
in an instant, and the sea, which ran high, would have
broken over her, and soon have dashed her in pieces.

all be out
think thei
when thej
was to be
tain it wa
at night,
have beer

If this
Scripture
God in a ^
but here \
the captai
nothing a
went to hi
that any i
hcean cou
calculatio
and made
satis lactic
case to ht

I come
I take up(
present at

A pers(
so proper
if there si
was unde
der a pari
present ca
which wy
liberty, 1
taken up
senting it
of state to
resolve to
to concea
ment hav

181

How it liappened that the mates and other navi-
irators on board should all of them iiave kept, and yet
all be out in their reckoning, and that so much as to
think themselves an hundred leagues from the coast ;
when they were not above twenty or twenty-five, that
was to be accounted for among themselves ; but cer-
tain it was that if it had not for thus being alarmed
at night, the whole ship's company might probably
have been lost.

If this was not an apparition, it must be what the
Scripture calls it, in another case, being warned of
God in a dream, which by the way is the same thing ;
but here was something more than being warned ; for
the captain owned he was in no dream ; he dreamed
mi nothing at all, much less any thing of danger ; he
went to his bed or cabin, with all the prudent caution
that any man in that important trust of a ship in the
ftcean could do; and then after having made their
calculations, cast up their reckoning, set their watch,
and made every thing sure, he laid down with all the
satisfaction that it was possible for any man in a like
case to have.

T come now to another relation of fact, which also
I take upon me to vouch the reality of, having been
present at the very instant of every part of it,

A person, says Dr. Beaumont, whose name is not
so proper to mention here, but who may be produced
if there should be occasion, being still living, that
was under the disaster, a few years ago, to fall un-
der a party censure, (the occasion is needless to the
present case.) In hopes, upon the recess of the house,
which was not far off, he should, (as usual) be at
liberty, he withdrew himself, and avoided being
taken up as much as he could j but the house re-
senting it, a vote was passed, ordering the secretary
of state to prosecute him at law ; this obliged him to
resolve to leave the kingdom, and in the mean time
to conceal himself with more exactness ; the govern-
ment having issued out a pr clamation for appre-

'/»

f ■?

182

bending liiin, with a reward to the person wlio should
discover where he was, so as ho inight be iaken.

In order to conceal himself more rliectually, he left
his lofiging where lie had been hid for some time, and
removed to Barnet, on the-edge of Hertfordshire; in-
tending, as soon as he had settled some family adiiirs
to go away north, into Scotland ; hut before he went
away, he was obliged to come once more to London
to sign some writings for the securing some estate,
which it was feared might be seized by outlaw if
the prosecution had gone on so far.

The night before he had appointed to come toLon-
don, as above, being in bed with one Mr. R — D— ,
he dreamed that he was in his lodgings in London,
where he had been concealed as above, and in his
dream he saw two men come to the door, who said
they were messengers, and produced a warrant from
the secretary of state to apprehend him, and that ac-»
cordingly they seized upon and took him.

The vision surprised and waked him, and he waked

Mr. D , his brother in law, who was in bed

with him, and told him the dream, and what a sur-
prise he was in about it. Mr. , seeing it was

but a dream, advised him to give no heed to it, but
compose himself, and go to sleep again ; which he
did.

As soon as he was fast asleep again ; he was waked
with the same dream exactly as before; he waked his
brother again, as before; this disturbed them both
very much ; but being heavy to sleep, Ihey both went
to sleep again, and dreamed no more. It is to be ob-
served, that he saw the very men that apprehended
him, their countenance, clothes, weapons, &c., and
described them in the morning to his said brother

D in all the particulars.

However, the call to go to London being as he
thought urgent, he got ready in the morning to set
off, resolving to stay but one day, and then set for-
ward for Scotland. Arpnrrlincrlu hp wpnt fnr T.ondnn

in tiie nu
walked it
vate way
Hornsev,

All tilt
oppn'sset
walked w
to Londc
forebodin
stopped a
intending
thing had

As he 1
accidental
door who
to trust or
he dwelt
him, and

Theini
again at J
there, but
him word
it was toe
to Londoi
pose; an(
was taken
ner as he
same two
the same (
described.

This stc
ed by Mr.
he related
above.

I refer
every circi
I have not
me, by >
could thes

i*^ I

183

•

in the morning, and, that lie miglit not be known,
walked it on foot; that s^^ he mis^iit go l)v more pri-
vate ways over Enfield Chase, and so to'Southgate,
Hornsey, kc.

All tiie way he walked, his mind was heavy and
oppn'ssed, and he frequently said to his brother, who
walked with him, that he was certain he wt:s going
to London to be surprised : and so strong was ihe
foreboding impression upon his mind, that he once
stopped at Hornsey, and endeavoured to get a lodging
intending to send his brother to London, to see if any
thing had happened there, and to give him notice.

As he had just secured a convenient lodging, he
accidentally saw a gentleman standing at the next
door whom he knew very well, but durst not venture
to trust on that occasion ; and finding on inquiry that
he dwelt there, he concluded that was no place for
him, and so reso'- .h\ tu go forward.

The impres.H . > his mind continuing, he stopt
again at Islinj - deavoured to get a lodging

there, but coul. ngth his brother brought

him word he col . a lodging, except where

it was too public. \\'(iii, says he, then I must go
to London, and take what follows, or to that pur-
pose; and accordingly went, and the next morning
was taken by the messengers, just in the very man-
ner as he had been told in his dream ; and the very
same two men, whose faces he had seen, and with
the same clothes on and weapons, exactly as he bad
described.

This story I had from his own mouth, and confirm-
ed by Mr. R 1) , his brother in law, to whom

he related his vision at the very moments of it as
above.

I refer it to any impartial judgment, to weigh
every circumstance of this account, (thetruih of which
I have not the least reason to question,) and to tell
me, by what powers, and from what influence,
could these things be performed, if there were no

, 1 ^^1

■ ■ fM ' *'■ If

III f«

i Si ■

:n\\\'i

184

invisible world, and no inhabitants there who con-
cerned tiiemselves with our atlhirs ; no good spirits
which conversed with our embodied spirits, and gcve
us due intelligence, notice, and vvarniiig of a[)i) >ach-
ing danger.

If tiiere is any difficultv in this case, it seems to
ine to be ii' the ever?t of t! e thing, as in the case
mentioned ; why v/as not t!ie intelligence made so
complete, so forcible, t'nd tlit in)pression so plain,
that the person in whose favou>- it was all done, niight
have been effectually alarmed, his going forward
stopped, and conse(pieiitly the mischief which was
at hand, and which he liavi the notice uf, etlectually
prevented !

It is not indeed so easy to answer that part ; but
it may be resohed into this that the fault seems
to be our own, that we do not give due attention
to such notice, as might be sulHcient to our deli-
verance.

Thus, if the invisible spirits give a due alarm,
they do their pari; if they jog us and awaken us in
a deep sleep and pull us again and again, and give
us notice that something is coniinj, that some dan-
ger is at the door; if we still sleep on till it comes,
if he will go on, happen whatever may, the kind
spirit has done its duty, discharged its olKce, and if
we fall into the mischief, the fault is our own, we
can by no means blame the insufJiciency of the no-
tice, and say, to what purpose is it; seeing we had
due and timely warning, but would not take the hint?
we had due notice of the danger, and would not step
out of the way to avoid it, the fault is wholly our
own.

Another account I had a sufficient voucher for,
though the gentleman is now dead, but I have great
reason to believe the truth of it.

A young gentleman of great birth and fortune, in
the beginning of the late war with France, had a
great inclination to see the woiid, as he called it,

a(]d reso
(lead, an<
tlier'.s joi
of course
His m
the army
lie might
the calan
life.

lie toll
was all c
expensive
see the w
liaps migl
His -iM
life, and h
into the i
come hoii
prefernien

Ei:

TKR

no
thing, dep
world of u
the diurna
tiite those
cease to rt
one seaso)
Thus, \vh(
will iippeu
the iuture,
God in p(
tural evil,

1H5

mid ivsoIvimI lo go inio tlie uiiny ; liin I'litlier was
(lead, and liad It'll iiiiit a go^d estate, Losides his ino-
thei's jointure, wliicli at her death would fall to him
of course.

Ills mother earnestly entreated him not to go into
tht'cuniy, hut persuaded him rather lO travel, that so
\w jiiight see the world, as she ;;aid, without feeling
the calamities of the war, and without hazarding his
life.

lie told her, travelling, irdeed, in time of peaee,
was all a gentleman coiUl do, and was at best very
expensive; but that now was the time a man might
see the v»^orld at tli(; expense of the public, and per-
ha])s might make his fortune too.

His > mother represented to him the dai ger of his
life, and bade him consider how many gentlemen went
into the army, and of them, how'few had lived to
come home again, much less to rise to any degree of
preferment.

To be concluded in out- nej'l.

ieU ii.

OxN Tin.; GLORIES OF REDEM TTION.

ETKRNJTY rolls on like a boundless ocean; time
is no interrupti(m to it, for time is only a relative
thing, dependant on locality and circumstances. In a
vvorhl of uninterrupted day, no period-, can be m >rked ;
the diurnal and ammal revolutions of a planet consti-
tute those dates called time; but shouhl the sphere
lease to revolve, and fix at one point in its orbit, then
one season continue!.', vviti' one perpetual day or night.
Thus, when earth shall cease to revolve, eternity past
will appear to have been uninterruptedly flowing into
the future, and then will fully apjiear the wisdom of
God in permitting the introduction of moral and na-
tural evil, arul in producing such an infinity of good
' 2 B

.■A

180

to man, and such an amazing display of the gioiy of
his attributes, by such apparent contrarieties, that the
creature's original desire of indepei-dance should give
occasion for such glorious manifestations of wisdom,
power, holiness, righteousness, and mercy !

Celestial intelligents were ac(piainted with the pow-
er of God in the works of Creation ; with his goodness,
in their own felicity ; with his awful holiness and
justice, in the expulsion and punishment of apostate
spirits. But what conceptions could they have of
mercy who never sinned? who never saw it exercised?
Who can say whether this transcendently glorious at-
tribute, would not have been for ever hid from admir-
ing angels ? — could have been manifest without objects
of wretchedness, pain, and miser}^ for its exercise?—
But guilt and misery, disease and death, appear; mer-
cy, in harmon}^ with all the divine perfections, unfolds
her glories, and all heaven is astonished with this new
display of Deity !

Man is not merely forgiven — he is intensely belov-
ed ; love connected with such power as will neitiier
sutler the besieging, tempting, malignant subtlety of
hell, nor the dei)rave(l, corrupt, obstinate will of the
objects of his pity, to rend them from the upholding
arms of his power, from the unchangeable atiections
of his heart; and man shall know, and sensibly feel it,
in that wonderful operation of mercy which converts
his bane to his benefit; which is continually beaming
forth with growing wonders, in the production of ever-
lasting good from tenn)()rary evil.

Thus the glories of redemption dispel the impene-
trable gloom of transgiession, otlierwise impervious
to every ray of hope. Gni/t shall be the occasion of
conviction, remorse, repentance, pardon ; calamities,
Iiumility ; pains, patience and resignation : debase-
ment, exaltation; and the temporary influence of
error, or relapsings to evil, shall eventually hum-
ble and debase the creature, undermine his vain self-
conlidence, cause him to cease from or be diffident

of his OM
convince
is, with (
his use ii
heart full
and grow
crease an
liberty, a
will, and
ing in G
roll back
beloved, s
enjoy mem
and the t(
cntting ref
love, for I
known no
for ever an
That m
perverse w
judgment,
increased
shines in t
miration,
be brough
depra\'ity
way in w
human na'
dlally eniL
after the ev
for entire
union and
nerate his
his worshi
example ;
assaulted fr
with a total
his corrupt
demand co

187

of his own judgenieiits, resolutions, or fortitude, and
convince him that his strencjth is not in himself, but
is, with every other needful grace, treasured up for
his use in his everlasting head, and that shall, in a
lieart full of corruption and abomination, take root
and grow, and, maugre ever\ opposition, shall in-
crease and spread, till its fragrance diffuses purity,
liberty, and light through the judgment, memory'
will, and affections, making man a new creature, liv-
ing in God, and God in him, till disease and death
roll back the checpiered scenes of mortality, and the
beloved, sanctified soul, enters upon the everlasting
enjoyment of his God ; when the solicitations of sin
and the torturing provocations of temptation ; heart-
cutting reflections for sin committed against light and
love, for ungrateful returns for grace received, will be
known no more, the law of sin in the members being
for ever annihilated

That man fallen, born witb corrupt affections, a
perverse will, a darkened understanding, a perverted
jiulgment, an innate enmity to God and his image,
increased in proportion as that image conspicuously
shines in the sanctified, full of self-complacency, ad-
miration, &c. — that man, so circumstanced, should
be brought to abhor himself; confess and deplore the
depravity of his nature; implore mercy in the only
way in which it is to be obtained, and to which
human nature, without exception, is averse, to cor-
dially embrace Christ in all his offices; to breathe
after the everlasting enjoyment of his love, and long
for entire conformity to his will ; to be brought into
union and fellowship with the Son of God ; to ve-
nerate his presence and attributes ; to be zealous for
his worship and honour, and constantly imitate his
example; and, though oppressed, weakened, and
assaulted from within and without, should yet proceed
with a total recignation to infinite wisdom ; denying
his corrupt appetites, not only when they solicit, but
demand compliance; mortifying his pride: and, in

■■■■

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tlie midst of disapointmeiits, losses, adversity, and
acute bodily pain, Jiistifving God, and condemning
himself; patient in tribulation ,- delighted in the re-
proach of Christ; trium})liing over inbred corrup-
tions; and, though the su])ject of a weakened and
contracted nature, expanding with the most dignified
sentiments; realizing a state of miseen existence, and
ardently loving an unseen object, aspiring after llie
eternal fruition of a being, who for ever stands dread-
fully opposed to the shadow of a transgression, biii
whom the renewed soul beholds by faith in the person
of his 8on, and his everlasting Father; and in lan-
guor, disease and death enjoying brighter views and
firmer hopes of innnortality and glory — is the wonder
of heaven, the envy of hell, the glory* of the cross, and
the noblest work of God.

STRANGE WARNING TO A RKPROBATK PURLTCAN.

IN Bethnal-Green, and near the school-house, there
is a public house known by the name of the Gib-
raltar, which was long kept by one John Harris, a na-
tive of Birmingham, a silver i)later by trade. This
man for many years, encouraged by his great success
in business, led a very irregular life, ins^nmch that he
lost his trade in the public house, and getting into a
disorderly way entirely, the parish officers and justice
refused to renew his license, and for a whole year he
was fain to keep his house close. During this interval,
having dismissed his servants, and his wife having left
him for some words which had happened ; as he sat
by the parlour fire, it being the winter time, he heard
the bar bell ring, which made him wonder nnicli,
knowing there was u'shody in the house but himself!
At first he paid but little attention, but upon hearing
it distinctly a second time, he got up and went to the
back door, suspecting some one had entered that way

and was

safe, he i

the oddiv

bell fell a

as before,

that pulle

Disturb

terniined t

in his han

he passed

to ins grt

that he w

of a good

much like

back wind

seemed to

At first

for thougl

was somet

clared her

conscience

memory c

summoned

tion, " wl

knees in j

is not noi

liereafter h

manners ;

ing voice

kv/ years

train up y

keep her i

die young

Consider li

tie time w

the evil tb

accordingly

ground wit

leaving Mr

IHv)

M I

lis
success
tliat lie
into a
justice
^'ear lie
iterval,
ing left
he sat
i heard
much,
iinself.

and was putting a trick upon him ; but finding all
safe, he returned to the fireside, wondering much at
the oddness of the thing, when all on a sudden the
bell fell a ringing again, though not in so ciuiok a tone
as before, but somewhat more regularly, as if the hand
that pulled it held it for a while.

Disturbed at this extraordinary call, he got up, de-
termined to (h'seover the cause, and taking the ])oker
in his hand, being the first thing he could lay hold on,
he passed through the bar into the back room, where,'
to his great astonishment and terror, for he allowed
that he was severely frightened, he beheld the figure
of a good looking female personage, dressed in brown,
much like a cpiaker, seated in a chair, between the two
hack windows, and leaning upon a long stick, which
seemed to support her.

At first Mr. Harris was too much affected to speak,
for though very a aliant and noisy in company, there
was something about the figure before him which de-
clared her not to be of this world ; besides, his own
conscience upbraided him with more evil than his
memory could just then recollect. However, he
summoned power enough to put the old foolish ques-
tion, '^what art thouP" and with that fell on his
knees in a devout manner to pray, "What I am
is not now business to relate, but what you may
iiereafter become if } ou do not amend your life and
manners; so get up man, and remember the warn-
ing voice of one from the dead. You have but a
(ew years to live, make the most of your time, and
train up your daughter Phebe in a good way, and
keep her from such and such company, or she will
die young, violently, and by the force of justice.
Consider her life is just now in your hands, a lit-
tle time will place it out of your power to reverse
the evil that awaits her. — Remember this and live
accordingly." — Widi this she seemed to strike the
ground with her stick and immediately dissappeared,
leaving Mr. Harris much astonished at what he had

U)0

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^ IV I

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botli heard and seen, and only lamented that he liad
no witness to the trutli of this accident.

Be it as it will, it procured a wonderful alteration
in him for the best ; for though his former compani-
ons laughed at him for becoming a methodist, he ever
after adhered to the paths of i)rudence and sobriety.
I knew him in the year 17C5, a very orderly and so-
ber man, and from Ijis invariable relation of this mat-
ter have no doubt of its truth.

The prediction with respect to his daughter Pliehe
was too fatally accom})lished a i'cw years since, she
being burnt for treason as it is called, that is, for
counterfeiting the current coin called a shillinir.

Mils. TOOLY.

AFTER her grandfater's death she was left sole
heiress of his great estate : and being in the bloom
of youth, and having none to control her, she ran after
all the fasionable diversions of the time in which she
lived, without any manner of restraint. But at the
same time, she confessed, that, at the end of them all
she found a dissatisfaction both with herself and them
that always struck a damp to her heart, which she did
not know how to get rid of, but by running the same
fruitless ground ovor and over again, but all in vain.
8he contracted some slight illness, upon which she
thought she would go to Bath, as hearing that was a
l)lace for pleasure as well as health. When she came
thither, she was led in providence to an apothecarv,
who was a religious man. He inquired what she
ailed ? Why, says she, doctor, I dog't ail much, as to
my body ; put I have an uneasy mind, which I can't
get rid of. Truly, said he. Miss, I was so too, till I
met with a book that cured me of it. Books ! said
vshe : I get all the books I can lay my hands on ; all
the plays, novels, and romances I can hear of. But

after I ha

That mav

this book

of no oth

but can \

seen it bef

it. Pray,

Miss, ans

every one,

says she.

help you

I will givt

ed, If yoi

you ; and

filly : ant

first, that

j)romi^ed 1

curiosity' b

it, he at la

gave it he:

looked at ii

Why, Misi

rcnieniber ]

read it care

Well, sa

give it a re£

and it soor

thing she 1

lasy in her

now. 8he

she got aw

versions th(

She lodged

gentlewoma

Saturday ni
of uorsiiip

liiember no
the text: 1:
upon her n

Phel

; all
But

101

after I have read them, my uneasiness is the same
That may be, said he : I don't wonder at it. But
this book I speak of, I can say of it, what I can say
of no other I have read ; I never tire of reading it •
but can begin to read it again, as if I had neve^
seen It before. And I always find something new in
it. Pray, says she, doctor, what book is that ? Nay
Miss, answered he, that is u secret I don't tell to
every one. But could I get a sight of that book ?
says she. Yes, Miss, if you speak me fair, I can
help you to It. Pray get it me then, doctor, and
I wil give you any thing you please. He answer-
ed, n you wdl promise one thing, I will brinff it
you; and that is, that you will read it over, care-
hlly : and, if you should not see much in it at
hrst, that you will give it a second reading. She
l)romi|,ed faithfully she would; and after raising her
curiosity by coming twice or thrice without bringinff
It, he at last brought it, took it out of his pocket, and
pive It her. It was a New Testament. When she
looked at It, she said, Poh, I could get that any time
Why, Miss, so you might, replied the doctor: but
rcnieipber I have your solemn promise, that you will
read it carefully. *^

Well, says she, though I never read it before Pll
givx^ it a reading. Accordingly she began to read it •
and It soon attracted her attention. She saw some-
thing she had a deep concern in, and if she was un-
lasy 111 her mind before, she was ten times more so
now. She did not know what to do with herself So
she got away back to London, to see what the di-
versions there would do again. But all was hi vain.
She lodged at the court end of the town; and had a
gentlew(^man with her, by way of a compaiMon. One
Natuiday night she dreamed, that she was in a place
<>l uorsliij, and heard a sermon which she could re-
ij.eiMber notliing of when she awaked, exceiitiiiLr
the text: but the dream made such an impression
upon her '^•■"-' *'- —^ ^i • i . *

mind, that the idea she had of the pi

ace

iiil:.

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I ■ Wi

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IB!"i;.' v^

^ !f

102

and of tli(^ minister's face, was as strong as if slie had
been acquainted vvitii both lor a number of years. SIk'
told her dream to her companion on the Lord's clay
morning ; and, after breakfast, said, she was resolved
to go in quest of it, if she should go from one end of
London to the other. Accordingly they set out, and
went into this and the other church, as they passed
along ; but none of them answered what she saw in
her dream. About one o'clock they found themselves
in the heart of the city ; and they went into an eating.
house, and had a bit of dinner; and set out again in
search of this unknown place. About half an hour
after two, they were in the Poultry ; and she saw a
great many i)eople going down the old Jewry. So
soon as she entered the doov of it, and looked about,
she turned to her compainon, and said, with some
surprise, This is the very place I saw in my dream.
She had not stood long, till Mr. Shower, who was
then minister of tiie place, went up into the pulpit;
and so soon as she looked on him, with greater sur-
prise still, she said, This is the very man 1 saw in my
dream j and if every part of it hold true he will take
that for his text, Psalm cxvi. 7. " lleturn unto thy
rest, O my soul : for the Lord hath dealt bountifully
with thee." When he began to pray she was all atten-
tion, and every sentence went to her heart. Having
finished prayer, he took that for his text ; and there
God met with her soul in a saving way and manner:
and she at last obtained what she so long sought lor
in vain elsewhere, rest to her soul in him, who is the
life and happiness of them that believe.

()\ THK VANITY OF THE WOR[,D.

rip^EMPTlNG joys, and earthly pleasure,
JL Faithless as the lleetijig wind ;
All your toys and gilded treasure,
Shall not gain my peaceful mind ;

^HE

19a

Bounding as tlie hart I'll flee
To liis breast who died for me ;
Hide me in liis kind embrace,
Secure from all the tempting race.

Midst alluring snares 1 wander.

Where the Siren's voice I hear ;
Beauty, fame, and earthly grandeur,

In attractive charms appear :
Rise, my soul ; make haste away,
Though the tempter bid thee stay ;
Turn thine eyes, — thy heart command,
And fly from this enchanted land.

Darkness, death, and desolation,
Tend the paths of vain delight :
Fear, distress, and sore vexation.

Leading to eternal night :
Sons of pleasure softly glide
Down the vain enchanting tide :
Pleas'd with ev'ry prospect gay.
Till pain and death conclude the day !

Wisdom's ways are peaceful, pleasant,

Leading to eternal day !
Wisdom's joys are so transendent,

Here I'll sing my life away !
Then my Lord shall bid me rise
I^'ar above the earth and skies ;
Rise to glorious worlds above.
To sing, adore, and praise, and love !

Solitary Stanzas.

WHEN will the heart's dire conflict cease.
By anguish worn, by care distrest P
Oh, bear me to the home of peace.

And lay me where the weary rest '
? '2c ■

rst

I \

191

Mili

Again the l)itter tear-drops fall

Again tlie sighs of grief ascend ;
I call on death — in vain I call,

Death still the foe, but not the friend I

Olife! if eartirs contracted span
Alone thy joys and woes contain.

How worthless is the lot of man,

Who lives, and thlni<s, and hopes in vain

" Another and a better world ;

The awful voice of reason cries ;"
Religion's ensigns are unfml'd,

And point that scene — above the skies \

The kingdom, lo! of glory there;

There, too, the house not made with hands.
Where faith a mansion sludl prepare

For pilgrims in these mortal's lands.

'' T\MV. shall hv no lim(jiei\"

TUTS alludes to the begining of Revelations the
tenth ; which, abstracted from its spiritual mean-
ing, and considered only as a stately piece of machine-
ry, well deserves our attention ; and, J will venture to
say, has not its superior, perhaps not its equal, in
any of the most celebrated masters of Greece and
Rome. All that is gloomy or beautiful in the atmos-
phere, all that is striking or magnificent in every cle-
ment, is taken to heighten the idea. Yet nothing is
disproportionate; but a. uniform air of inetiiibie
majesty greatens, exalts, ennobles the whole. Be
pleased to observe the aspect of this august personage.
All the brightness of the sun shines in his counte-
nance; and all the rage of the fire burns in his feet.
See his apparel. The clouds compose his robe, and

the drape
Tiie rain!
passeth tl
namcnt ol
stands on
wide exte
iis pedcsta
action. J
stars. H(
echo with
resounds
skies is di
thun<ler s
to receive
highest gi
the repre.'
his mouth
and ever.'
had expre
ing unive
speech by
not only '
with the
shall be n
so big wil
pires, but
wheels of
loll; and
world ovt
titude of
found in :

10.-

the drapery of the sky flouts upon liis shoulders.
Tlie rainbow I'ornis his diadem ; and that whicli com-
passeth the lieaven with a glorious circle, is the or-
nament of his head. 13ehold his attitude. One foot
stands on the ocean, the other rests on the land. The
wide extended eartli, and the world of waters, serve
as pedestals for those mighty columns. Consider the
action. His hand is lifted up to the height of the
stius. He speaks ; and the regions of the firmament
echo with the mighty accents, as the midnight desert
resounds with the lion's roar. The artillery of the
skies is discharged at the signal ; a peal of seven-fold
thunder sjireads the alarm, and prepares the universe
to receive his orders. To finish all, and to give the
highest grandeur, as well as the utmost solemnity, to
the representation, hear the decree that issues from
his mouth. " He swears by him that livetli for ever
and ever." In whatever manner so majestic a person
iiad expressed himself, he could not fail of command-
ing universal attention. But when he confirms his
speech by a most sacred and inviolable oath, we are
not only wrapt in silent suspence, but overwhelmed
with the profoundest awe. He swears, "that time
shall be no longer." Was ever voice so full of terror ;
so big with wonder ? It proclaims, not the fall of em-
pires, but the final period of things. It strikes off the
wheels of nature ; bids ages and generations cease to
loll; and, with one potent word, consigns a whole
world over to dissolution. This is one among a mul-
titude of very sublime and masterly strokes, to be
found in that too much neglected book, the Bible.

iJKi

The story of Mr. John Bourm', of Durlvij, in Ireland,
about a mile from Brid/pvater, Counsellor at Law,

i-i

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R. John Boiirnt', lor his skill, care and lio-
5ty, was made by his neighbour, John Mallet,
Esq., of Enmore, the chief of his trustees for his son
John Mallet, father to Elizabeth, now Countess
Dowager of Rocliester, and the rest of his children in
minority. He had the reputation of a worthy good
man, and was commonly taken notice of for an ha-
bitual saying, by way of interjection almost to any
thing,, viz. You say true. You say true, You are
in the right. This Mr. Bourne fell sick at his house
at Durley, in the year 1654, and Dr. Raymond of
Oake was sent for to him, who after some time gave
the said Mr. Bourne over. And he had not now
spoke in twenty-four hours, when the said Dr. Ray-
mond and Mrs. Carlisle, Mr. Bourne's nephew's wife,
whose husband he made one of his heirs, sitting by
his bedside, the doctor opened the curtiiins at the
bed's feet to give him air ; when on a sudden, to the
horror and amazement of Dr. Raymond and Mrs.
Carlisle, the great iron ciiest by the window at his
bed,s feet, with three locks to it (in which were all the
writings and evidences of the said Mr. Mallet's estate
began to open, first one lock, then another, then the
third. Afterwards the lid of the said iron chest lifted
up itself, an stood wide open. Then the patient Mr.
Bourne who had not spoke in twenty-four hours, lift-
ed himself up also, and looking upon the chest, cried,
you say true, you say true, you are in the right, I'll
be with you by and by. So the patient lay down
and spake no more. Then the cnest fell again of it-
self, and locked itself one lock after another, as the
three locks opened ; and they tried to knock it open
and could not, and Mr. Bourne died within an hour
after.

IK vou
I)orvr
tons, and
ing provij
him, as a
him, as a

A man
and who c
nishing th
and even
no less rid
ness of his
accordingl
the womb
Pas de Vi
are all ere
bounds ov
very proba
are taught
time.

The sun
any more
of God Al
so in dire
may be as
his butt, o
the Millen
earth.

The pat
most such
maintain in I

soaicely pr
a few davs

J lii L I 1(1

-^■0 iiiBiiiiiiBWiiiiu iZ-TL.— ^ V%

lo:

ON TIIK SHORTNKSS OF lAFV. AND UNCKRTAINTY OF

RICHES.

(Ed'lractcd from a laic Author.)

IV you sliould see a man who was to cross from
Porcr to Calais, run about very busy, and solici-
tous, and trouble bimseir many weeks before in mak-
ing provisions for his voyage, would you commend
him, as a cautious and discreet person ? or laugh at
him, as a timorous and impertinent coxcomb ?

A man who is excessive in his pains and dilligence,
and who consumes the greatest part of his time in fur-
nishing the remainder thereof with all conveniences,
and even superfluities, is, to angels, an(! wise men,
no less ridiculous : lie does as little consider the short-
ness of his passage, that he might i)roportion his cares
accordingly. It is, alas ! so narrow a strait betwixt
the womb and the grave, that it might be called the
Pas de Vie, as well as that, the Pas de Calais. We
are all creatures of a day ; and therefore our Saviour
bounds our desires to that little space : as if it were
very probable that every day should be our last, we
are taught to demand even our bread for no longer a
time.

The sun ought not to set upon our covetousness,
any more than upon our anger ; but as in the esteem
of God Almighty, a thousand years are as one day ;
so in direct opposition, one day, to the covetous,
may be as a thousand years. 80 far he shoots beyond
his butt, one would think he was of the opinion of
the Millenaries, and hoped for so long a reign upon
earth.

The patriarchs before the flood, who enjoyed all-
most such a life, made, we are sure, less stores for the
maintaining of it. They who lived nine hundered years
scaicely provided for a few days. We who live but
a tew days, provide for, at least, nine hundred years.

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What a siraiigf alU'iatioii is this of hutiuui lift; and
maniKMs? and \ et wc see an iinitatioii ot it in every
man's particnlar experience. For we l)egin not the
cares ol" iile, till life is half spent; and tlien we still
increase them as that decreases ! what is then* among
the actions of beasts so illogical and repugnant to rea-
son? When they do any thing which seems to pro-
ceed from reason, we disdain to allow them that per-
fection, and attribute it only to a natural instinct.
And are not we fools too by the same kind of instinct?
If we could but learn to nujuber our days (as we arc
taught to pray that we might,) we should much better
adjust our otlier accounts. But whilst we never con-
sider an end of them, it is Jio wonder if our cares be
without end too! From a short life then cut oil' all
hopes that grow too long. They nuist be pruned away
like suckers that rob the mother plant, and hinder it
from bearing fruit.

Seneca gives an example of an acquaintance of his
named Scntco, who from a .very mean begining, by
great industry in turning about money, through all
vvavs of gain, had attained to extraordinary riches;
but died on i. sudden after having sui)ped merrily,
in the full course of his good fortune, when she hud
a high tide, and still gale, and all her sails on ; upon
which "casion he cries, out of F/'/v///,

Go iMelibaMis, now

Go graft thy orchards, aiul thy vineyards plant,

Behold thy fruit!

i'or this SenUo I have no cf)m passion, because he
was taken as we say, in ipso facto, still labouring in
the work of avarice. But the poor, rich man in St.
Luke (whose case was not like this) I could pity, it
the vScriptpre would permit me. For he seems to be
satisfied at last ; he confesses he had enough for many
years : he bids his soul take its ease ; and yet for all

■.'

Wht

that, 0<k1 s:iy.s to him, 'I'hoii I«m)!, this uiglit thy
soui shall bo required of thee, aiul then th«^ tilings
thou hast laid up, wh<)m sliall tliey belong tol* Where
shall we find th«* causes ol this bitter reproach, and
tenihlc judgment!* We may find I think, two, and
GofI perhaps s.iw more. First, he did not intend true
rest to his soul; but ordy to change the employ-
ments of it from avarice to luxury, his design is to
eat and to drink, and be merry. Secondly, that he
went on too long before he thought of resting. The
fulness of his old barns had not sufticed him. Me
would stay till he was forced to build new ones; and
God meted out to him in the same measure; since
he would have more riches than his life could con-
tain, God desiroyed bis lile and gave the fnuts of it
to another. Thus Go<l sometimes takes away the
man from his riches, and no less fre([uently the riches
IVoni die man ; what bo[)e can there be of :su(;h mar-
ridge, where both parties are so fickle and uncer-
tain!' By what bonds can such a couple be kept long
together:'

A TRIIR ACCOUNT OF AN APFAKITJON.

In a letter addressed to Mr. GJmirill, trhen he mis
wrilhuf on spirits.

STR,

AS all sucb narratives as contain incidents won-
derful and surprising, and in which the superin-
teiidance of Divine Providence is displayed in an ex-
traordinary maimer, accompanied with circumstances
of a marvellous nature, and calculated to strike the
reader with surprise, coincide with the plan of your
work and are sure of a favourable receptioi. from you,
I doubt not but the following history, the truth of

^V =

i ■ ■ 1

|j|h '

H|| 1

fill < s

■■J ■"!

200

which 1 can voudi for, will prove acceptable to your
readers.
Mr. R-

-N-

and Mr. J-

-N-

— , two bro-
thers, whose education had been equally liberal as they
had both been bred at the university of Oxford, im-
bibed in that excellent seminary, principles dianietri-
fally opposite.

The former was for venturing every thing, and run-
ning all hazards, in order to push his fortune ; whilst
the maxim of the latter, was to regulate his conduct
by the strictest prudence and economy, and leave no-
thing to chance.

When their studies were finished, they both re-
turned to their father's at Bristol. He was an emi-
nent merchant of that citv, and for some time after
their return, their minds were entirely taken up with
deliberating what profession they should attach them-
selves to, and what i)lan of life they should pursue
for the remainder of their days.

In the midst of these golden dreams, the father by
a sudden and unexpected turn of fortune broke, and
took so to heart the loss of his wealth, that he died
in a few days, and left his two sons in a state of ab-
solute indigence.

They then found themselves reduced to deliberate
not what measure they should pursue, in order to
make a fortune, but how to shift, in order to pro-
cure a subsistence. The temper of the former was
sanguine, therefore he was resolved to go to London,
though quite unknown in that city, and throw himself
upon Providence ; this the latter remonstrated against,
urging, that it was an act of desperation, and little
better than downright suicide, to leave a place where
he was well known, and had friends, to go to another
where he had not a single acquaintance, and where
he could expect nothing but to die of hunger, as soon
as the trifling stock of money he had about him should
be spent.

All th(
the eldes
ther to v€
had form
scorn or j
held with

The tv
other, th(
other resc
cr, of the
place of h

He ac(
acquainta
ed as cier]
a step wh
did not k
tropolis.
him bein|
utmost di
to such a
food, he (
in despair
one of the
ket, was i
looking U|
iy, that h
heaven,
of a form
presented
brightness
the hair.

As Mr.
rate I'esol
uwe-strucl
seemed to
embrace h
in such a ]
pronounce
<lesisted fr
7

A''

201

All these remonstrances had no effect, Mr. R ^

the eldest brother, declared, that he was resolved i-a-
ther to venture death than to stay at Bristol, where he
had formerly lived in affluence, and be an object of
scorn or pity to those by whom he had once been be-
held with envy.

The two brothers accordingly took leave of each
other, the former bent upon buffeting fortune, and the
other resolved to avail himself, to the best of his pow-
er, of the few resources which remained to him in the
place of his nativity.

He accordingly went to live with a merchant, an
acquaintance of his father's by whom he was employ-
ed as clerk, whilst Mr. R N went to London,

a step which lie considered as going to death, as he
did not know which way to turn himself in that me-
tropolis. The trifle of money he had brought with
iiim being quickly spent, he was soon reduced to the
utmost distress, and felt the presure of extreme want
to such a degree, that ha\ ing been four days without
food, he one evening wandered about St. James' Park
in despair, and as soon as it was dark, sat down upon
one of the benches, and taking a knife out of his poc-
ket, was upon the point of piercing his breast, when
looking up on a sudden, he saw a figure of such beau-
ty, that he could not doubt but it was a vision from
heaven. It appeared to him to be a beautiful youth,
of a form resembling those with which angels are re-
presented by painters ; the eyes shone with a starry
brightness and a lambent flame of glory played about
the hair.

As Mr. R N- -, who had formed the despe-
rate resolution of destroying himself, lifted up his
awe-struck eyes to this angelic appearance, which
seemed to stoop forwards, and spread out its arms to
embrace him, his organs of hearing were impressed
in such a manner, that he heard these words distinctly
pronounced, "Hold, rash mortal!" — He immediately
<lesisted from his impious attempt, and the phantorn
7 2d

202

Ivanci

ing loiward, aii(

il beck<

uecKoning

to li

im,

rose

III
ii 111

5- i I

*''i ' ■■

cj:^-

-H 4

up and followed it — on a sudden it vanished, and he
walked on, his heart exulted with a joy, which he
could not account for, till 'it last he met a soldier, who
pressed him to enter a public house, which waa the
rendezvous of a recruiting })arty.

The obstreperous mirth of these desperadoes, who
venture their lives for a livelihood, but little suited

with the serious turn of Mr. 11 N but as

then he w^as quite destitute, he readily accepted of
their proposal of listing; aiul the regiment to whicli
he belonged being soon after commanded abroad, he
behaved so w'ell at the siege of Quebec, and ui)on other
occasions, that he rose from a piivate soldier to a lieu-
tenant; and upon his return to England, found him-
self reduced to half pay, wliich i)roved quite insulhcient
to support nim in that extravagenee and round of plea-
sures winch gentlemen of the army think they have a
right to indulge in.

What led him into the greatest expences was, liis
attachment to a fine woman, whose temper was extra-
vagYMit, that the fortune of a lord, much less that of a
lieutenant, upon half pay, w^ould have proved insntfi-
cient to gratify her eternal craving.

With her he went to all the places of public diver-
sion, the Play-houses, the 0[)era, Vauxhall, Ranelagh,
Marybone, &c. &c.

She had likewise as great a passion for finery ; and
no clothes would satisfy her, but such as might be
worn by a duchess. She was indeed a very lovely
woman, and the charms of iier person were greatlv
heightened and set off by the politeness of her behavi-
our, and pleasing manner in which she expressed her-
self in conversation.

But all these attractives served only to render her
more dangerous ; and she would have been the ruin

of the unhappy Mr. R N , as she had

been of several other unthinking young men, if his
good, which constantly struggled with his evil genius,

had not \
well as a I

As he 1
excited, ir
probity ; i
of fortune,
derable su
whose cai
pense to m

At long
became sc
inconceiva
upon pers
drove him
ever, form
before, nar
self; but
harlot ah
equally d(
highway.

He accc
one evenii
of every i
horseback,
expressed,
more, the
passenger,
prison bet'
liis execute

He ro(h:
mind ; liii
proachcd,
pearance 1
point to tl
the night
bv the irra
and he cc
brave not i
mine, wht

203

liad not preserved liiiii from perdition, upon this as
well as a Ibrnier occasion.

As he had a sometliing in his countenance which
excited, in all those who saw him, an opinion of his
probity ; and as he always dressed like a gentleman
of fortune, he found means to procure credit for consi-
derable sums ; and thus, for a time gratified his Thais,
whose caresses were always proportioned to the ex-
pense to which her lover put himself.

At length, however, the clamors of his creditors
became so importunate, that he was in a perplexity
inconceivable, and the thought of having imposed
upon persons, who had so generously obliged him,
drove him almost into a phrenzy : he did not how-
ever, form the same despeiate resolution he had done
before, namely, that of laying voilent hands upon him-
self; but his evil genius, in the shape of the enticing
harlot above suggested to him, a course almost
equally desperate, namely, that of going upon the
highway.

He accordingly provided himself with pistols, and
one evening rode to Blackheath, where at the sight
of every coach, and of e\ ery man that passed on
horseback, ho was seized with terrors not to be
expressed, and his conscious guilt made him suffer
more, though he never attempted to rob a single
passenger, than a hardened highwayman suffers in
prison between the time of his i-eceiving sentence, and
his execution.

He rode to and fro in the utmost purturbation of
mind ; his terrors still increasing as the night ap-
proaciicd, till at last he beheld the same angelic ap-
pearance that he had seen before, which seemed to
point to the road to London. Even in the darkness of
the night the whole figure ai)peared very manifestly
bv the irradiation of glory, which encircled its head,
and lie could hear distinctly these words, *' Mortal,
brave not death." I leave it to philosophers to deter-
mine, whether it was a real personage, or of a nature

M;si';i i

i il

i J

'■'^i'l

•if

20i

above hiiinan, that appeared to him on tliis oeeasion •
or whether it was tlie force of an heated imagination,
wiiich traced this figure to his eyes, and caused the
words above-mentioned to resound in his ears. Be
that as it will, we may justly look upon this appear-
ance as a vision from heaven, as' it had the effect of
turning a sinner to grace : for no sooner had Mr. R—

N beheld it, but that all his agitation and disorder

subsided, and he, with the utmost composure of mind,
returned to London, having taken the precaution of
throwing away his pistols, the instruments of destruc-
tion, with which his evil genius had armed him, lest
they might give rise to any suspicion of the pupose
which he had in leaving town.

Upon his return to his lodgings, he broke with
the pernicious woman, who had given him the hor-
rid advice above mentioned, as his love for her was
entirely converted into hatred, when he considered,
that her vile suggestions might have brought him to a
shameful end.

However, the grand source of his inquietudes still
remained. He was apprehensive every moment of
being arrested, and thrown into jail by his creditors.
Had he sold his half-pay, it would have been by no
means sufficient to satisfy them all, for he could not
expect above two hundred pounds for it, and five hun-
dred would have been hardly sufficient to gratify his
creditors.

He therefore formed a resolutiou to go over to Ire-
land, thinking he could there be more secure from his
creditors, than by going to lodge at any privileged
place.

Whilst his mind was taken up with those thoughts
he was arrested, and there being several actions against
him at the same time, he was obliged to get himself
removed to the Fleet by Habeas Corpus. A man of
Mr. R N 's temper could but ill brook con-
finement.

The days liung so heavily on his hands, and passed

so ted ion

course to

his mind

others in

dy, hy fr

was inten

Whilst

inquietud

his droop

He dre

appeared

ed the ga

and the i(

so strong

in the mo

ded that

vanished,

This seem

a real one

About ]

mediately

He rusliet

utmost trt

were some

his brothe

by the E{

of his affix

finenient,

that very (

Thev b

J I

related to
voyages Ik

r n

205

so tediously away, that he was obliged to have re-
course to hard drinking, to dispel the gloom by whieh
his mind was overcast. But he soon found, as many
others in his circumstances have done, that thi^ reme-
dy, by frequent u^e, increases that anxiety of mind it
was intended to cure.

Whilst Mr. R N led this life of care and

inquietude, he one night had a dream, which revived
his drooping spirits, and animated his soul with hope.
He dreamed that the same angel, which had twice
appeared to him before, came in the night, and open-
ed the gates of his prison, by a supernatural power ;
and the ideas which passed in his imagination, took
so strong a possession of his soul, that when he awoke
in the morning, he could not for some time be persua-
ded that he was still in prison. The delusion soon
vanished, but he still retained his alacrity of mind.
This seemingly groundless joy was soon followed by
a real one.

About noon he heard himself in.quired for, and im-
mediately knew the voice to be that of his brother.
He rushed into his arms, and embraced him with the
utmost transport. When their first emotions of joy

were somewhat subsided, Mr. J N gave

his brother to undersand, that he had made a fortune
by the East India trade ; and enquiring into the state
of his affairs, and the sum for which he was in con-
finement, paid the debt, and had him set at lil ty
that very evening.
They both went together to the lodgings of Mr.

J N , in Great Broad Street, where he

related to his brother his adventures, and the several
voyages he had made since their separation.

2or>

M i

APPARITION OF TI!K LAIKH OF COOL.

(Continual from page \(S0.)

rir^HE hell vvhicli the wicked suffer inmiediately
II after death, consists in their wickedness, in
the stings of an awakened conscience, the terrors of
facing the great Judge, and of everlasting torments.
And their misery when dead bears a due proportion
to the evil they did while living : but some of these
although not good, were far less wicked tlian others,
and so are far less miserable. And on the other hand,
some were not wicked in this life, yet had but a small
degree of goodness. And their faces are not more
various in life, than their circumstances are after
death.

O. To pass this, there is another question I want
to ask : " How came you to know what 1 said to Mr.
Patoni^" Were you witli us, though invisible!* C.
I was not. But you must know, tliat not only angels
are continually sent from heaven, to guard and com-
fort good men, but also the spirits of holy men are
employed on the same errand. O. J3ut has every
man his guardian angel ? C, Not every man ; but
many particular men have. And there are few fa-
milies but have one attending on tiie- i. From what
you have heard of spirits, you may easily conceive,
how one may be servical)le to each menil)er of the
family, even when far distant from each other. Yea,
one powerful angel or dei)arted spirit is suilicient for
some villages : but to a great city manv angels or de-
parted spirits are assigned, who are superintended by
one great angel.

Now Satan in the government of his kingdom,
apes the kingdom of Christ as much as possible.
Accordingly he sends out missionaries too : but be-
cause he has })]enty of them, he frecjuently connnissions
two or three to attend one family, if it be of great

power or
evil ange
ones. C
tain the r
employed
that of til
ence betw
tween tht
their kno
some (lei)i
in all thei

Now b
times of
(good ani
or kingd<:
hear all t
lated amc
Indeed ai
hood, if h
Nay, in i
the truth,

But be
meetings,
other wh
me of wl
tends Mi
waits on .
Mrs. Pat'
original ]
this I wae
asked, Ai
mv famil'
O; And*
from 3'oui
as he can
nister on
ror I canr
mvself, I
famil v, th

ill

20'

power or influence. O. I cannot understand liow the
evil angels should be more numerous than the good
ones. C. Whatever the number of devils be, it is cer-
tain the number of wicked spirits departed, who are
employed on this errand, is a!>undantly greater than
that oi' the good ones. And there is as great a differ-
ence between the good and bad spirits, as there is be-
tween the good and bad angels, both with regard to
their knowledge, activity, strength and faculties. Yea
some (lei)arte(i souls exceed some of the original angels,
in all these respects.

Now both the good and e\il angels, ha\e stated
times of rendezvous : at which the princi])le angels
(good and bad) that have the charge of towns, cities,
or kingdoms (not to mention villages or individuals,)
hear all that- is transacted. Many things false are re-
lated among the living, but nothing among the dead.
Indeed an evil spirit would not scruple telling a false-
hood, if he could gain any thing by it. But he cannot.
Nay, in making his report, In.' must tell nothing but
the truth, or woe be to him !

But beside their monthly, quarterly, and yearly
meetings, departed spirits may take a trip to see each
other when they i)lease. 'I'hree of these informed
me of what^ you said ; * Andrew Akeman, that at-
tends Mr. Thurston's family, James Corbet, that
waits on Mr. Patoii's family, *^(and was looking after
Mrs. Paton, when she was at your house) and an
original Emissary, appointed to wait on yours. At
this I was much surprised, and after a little thinking,
asked. And is there an emissary from hell that attends
my family ? C. You may depend upon it there is.
0. And what is his business!* C. To divert you
from 3'our duty, and make you do as many ill things
as he can. P'or much depends upon having the mi-
nister on his side. On this I was struck with a hor -
ror I cannot express. But after a time, recollecting
myself, I said. But is tliere a devil that attends our
family, though invisibly ? C. As sure as you breathe.

• These wore Itilfly ilcul.

\:V

r ^ii

20^s

' ! ( ill )

^^ii 1 :f

■

But tluMV is also a good angel, that attends your fa-
mily, and is stronger than him. O. Are you sure of
this? C. Yes: and there is one just now riding on
your right arm. But he might have been elsewhere :
for I meant you no harm. O. How long has he been
with me? C Only since we passed I3ranskie: but
now he is gone. O. I desire now to depart with you,
and to see you another time. C. Be it so. I want
your help of another kind. Now I bid you farewell.
So saying he went off, at the head of the path going
to Elmselough.

(To he concluded in our newt.)

THE AWFUL PROSPECTS OF THE WrCKED.

THFi Wicked — My mind recoils at the apprehen-
sion of their misery. It has studiously waved
the fearful subject, and ^eems unwilling to pursue it
now. But 'tis better to reflect upon it for a few mi-
nutes than to endure it to eternal ages. Perhaps, the
consideration of their aggravated misery may be pro-
fitably terrible ; may teach me more highly to prize
the Saviour, who " delivers from going down to the
bottomless pit;" may drive me, like the avenger's
sword, to this only city of refuge for obnoxious sin-
ners.

The wicked lie in their graves like malefactors in
a deep and strong dungeon, reserved against the day
of trial. "Their departure was without peace."
Clouds of horror sat lowering upon their closing
eye-lids, most sadly foreboding the "blackness of
darkness for ever." When the last sickness : sized
their frame, and the inevitable change advanced;
when they saw the fatal arrow fitting to the strings;
saw the deadly archer aiming at their heart ; and felt
the envenomed shaft fastened in their vitals — Good
God ! what fearfulness came upon them ! what horrible

tlread ovei
dering an
excessivel;
yet utterl}
verge of li

0! vvh
conspire t
ward: am
unrepente(
ending,
itself, but
and a mo
around th
accomplic(
to conside
they had i
snare. If
gash into
more, but
rated by tl

At last,
other poss
apply unt<
faultering
*' who kill
deferred.
Why have
incorrigibl
they have
importuna
might be
the eleven
snatched 1
almost clc
can tell, w
their comf
miracle of
may, for
calamity,
1.

209

(Ireatl overwhelmed them! How did they stand shud-
dering and aghast upon the tremendous precipice;
excessively afraid to plunge into the abyss of eternity,
yet utterly unable to maintain their standing on the
verge of life.

0! what pale reviews, what startling prospects,
conspire to augment their sorrows ! They look back-
ward : and, behold ! a most melancholy scene ! Sins
unrepented of, mercy slighted, and the day of grace
ending. They look forward, and nothing presents
itself, but the righteous Judge, the dreadful tribunal,
and a most solenm reckoning to them? They roll
around their affrighted eyes on attending friends. If
accomplices in debauchery, it sharpens their anguish,
to consider this further aggmvation of their guilt, that
they had not sinned alone, but drawn others into the
snare. If religious acquaintance, ii strikes a fresh
gash into their hearts, to think of never seeing them
more, but only at an unapproachable distance, sepa-
rated by the unpassable gulf.

At last, perhaps, they begin to pray. Finding no
other possible way of relief, they are constrained to
apply unto the Almighty : with trembling lips, and a
faultering tongue, they cry unto that sovereing Being,
" who kills and makes alive." But why have they
deferred, so long deferred their addresses to God?
Why have they despised all his counsels, and stood
incorrigible under his incessant reproofs ? How often
they have been forewa'-nf^d of these terrors, and most
importunately intreatecl vo seek the Lord, while he
might be found ? I wish they may obtain mercy at
the eleventh, at the last hour. I wish they may be
snatched from the jaws, the opened, the gaping, the
almost closing jaws of damnation. But, alas ! who
can tell, whether affronted Majesty will lend an ear to
their complaint ? whether the Holy One will work a
miracle of grace in behalf of such transgressors ? He
may, for aught any mortal knows, " laugh at their
calamity, and mock, when their fear cometh."
7. 2 E

rit

»!lft

2\0

vi::

jliwii

,,!

Thus they lie, groaning out the poor remains of
life : their limbs bathed in sweat ; their heart strug.
gling with convulsive th-oes ; pains insupportable
throbbing through every pulse; and innumerable
pangs of agony transfixing their conscience.

In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Roves round tl- v;alls of her clay tenement.
Runs to each avenue and shrieks for help ;
But shrieks in vain ; how wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers !
A little longer, yet a little longer,
O ! might she stay to wash away her crimes.
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood ; and every groan
►She heaves, is big with horror ; but the foe
Like a staunch nund'rer, steady to his i)urpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on :
Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks.

If this be the end of the ungodly, " my soul, come
not thou into their seciet! Unto their assembly, mine
honour be not thou united !" How awfully accom-
plished is that prediction of inspired wisdom ! Sin,
though seemingly sweet in the commission, yet at last
it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.

Happy dissolution ! were this the period of their
woes. But, alas ! all these tribulations are only the
"beginning of sorrows;" a small drop only 'from
that cup of trembling, which is mingled for their fu-
ture portion. No sooner has the last pang dislodged
their reluctant souls, but they are hurried into the
presence of an injured angiy God; not under the
conducting care of beneficent angels, but exposed
to the insults of accursed si)irits, who lately tempted
them, now upbraid them, and will for ever torment
them. Who can imagine their confusion and distress^.

when tliev
incensed <
"The Go(
The prince
consigns t
tai'les of (
public in ft
wrath will
The law
have sligh
goodness
honour in
the God tc
arrow to t
his inexon

Resurre*
immortalit
they not I
are forgoti
deepest gk
person, or
must also i
and meet
pillars of 1
a Judge, <
ate, but n
born orteni
Godhead ;
Son, and (
his Spirit.

0, the
seize the ii
to the gre
of severe
Where? 1
which of
themselves
all in vain
ances kno'

211

when tliey stand, guilty iind inexciisahlo, ix'tore their
incensed Creator ? Tliey are received with frowns :
"The God that made them has no mercy on them."
Tiie prince of peace rejects tiiem with abhorrence. He
consigns them over to chains of darkness, and recep-
tacles of desi)air, against the severe <loom and more
public infamy of the great day. Then all the vials of
wrath will be emptied uj)on these wretched creatures.
The law they have violated, and the gospel they
have slighted ; the power they have defiled, and the
goodness they have abused; will all get themselves
honour in their exemplary destruction. Then God,
the God to whom vengeance belongeth, will draw the
arrow to the very head, and set them as the mark of
his inexorable displeasure.

Resurrection will be no privilege to them; but
immortality itself their everlasting curse. Would
they not bless the grave, " the land where all things
are forgotten," and wish to lie eternally hid in its
deepest gloom ! But tlie dust refuses to conceal their
person, or to draw a veil over their practices. They
must also awake, must arise, must appear at the bar,
and meet the Judge; a Judge before whom "the
pillars of heaven tremble, and the eaith melts away,"
a Judge, once long-suHering, and very compassion-
ate, but now imalterably determined to teach stub-
born ortenders, what it 'is to provoke the onmipotent
Godhead ; what it is to trample upon the blood of his
Son, and oiler despite to all the gracious overtures of
his Spirit.

0, the perplexity ! the distraction ! that must
seize the impenitent rebels, when they are summoned
to the great tribunal ! what will they do in this day
of severe visitation ; this day of fi.;al decision*?
Where? how? whence can they find help? To
which of the saints will they turn ? whither betake
themselves for shelter, or for succour? Alas! It is
all in vain ; it is all too late. Friends and acquaint-
ances know them no more : men and angels abandon

212

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.^1

^ '^

■

Itl

them to tlicir approacliing (l<*om : even the Mediator
himself, deserts them in this dreadful hour. To fly^
will be impracticable; if to justify themselves, still
more impossible ; and now to make supplications,
utterly anavailable.

Behold ! the books are opened ! the secrets of all
hearts are disclosed ; the hidden things of darkness
are brought to light. How em[)ty, how inettectual,
now, are all those refined artifices with which hypo-
crites imposed upon their fellow creatures, and i)re-
served a character in the sight of men ! The jealous
God, who has been about their path, and about their
bed, and spied out all their ways, sets before them
the things they have done.*' They cannot answer
him one in a thousand, nor stand in the awful judg-
ment. The heavens reveal their iniquities, and the
earth rises up against them. They are speechless with
guilt, and stigmatized with infamy. Before all the
armies of the sky, and all the nations of the redeemed,
what a favour would they esteem it, to hide their
ashamed heads in the bottom of the ocean, or even to
be buried beneath the ruins of the tottering world !

If the contempt poured upon them be thus insup-
portable, how will their hearts' endure, when the sword
of infinite indignation, is unsheathed, and fiercely
waved around their defenceless heads, or pointed di-
rectly at their naked breasts ! How must the wretches
scream with wild amazement, and rend the very hea-
vens with their cries, when the right-aiming thunder-
bolts go abroad ! go abroad with a dreadful commis-
sion, to drive them from the kingdom of glory : and
plunge them, not into the sorrows of a moment, or the
tortures of an hour, but into all the restless agonies
of unquenchable fire, and everlasting despair.

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes.
That comcci to all : but torture without end

Miser)'
dwell up<
a distanc
tion of I
bitter, to
gation, t]

Wholi
ments of
for his fe]
for Chrisi
man, an<
while he
rebellion,
niissivelv
golden sc
mankind
exert its
neighbou
to take t
undelayec

was an en
Well, {
mit to it,
you not t
easy ; the
He slig
gaged par
first regini

liiki

213

Still urges, anil a fiery deluge, fed
With ever burning sulpher unconsuniM.

Misery of miseries ! too shocking for reflection to
dwell upon. But, if so dismal to foresee, and that at
a distance, together with some comfortal)le expecta-
tion of escaping it, O ! how bitter, inconceivably
bitter, to bear, without any intermission, or any miti-
gation, through hopeless and eternal ages.

Who has any bowels of pity ? Who has any senti-
ments of compassion i* Who has any tender concern
for his fellow creatures ? Who ? In God's name, and
for Christ's sake, let him show it, by warning every
man, and beseeching every man, to seek the Lord
while he may be found ; to throw down the arms of
rebellion, before the act of indemnity expires; sub-
missively to adore tlie Lamb, while he holds out the
golden sceptre. Here let us act the friendly part to
mankind ; here let the whole force of our benevolence
exert itself in exhorting relations, acquaintances,
neighbours, whomsoever we may probably influence,
to take the wings of faith unfeigned, of repentance
undelayed, and flee from his wrath to come.

OBSERVATIONS ON DREA3IS.

(Concluded from pa(/e 185.^

HE made light of that, and told his mother, that
if he happened to be knocked on the head, there
was an end of him, and he was provided for.

Well, son, says the old lady, I am obliged to sub-
mit to it, you are your own master; I can but intreat
you not to go, you have estate enough to make you
easy ; therefore have no need to run the risk.

He slighted all her intreaties, and at length mort-
gaged part of his estate to purchase a company in the
first regiment of guards, and entered into the army.

i -U' jf

mimm

211

I i'

i*^!

The niglit before he signed the agreement for the
company, being in bed and fast asleep, he saw in a
dream his father come to him in his gown, and with
a great fur cap on, such as he nsed to wear; and
calling him by his name, What is the reason, says he,
that you will not listen to the entreaties of your mo-
ther not to go to the wars ? I do assure you, tliat if
you resolve to take this commission, you will not en-
joy it three years.

Why, says he (in his dream) what will hinder me?
being, it seems, desirous to know something of \m
fortune.

Ask me not the particulars, says the apparition,
but, either decline the employ, or when you have en-
joyed it two years and a half, sell out again as I did
before you.

I cannot promise that, says he.

Then you may promise yourself, says the apparition,
that it shall be worse.

He seemed to slight the admonition, and said, it
was too late to look back.

Too late ! too late ! says the apparition, repeating,
the words ; then go on, and repent too late.

He was not nmcli atlected with this apparition,
when he waked, and found it was but a dream ; for
dreams, said he, are not to be heeded ; so he went on,
and bought the commission.

A few days after the commission was bought, the
lather appeared again, not to liim but to his' mother,
m a dream too as before; and taking notice to her
how liis son had rejected her admonition, it added,

" Young heads are willful ; Robert will go into the
army; but tell him from me, he shall- never come
back."

All these notices were of no force with this young
gentleman ; but as he had resolved so he pursu'ed iiis
resolution and went into the arm\' ; and two bat-
talhons of that jegiment going into the field tiiat

summer,
Flanders
He w
in sever
that he
but one
army wc
having r
come an
his com
shivering
who wer
it.

As it
turned tc
from wh(
I cannol
this sliak
It is y
I have ol
the Fren(
thing to
It con
enemy di
began uj
so that 1
began.

While

tlenian; i

your shiv

No, sa

better.

It will

Ay, so

I know M

lieutenani

When

me, I am

tliat

215

summer, his company was one and was ordered into

Flanders.

He wanted no occasion to show his bravery, and
in several warm actions came off with applause ; so
tjiat he was far from being suspected of cowardice ;
but one day, and in the third year of his service, the
army was drawn out in order of battle, the general
having received certain advice that the enemy would
come and attack them. As he stood at the head of
his company, he was suddenly seized with a cold
shivering fit, and it was so violent that some officers
vvlio were near him, every one at his post, perceived
it.

As it was to no purpose for him to conceal it, he
turned to his lieutenant, who stood next to him, and
from whose mouth I received this particular account :
I cannot imagine, says he, what is the occasion of
this shaking fit.

It is your eagerness to fall on, says the lieutenant,
I have often been so, and begin to be so now : I wish
the French would come on, that we might have some-
thing to do.

It continued about a quarter of an hour, and the
enemy did come on as was expected : but the fight
began upon the left, at a good distance from them,
so that the whole left wing was engaged before thev
began.

While this lasted, the lieutenant called to the gen-
tleman ; Captain, says he, how do you do ? 1 hope
your shivering fit is over.

No, says the captain, it is not over, but it is a little
better.

It will be all over presently, says the lieutenant.

Ay, so it will, says the 'captain, I am very easy,
1 know what it was now ; and with that he called the
lieutenant to come to him for a moment.

When he came, says he, I know now what ailed
me, I am \ ery easy, I have seen my father ; I shall

t \

{ 'I

ta ill

210

be killed the first volley ; let my mother know 1 told
you this.

' In a few minutes after this, a body of the enemy
advanced, and the very first volley the regiment re-
ceived, was the fire of five platoons of grenadiers, by
which the captain and several other officers, besides
private men, were killed, and the whole brigade was
soon after put into confusion ; though being support-
ed by some regiments of the second line, they rallied
again soon after; the captain's body was presently
recovered ; but he was irrevocably dead, for he re-
ceived a shot in his face, which killed him immedi-
ately.

If all the notices from the invisible world could
have been of any use to him, or he had been to be
wrought upon by cautions and advices, which nothing
but a most gbstinate temper would have so totally
disregarded, the man had been safe. But what can
be expected, when men are as plainly informed of
things, as by such methods can be supposed rational,
and will not take the hint?

ON THE EMPLOYMENT OF GOOD SPIUITS.

HOW may we conceive the inhabitants of the
other part of Hades, the soul^ of the righteous
to be employed ? It has positively been affirmed by
some philosophical men, that spirits have no place.
But they do not observe, that if it were so, they must
be omnipresent. An attribute which cannot be al-
lowed, to any but the Almighty Spirit. The abode
of these blessed spirits the ancient Jews were used
to term Paradise: the same name which our Lord
gave it, telling the penitent +hief. This day shall thou
he with me in Paradise. .'et in what part of the
Universe this is situated, who can tell, or even con-
jecture, since it has not pleased God to reveal any
thing concerning it. But we have no reason to think

I hey are
otlier. .
as uell
wliether
otlier pa;
lieve, th£
as tlioiig
'.iiiiverse
the (livii
of God.
And ho\)
wiiile th
donee, o
depth of
discover
si:lorv !
these sul
days ! ^
saw both
Abraham
liivoured
with .lob,
vid, .Solo
With the
all tiie sa;
day : wit
him, serr
Above all
Mediator
they advii
wherein t;
iiiau, cjrai
all their
(what sor
nevolenee
affection,
Iriends, ai
his bedsid
8

217

iIk'V are confined to tliis [)lace: or indeed to any
otlier. May we not rather say, that servants of his,
as well as tlie holy angels, * they do liis pleasure,'
whether among the inhabitants of earth, or in any
other part of his dominions? And as we easily be-
lieve, that they are swifter than the light, even as swift
as tliought, they are well able to traverse the whole
•iiiiverse in the twinkling of an eye, either to execute
the divine commands, or to contemplate the works
of Goth What a field is here opened before them !
And how immensely may they increase in knowledge,
wiiile they survey his works of creation or provi'
(kMiee, or his manifold wisdom in tl'e churcli ! V hat
(k'pth of wisdom, of power, and of goodness do they
discover in his methods of bringing many sons to
jrlory ! Especially while they conversed on any of
these subjects, wit!i the illustrious dead of ancient
(lavs! With Adam, first of men, with Noah, who
saw both the primeval jind the j'uined world. With
Abraham, tiie friend of (iod, with Moses, who was
liu oured to speak with God, as it were face to face,
Willi Job, perfected by sutlbrings, with 8amuel, Da-
vid, Solomon, Isaiah, Daniel, and all the prophets.
With tli(» Apostles, the noble army of Martyrs, and
all the saints who liave lived and died to the present
(lav : witii our elder brethren the holy angels, cheru-
bim, seraphim, and all the companies of heaven!
Above all the name of creature owns. With Jesus, the
Mediator of the new covenant. Mean time how will
they advance in holiness, in the whole image of God
wherein tht-y were created ! In the love of God and
man, gratitude to their Creator, and benevolence to
all their fellow-creatures. Yet it does not follow
(what some earnestly maintain,) that this general be-
nevolence, will at \dl interfere with that peculiar
aflection, which God himself implants for our relations,
I'rieiids, and benefactors. O no ! Had yon stood by
his bedside, when that dving saint was crying out "1
8 ^ 2f^

1 - ' ■■

A I

^ i

i ■

», » '"l

•21>^

liavc a rather and motlier gone to lieaven, I have
ten l)iothers and sisters gone to heaven : and now I
am going to them, that am the eleventli ! Blessed be
God that I was born !" Would you have replied,
" What if you are going to them, they will be no more
to you than any other persons : for you will not know
them." Not know them! Nay, does not all that is
in you recoil at that thought? Indeed sceptics may
ask, How do disembodied spirits know each other?
I answer plainly, I cannot tell. But I am certain tlial
they do. This is as plainl}' i)roved from one passage
of Scripture, as it could be from a thousand. l)id not
Abraham and Lazarus know each other in Hades,
even afar ofi? Even though the\ were fixed on
dilTerent sides of the great gulf? Can we doubt then,
whether the souls that are together in Paradise shall
know one another? The scripture therefore clearly
decides this question. And so does the very reason
of the thing. For we know, e\ ery holy temper which
we carry with us into Paradise will remain in us for
ever. But such is gratitude to (^ur benefactors. This
therefore will remain for ever. And this implies, that
the knowledge of our benefactors will remain, withont
which it cannot exist.

And how nuich will that add to the happiness of
those spirits, which are already discharged from tiie
body, that they are i)ermitte(l to minister to those
whom they have left behind ? An indisputable i)rool
of this we have, in the twenty-second chapter of the
Revelation. When the apostle fell down to worship
the glorious spirit which he seems to have mistaken
for Christ, he tohl him [)lainly, I am of thy fellow-
servants, the prophets ; not God, not an angel, not
a human spirit. And in how many ways may they
minister to the heirs of salvation? Sometimes by
counteracting wicked sjjirits whom we cannot resist,
because we cannot see them ; sometimes bv })revent-
ing our being hurt hy men, or beasts, or inanimate

(•reatures
prayer of

Aroi
Thei
Stof

"Mi

And
Or ii
Sing

And ma>
jointly tc
made pen
It may
any sul)0]
spirits, to
ing hours
slnmber n
serve then
is able, b
struments
tares, bot
was his p
power on]
the begin
is his wis(
other ! {^
manifold i
them all !

ii I

219

\',H

orealures: how orteii may it ploaso God to answer the
prayer of good Rish()[) Kenn.

" () may thiru^ angels while I sleep
Around my bed their vigils keep !
Their love angelical instil
Stop all the consequence of ill,

"May they celestial joys rehearse,
And tiiought to thought with me converse ;
Oi- in my stead the whole night long
Sing to my God a grateful song."

And may not the l^itlier of Spirits allot this office
jointly to angels, and human spirits waiting to be
made perfect?

It may indeed be objected that God has no need of
any subordinate agents of either angelical or human
spirits, to guard his children, in their waking or sleep-
ing hours ; seeing he that keepelh Israel doth neither
slumber nor sloop. And certainly he is able to pre-
serve them by his own immediate power, yea, and he
is able, by his own immediate power, without any in-
struments at all, to supply the wants of all his crea-
tures, both in heaven and earth. But it is, and ever
was his pleasure not to work by his own immediate
power only, but chiefly by subordinate means, from
the beginning of the world. And how wonderfully
is his wisdom displayed, in adjusting all these to each
other ! So that we may well cry out, O Lord, how
manifold are thy works ! In wisdom hast thou made
them all !

l!M

! I. Vi

r^J!

■

220

Tilt: APPARITION OF EdwaUI) AvON, TO IIlS SON-
IN-LAW, I'lIOMVS GODDAUI).

THOMAS GODDAllD, of Marlborough, in the
county of wilts, on tlie ninth of November,
1074, going to Ogburn, at a stile near the highwavi
met the apparation of his father-in-law, Mdward Avon,
who (lied in May last, having on to appearance, the
same clothes he usually wore when living. When
lie came near, the appariti(3n said, Are you afraid?
To which Goddard answered, I am, tliinking on one
who is dead wiiom you are like. 'Vn wliich the ap-
parition replied, I am he whom you were thinking
of. 1 am Edward Avon, your fatlier-in-law : come
near to me ; I will do you no harm. Goddard an-
swered, i trust in God you will do me no harm.
Tiien the apparition said, llow does William and Ma-
ry P meaning liis son William Avon, and Marv his
daughter. 'J'hen the apparition held out his hand,
and in it twenty or thirty shillings in silver, and
spake with a loud voice, Take this money and send it
to Sarah ; for 1 shut up my bowels of compassion
against her in my liletime. *13ut Goddard answered,
In the name of Jesus, 1 refuse all such money. Then
the apparition said, I perceive you are afraid : I will
meet you another time.

The next night about seven o'clock, the apparition
opened Goddard's window, and looked \mi in the
face, but said nothing. The night following, as
Goddard went into his yard with a candle in his hand,
it appeared to him again ; but he being afraid, ran into
his house, and saw, it no mo)e.

Thursday, the 12th, as he came from Chilton, the
apparition met him again in the same habit; and
standing about eight feet before him in the wav, spake
to him with a loud voice. Thomas, bid William
Avon take the sword that he had of me, and carry it
into the wood, as we go to Alton ; for with that

sword I
Tell Mar
liver up
the chihl
very sud
tvvelve-m
ingly, G
lings to
now i)res
about tw(
self and 1
never pai
Godda
Mayoi's
Avon, W(
eo})SC, ne
(icjddard
said to h
me : so 1
into the
swoid up
a conmiis
the sword
and said,
whom I
rotten aui
said, Wh
took moiK
and therel
who was
Then said
The appai
dered a m
108o.

Then tl;

and his br

Avon t(

understoof

of another

221

sword I tlid wrong thirty years ago. It /urther said
Tell Margaret (nieaniiig his wile,) I desire her to de-
liver up the money which I gave to Sarah Tavlor,
the child; hut if she will not, tell her, I will see her
very suddenly : and see that this be done within a
tvvclve-nionth and a day after my decease. Accord-
ingly, Goddard saitli, that he paid the twenty shil-
lings to Edward Laurence of this town, who being
now present remembers that he lent Avon that money
about twenty years ago, which none knew but him-
self and his wile, and Avon and his wife ; and was
never paid it again before now.

Goddard says further, that this very dav by Mr.
Mayor's order, he with his brother-in-law^ Williani
Avon, went with the sword, and laid it down in the
copse, near the [)lace the apparition had appointed :
(ioddard looking back saw the same apparition, who
said to him, Thomas take up the sword and follow
me: so he took it up and followed the apparition
nito the copse. Then Goddard laying down the
sword upon the ground, the apparition said, 1 have
a conmiission not to touch you ; and then it took up
the sword, and pointed the end of it into the ground
and said, In this place lies buried, the body of him
whom I murdered in the year l({.3r>, who is now
rotten and turned to dust. Whereupon Goddard
said, Why did you connnit this murder? He said, I
took money from the man, who contended with me
and therefore murdered him. Then Goddard asked'
who was confederate with you? He said, None,
hen said Goddard, What would you have me to do^
Ihe a[)parition said, Let the world know that I mur-
dered a man, and buried him in thi^ place, in the year

Then the apparition vanished, whereupon Goddard
and his brother-in-law, A\on, went away together

A\on told (ioddard that he heard his voice, and
understoofl what he said ; and also heard the voice
ol another distinct from his, but could not understand

!l!ll

2-2-2

any tiling ho said : nor see any one ; who being now
present aflirnis the same. And as to Goddard, he not
only positively asserts it, but saith, he will make affi-
davit of the whole whenever recpiired.

But what signify affidavits! Were a thousand
affidavits of things of this nature, and were they to
do it with their (lying breath, sucli is the infidelitv of
this generation, they would not be believed. If there
was ever such a thing as the appearance' of angels or
spirits, (which many young Christians of this age
think doubtful,) every' thing of this kind, they are
sure, is now at an end ! Is it not then very remark-
able that such should pretend to believe the Bible.

AN ACCOrNT OF AN ApPARITION,

Attested by the Rev. Mr. RmltUe, Minister at Luun^

ceston, in CornnnlL

IN the beginning of the year 1065, a disease hap-
pened in this town of Launceston, ai.d some of
my scholars died of it. Among others who fell under
its malignity, was John Elliot, the eldest son of Ed-
ward Elliot, of Treberse, Esq. a stripling of about six-
teen years of age, but of uncommon parts and ingenuity.
At his own particular request I preaclied at the funeral,
which happened on the 20th day of June, 1005. In
my discourse I spoke some words in commendation
of the young gentleman ; such as might endear his
memory to those who knew him, and withal tend
to preser\e his example to those who went to school
with him, and were to continue after him. An
ancient gentleman, who was then in the church, was
much affected with the discourse, and often heard to
repeat the same evening, one expression I then used
out of Virgil.

Fa pu(M- ipso suit rontrari digmii.s.

'>'2:\

The reason why tliis gruvf geutlcnuui was so von-
ceiMfd at (he clianicter, was a reflection niacle iii)on a
s(Mi ol' lii'S own, who being a])ont the .same age, and
|)iit a few inonths before not nnwortliy of the like
cliaiiicter T gave of tlie yonng Mr. Illliot, was now by
a stiaiige accident quite h)st to his parents' hopes, and
all expectations of any further comfort by him.

The funeral rites being over, I was n(j sooner
come out of the church, but I found myself most
courteously accosted by this old gentleman; and
with an unusual importmiity, almost forced against
my humour to his house that night; nor could I have
rescued myself from his kindness, had not Mr. Elliot
interposed, and i)lea(led title to me for the whole day,
which (as he said) he would resign to no man.
Hereupon I got loose for that time, but was con-
strained to leave a i)romise behind me to wait upon
hiin at his own house the Monday following. This
then seemed to satisfy, but before Monday came I had
a new message to recpiest me that if it were possible 1
woidd be there on the Sunday. The second attempt
f resisted, by answering it was against my conve-
nience, and the duty which mine own people ex-
pected from me. Yet was not the gentleman at rest,
lor lie sent me another letter on Saturday by no means
to fail on the Monday, and so to order my business as
to spend with him two or three days at least. I was
indeed startled at so nmcli eagerness, and so many
(luiniings for a visit, without any business, and be-
f^an to suspect that there nmst needs be some desi<'-n
at the bottom of all this excess of courtesv. For I
had no familiarity, scarce connnon actpiaintance with
the gentleman or his family; nor could I imagine
whence should arise such a flush of friendship on the
sudden.

On the Monday 1 went and paid my promised de-
voir, ;uid met with entertainment as free and plen-
tiful, as the invitation was free and importunate.
There also f found a neighbouring minister, who

IN*

* •

Srs^ ,-^rfr^jfc:-

I :

11,

2-21

pivlt'iided to cull in ucfidentally, luit by llif sptitiel
I suppose it otluMVviso, Altor dinner this brother ol
the coat undertook to show ine the gardens, where
as we were walking, he gave me the first discovery
of what was mainly intended in all this treat and
compliment.

First he began to inform me of the infelicity of
the family in general, and then gave instance oi' tlu'
youngest son. He related wliat a hoi)eful, sprightly
lad he lately was, and how melancholy and sottisli ho
was now grown. Then did he with much passion
lament, that this ill humour should so incredibly
subdue his reason; (saitli he) " The poor boy believes
himself to be haunted with ghosts, and is confidonl
that he meets with an evil spirit in a certain field
about half a mile from this place, as often as he goes
that way to school." fn the midst of our discourse.
the old gentleman and his lady fas observing their
cue most exactly) came U]) to' us. Upon their ap-
proach, and pointing me to the arbour the parson
renewed the relation too, and they (the parents of the
youth,) confirmed what he mxid, and added many
Jiiinute circumstances, in a long narative of the whole.
In fine, they all three desired my thoughts and advice
in the afiiiir.

I was not able to collect my thoughts enough on
the sudden, to frame a judgement upon what tliev
had said. Only 1 answered, that the thing which the
youth rei)orted to them, was strange, yet not incredi-
ble, and that I knew not then what to' think or sav of
it; but if the lad wouhl be free to n>.e iii talk, 'and
trust me with his counsels, I had hopes to give them
ii better account of my opijiion the next day.

I had no sooner spoken so much, but I perceived
myself in the springe their courtesy had laid forme:
for the old lady was not able to hide her impatience,
but her son must be called innnediately. This 1 was
forced to comply with, and consent to*^; so that, draw-
ing off from the company to an orchard hard bv, .--jhe

went herself, uiid broiiglit liim to mc, and left him

Vvitll IMO.

It was the main drift of all tliese three to persuade
me, that either the hoy was lazy, and glad of any ex-
cuse to keep from the school, or that he was in love
with some wench, and ashamed to confess it ; or that
he had a fetch upon his father to get money and new
clothes, that he might range to London after a brother
(hat he had there; and therefore they begged of me,
to discover the root of the matter; and accordingly to
dissuade, advise, or reprove liim ; but chiefly by all
means to imdeceive iiim, as to the fancy of ghosts and
.spirits.

1 soon entered a close conference with the youth,
and at first was very cautious not to displease him, but
by smooth words to ingratiate myself and get within
liini; for I doubted he would be too distrustful or
too re orved. But we had scarce past the first saluta-
tion and began to sjjcak to the business, before I
found that there needed no i)olicy to screw myself
into liis heart ; for he most openly and with all obli-
ging candour did aver, that he loved his book, and
desired nothing more than to be bred a scholar; that
lie liad not the least respect for any of womankind, as
liis motiier gave out ; and that the only request that
lie would make to his parents was, that they would
luit believe his constant assertions, concerning the
woman he was disturbed with, in the field, called the
Higher Broom Qiiartils. He told me with all naked
I'reedom and a flood of tears, that his friends were un-
kind and unjust to him, neither to believe nor pity
iiini : and that if any man (making a bow to me)
would but go with him to the place, he might be con-
vinced that the thing was real.

By this time he found me apt to compassionate his
condition, and to be attentive to his relation of it;
and therefore he went on in this manner.

This woman which appears to me, said he, lived a
neighbour here to my lather; and died about eight

X G

f ** '''"^

iit pm

p- m\^

f h

(

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years since; her name was Dorothy J)ingie, ol" siich
astatine, such an age, and such a complexion. {She
never speaks to me, but passeth by hastily, and
always leaves the loot-path to me, and she connnoiily
meets me twice or three times in the breadth f tliV
field.

It was about two months before I took any i ,tice
of it, and though the shape of the face was in my me-
mory, yet I could not recal the name of the person •
but without more thoughtfulness I did suppose it
was some woman who lived thereabout, and had
frequent occasion that way. Nor did [ imagine any
thmg to the contrary, before she began to meet nie
constantly morning and evening, and alvvavs in the
same field, and sometimes twice or thrice in the
breadth of it.

The first time I took notice of her, was about a
year since ; and when I began to suspect and believe
It to be a ghost, 1 had courage enough not to be
alraid; but kept it to myself a good while, and onh'
wondered very much at it. I did often speak to it
but never had a word in answer. Then 1 changed
my way and went to school the under horse road
and then she always met me in the narrow lane, bt-
tween the quarry park antl the nurserv, which' was
worse.

At length I began to be afraid of it, and prayed
contmually, that God would either free me from it,
or let me know the meaning of it. Night and dav,'
sleepmg and waking, the shape was ever running in
my mind: and I often did repeat these places in
Scripture; (with that he took a smail Bible out of
his pocket.) .Tob vii. 14. "Thou scurest me with
dreams, and terrifiest me through visions;" and
Deut xxviii. 67, « Jn the morning thou shalt say,
wouhl God It were evening, and at evening thoa shall
say, would God it were morning, for the fear of thine
heart, wherewith thou shalt fear, and for the sight of
thine eyci whicii thou shah see."

I was '
in tlio aj)
condition
he— By ^
it was tal
heing mf
and he \
and tliey

Tiie su
did somel
still conn
fop[)eries

I (lid {
met the m

This ar
much as I
conferenc
proffer to
our intent
the place
with joy
you sure
now I shi
went into

The ge
impatient
came out
seeing the
from the c
talked wit
an idle bo
up stairs t
stopped tl;
ing them ]
be as gooc
they migli
rest in m
utmost in

227

I was very vmuli pleased with tlie lad's ingenuity,
in tlie applieatioii ol tliese pertinent scriptures to bis
t'ondition, and (iesired iiim to proc ; d. Tims said
lie— By degrees I grew very pensive insomucli tliat
it was taken notice of by all our family : vvliereupon
being urged to it, I told my brotber William of it;
and he privately acqnainte(l my fatlier and mother;
and they kept it to themselves for some time.

The success of this discovery was only this; they
(lid sometimes laugh at me, sometimes chide me, but
still commanded me to keep my school, and put such
fopperies out of my head.

[ (lid accordingly go to school often, but always
met the woman in the way.

Tliis and much more to the same purpose (yea as
much as held a dialogue of near two hours,) was our
conference in the orchard ; whicb ended with my
proffer to him, that (without making ar / privy to
our intents,) I would next morning walk with him to
the place about six o'clock. He was even transported
with joy at the mention of it, and replied, but will
you sure Sir? Will you really Sir? Thank God
now I shall be believed. From this conclusion we
went into the house.

The gentleman, his wife, and Mr. Williams were
impatient to know the event, insomuch that they
came out of the parlour into the hall to meet us ; and
seeing the lad looked cheerfully, the first compliment
from the old man was, " Come Mr. Ruddle, yon have
talked with Sam ; I hope now he will have more wit •
an idle boy, an idle boy ! At these words the lad ran
up stairs to his chamber, without replying, and I soon
stopped the curiosity of the three expectants, by tell-
ing them I had promised silence, and was resolved to
be as good as my word, but when things were riper
they might know all ; at present I desired them to
rest in my faithful promise, that I would do my
utmost in their servuv. and for the *Tr>r.rl r^e *u^:-

■ 1 1:

'"t H

i? •-'

^.1

''*4

228

son. With this they were silenced, 1 cainiot say
satisfied. ' ^

The next morning, before five o'clock, the lad was
in my chamber, and very brisk; I arose and went
with him. The field he led me to I guessed to be
twenty acres, in an open conntry, and about three
furlongs from any house. We went into the field,
and had not gone above a third part before the spec-
trum, in the shape of a woman, with all the circuiu-
stances he had descri[)ed her to me in the orchard the
day before, as much as the suddenness of its appear-
ance, and evanition would permit me to discover, met
us and passed by. I was a little surprised at it • and
though I had taken up a firm resolution to speak to
it, yet I had not the power, nor indeed durst I look
back, yet 1 took care not to show my fear to my pu-
pil and guide, and therefore telling him that 1 was
satisfied in the truth of his complaint, we walked to
the end of the field, and returned, nor did the ghost,
meet us at that time above once. I perceived in the
young man a kind of boldness ^-.lixed with astonish-
ment; the first caused by my presence, and the proof
he had given of his own relation, ami the other by the
sight of his persecutor.

(To be con tinned.)

,-!«

Of Hell.

THE punishment of those who in spite of all the
^ warnings of God, resolve to have their portion
with the devil and his angels, will, according to the
ancient, and not improper division, be either Pima
damm, what they lose, or P<vni sensus, what they

And first, let me consider the Pwna damni, the
punishment of loss. This commences in that very
moment wherein the soul is separated from the body :

-j I

229

in that instant the soul loses all those pleasures, the
enjoyment of which depends on the outward senses.
The smell, the taste, the touch delight no more: the
organs that ministered to them are spoiled, and the
objects that used to gratify them are far away. In
the dreary regions of the dead, all those things are
forgotten, or if remembered, are only remembered
witli pain, seeing they are gone for e\'er. All the
pleasures of the imagination are at an end. There
is no grandeur in the infernal region; there is no-
thing beautiful in these dark abodes; no light, but
that of livid flames. And nothing new, but one un-
wearied scene of horror upon horror. There is no
music but that of groans and shrieks, of weeping,
wailing, and gnashing of teeth ; of curses and blas-
phemies against God, or cutting reproaches of one
another. Nor is there any thing to gratify the sense
of lionour ; no, they are the heirs of shame and ever-
lasting contempt.

Thus are they totally separated from all the things
they were fond of in the present world. At the same
instant will commence another loss ; that of all the
persons whom they loved. Tliey are torn away from
their nearest and dearest relations, their wives, hus-
bands, parents, children, and (what to some vvill be
worse than all this,) the friend which was as their
own soul. All the pleasures they eVer enjoyed in
these are lost, gone, vanished away. For there is no
friendship in hell. Even the poet who affirms
(though I know not on what authority.)

" Devil with devil damned
Firm concord holds ;

Does not affirm that there is any concord among the
human fiends that inhabit the great abyss.

But they will then be sensible of a greater loss,
than all they have enjoyed on earth. They have
lost their place in Abraham's l)osom, in the paradise

' Bdm

Ti-

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if':

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of (jod. ilithorto huhei], it hath not entered into
their liearts to conceive, what lioly souls enjoy in the
garden of God, in the society of angels, and of the
wisest ajid best men, that have lived from the l)emn-
ning of the world : (not to mention the '-nmense in
crease of knowledge, which they will thtn undoubt-
edly receive.) But they will then fully understand
the value oi what they have vilely cast away.

But as happy as the souls in i)aradise ai^, tliey are
prepanng for iar greater happiness. For paradise is
only the porch of hea^ en ; and it is there the si)irits
of just men are made perfect. It is in heaven onlv
that there is the fulness of joy, the pleasures that are
at Cxod s right hand for evermore. The loss of this'
by those unhappy spirits, will be the completion of
their misery. They will then know and feel, that
trod alone is tlie centre of all created spirits ; and con-
sequently that a spirit made for God, can have no
rest out of him. It seems that the apostle had this in
view, when he spoke of those, who shall be punished
with everlasting destruction from the presence of the
iiord. Banishment from the presence of the Lord
is the very essence of destruction to a spirit that was
made for God. And if that banisliment last for ever
It IS everlasting destruction.

Such is the loss sustained by those miserable crea-
tures, on whom that awful sentence will be i)ro-
nounced, " Depart from me ye curseJ !" What an
unspeakable curse, if there were no other' But
alas! this IS far from being the whole: for, to the
punishment of loss, will be added the punishment of
sense What they lose, implies unspeakable misery,
which yet IS inferior to what they feel. This it is
which our Lord expresses in those emphatical words,'
Where M.^r worm dieth not, and the fire is no
quenched.

From the time that sentence was pronounced

"Cn"''-i'r ^"''''r"^^''' ""^' ""t^' ciuitthou Shalt
letuin. It has been the custom of all nations, so far as

we can h

tnral to r

mother e

tiiod obt

burning

in a gran

tliey erec

and exp(

of man w

the worm

frame ; aJ

tlie fire v\

a worm tl

a vvoriii tl

than that

never be c

The fii

dieth, se(

self-conde

sense of tl

cunceptioi

present e

Solomon

man may

griefs of i

can hear?

conscience

arrows of

iiig up th

have sunk

life ! Anc

this anguif

coniparisoj

are wholly

ed God!

horror,

raii

ed.

malice, an
gnaw the i

231

we can learn, to commit dust to dust : it seemed ivi-

tural to restore the bodies of the dead to the o-enerLl

mother earth. But in process of time another me-

tliod obtameti, chiefly among the rich and great of

burning the bodies of their relations, and frequentlv

in a grand magnificent manner. For which purpose

tiiey erected huge funeral piles, with immense labour

and expense. By either of these methods the body

of man was soon restored to its parent dust Eithev

the worm or the h're soon consumed the well wrought

frame ; alter which the worm itself quickly died and

tlie fire vvas entirely quenched. But there is likewise

a worm that belongs to the future state ; and that is

a worm that never dieth. And there is a fire hotter

than that of the funeral pile : and it is a fire that will

never be quenched.

The first thing intended by the worm that never
dietii, seenis to be a guilty conscience, including
sell-condemnation, sorrow, shame, remorse and a
sense of the wrath of God. Mav not we have some
conception of this, by what is sometimes felt in the
present evil world ? Is it not of this chiefly that
.Solomon speaks, when he savs, " IMie sT)irit of a
man may bear his infirmities," his infirmities or
gnels ol any other kind: but a wounded spirit who
can heari^ Who can bear the anguish of an awakened
conscience, penetrated with a sense of guilt, aad the
arrows of the Almighty sticking in the soul, and drink-
ing up the spirit ! How many of the stout hearted
have sunk under it, and chose strangling rather than
lite! And yet wliat are these wounds, what is all
this anguish ol a soul while in this present world in
comparison to those they must sufler when their souls
are wholly awakened, to feel the wrath of an oflend-
wl God! Add to these, all unholy passions, fear
horror, rage, evil desires; desires tliat can never be
satisfied. Add all unholy tempers, envv, jealousy
malice and revenge: all of which wilf incessantly
gnaw the soul, as the vultui-e was supf)osed to do tlie

!ii: i

23'>

,f*

liver of Tityiis. To these if we add liatied to God
and all liis^ creatures, all these united together serve
to give us some little imperfect idea of the worm that
never dieth.

We may observe a remarkable diHerence in the
manner wherein our Lord speaks concerning the
two parts of the future punishment. He says, Where
t/teir worm dieth not, of one; where the fire is not
quenched, of the other. This cannot be by chance.
What then is the reason for this variation of the ex-
pression ?

Does it seem to be this? The fire will be the same
to all that are tormented therein ; only perhaps more
intense to some than others, according to theii' degree
of guilt. Bui their worm will not, cannot be the
same. It wilt be infinitely varied, according to their
various kind, as well as degrees of wickeihiess.
This variety will arise partly from the just judgment
of God, rewarding every one according to his works.
For we cannot doubt that this rule will take place,
no less in hell than in heaven. As in heaven every
man shall receive his own reward, incommunicably
his, that is, the whole tenor of his tempers, thoughts,
words, and actions ; so undoubtedly every man in
fact will receive in his own reward, according to his
own bad labour. And this likewise will be incom-
municably his own, even as his labour was. Variety
of punishment will likewise arise from the very na-
ture of the thing. As they that bring most holiness
to heaven., will find most happiness there, so on the
other hand it is not only true that the more wicked-
ness a man brings to hell, the more misery he will
find there; but that this misery will be infinitely va-
ried according to the various kinds of his wickedness.
It was therefore proper to say the lire, in general ; but
their worm in particular.

But it has been questioned by some, " Whether
there beany fire in hell?" that is, any material fire.
Nay, if there be any fire, it is unquestionably material.

233

For vvliat is inimatorial fire? The same as immaterial
fire or earth ! l)otli tlie one and the other are absolute
nonsense, a contrarliction in terms. Either therefore
we must affirm it to be material, or we deny its exis-
tence. But if we granted them, there is no fire at all
there, what would tliey gain thereby ? Seeing that it
is allowed on all hands, tliat it is either fire or some-
tliinpf worse. And consider this : does not our Lord
speak as if it were real fire? No one can deny, or
doubt of this. Is it possible then to suppose, that the
God of truth would speak in this manner, if it were
not so ? Does he design to frighten his poor creatures ?
What with scare-crows ? With vain shadows of things
that have no being? O let not any one think so ! im-
pute not such folly to the Most High !

But others aver, " It is not possible that fire should
burn always. For by the immutable law of nature, it
consumes whatever is thrown into it. And by the
same law, as soon as it has consumed its fuel, it is it-
self consumed ; it goes out."

It is most true, that in the present constitution of
things, during the present Jaws of nature, the element
of fire does dissolve and consume whatever is thrown
into it. But here is the mistake : the present laws
of nature are not immutable. When the heavens and
the earth shall flee away, the present scene will be
totally changed : and with the present constitution
of tilings, the present laws of nature will cease. Af-
ter this great change, nothing will be dissolved, no-
thing will be consumed any more. Therefore if it
were true that fire consumes all things now, it would
not follow that it would do the same after the whole
frame of nature has undergone that vast, universal
change.

1 say. " If it were true, that fire consumes all
things now." But indeed it is not true. Has it not
pleased God, to give us already some proof of what
will be hereafter? Is not the Linnm Asbestum, the
incombustible dax, known in most parts of Europe ?

^^li^

¥•

'1 ^ K 111

)■[-' I ' ' .

I 1

•2'M

If\you lia\e a towel or liaiidkorcfheif made of this (one
of which may now be seen in the British Museum,)
you may tlirow it into the hottest fire, and when it is
taken out again it will be observed, upon the nicest
experiment, not to have lost one grain of its weight.
Here therefore is a substance before our eyes, wliidi
even in tlie present constitution of things, (as if it
were an emblem <jf tilings to come) may remain in
fire without being cojisumed.

It remains now only to consider two or three cir-
cumstances attending tlie never-dying woim and the
unquenchable fire.

And first consider the company wherewidi every
one is surrounded in th-.l i)lace of torment. Thev are
restrained by none from exerting to the uttermost
their total wickedness. Not by men : none will be
restrained Irom e\ il by his comj)anions in damnation.
And not by God ; for he hatli forgotten them, hath
delivered them over to tlie tormentor. And the devils
need not fear, like their instruments upon earth, lest
they should expire under the torture. They can die
no more: they are strong to sustain whatever the
united malice, skill and strength of angels can inflict
upon them. And their angelic tormentors have time
sufficient^ to vary their torments a thousand ways.
How infinitely may they vary one single torment.
Horrible appearances! Whereby, there is no doubt
an evil spirit, if permitted, could terrify the stoutest
man upon earth to death.

Consider, secondly. That all these torments of body
and soul, are without intermission. Then' ha\e no
respite from pain; but the smoke of their t(..wient
ascendeth up day and night. They ha\c nothing to
divert them from their torments even for a moment,

" Total Eclipse : no 8un, no Moon !"

No change of seasons or of companions. There is no
business, but one uninterrupted scene of horror, to

which til
tcr\al of
all ear, a
may be s

And o

thought i;
their torn
or the sai
suffering
tant, of d

(( I

the inhal
never to e

" Nevei
Into a I

8Li[)pose
still we a
ther the f
than it wc
into utter
inKjueiich;
not, and 1
"It del
have long
into it.
adjudged
had contir
What an i
not under
many sinr
in their sii

235

wliich they iimst b«> all atteiitioii. They have no In-
terval ol" inattention oi- stupidity : they are all eye,
all ear, all sense. J'lvery instant of their duration, it
uiay he said of their \vh(jle irame, that they are

" Tremblingly alive all o'er,

And smart and agonise at every pore."

And of this duration there is no end! What a
thought is this ! Nothing but eternity is the term of
their torment ! And who ean count the drops of rain,
or the sands of the sea, or the days of eternity ? Every
suffering is softened, if there is any hope, though dis-
tant, of deliverance from it. But here

" Hope never comes, that comes to all,"

tilt inhabitants of tlie upjjcr world ! What,- suflerings
ne\ er to end !

"Never! Where siuks the soul at that dread sound i*
Into a gulf how dark, and how profound!"

.SL4)pose millions of days, of years of ages elapsed,
still we are only on the threshold of eternity ! Nei-
ther the pain of body or soul is any nearer at an end
than it was millions of nges ago. When they are cast
into utter darkness, (how emphatical !) The fire, the
uiKjuenchable, all is concluded ! Their worm dieth
not, and the (ire is not quenched.

"It demands our highest gratitude, that we who
have long ago deserved this misery, are not plunged
into it. While there are thousands that have been
adjudged to this place of punishment, before they
had continued so long in sin as many of us have done.
What an instance is it of divine goodness, that we are
not under his fiery vengeance? Have we not seen
many sinners on our right hand and our left, cut off
in their sins ? And what but the tender mercy of God,

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liath spared us week after week, month after Juoiitli,
and given us space for repentance? What shall we
render unto the Lord, for all his patience and long-
suffering, even to this day i' How often have we incur-
red the sentence of condemnation by our repeated re-
bellion against God ! And yet we are still alive in ins
presence, and are hearing the words of hope and salva-
tion. O let us look back and shudder at the thoughts
of that dreadful precii)ice, on the edge of which we
have so long wandered ! Let us fly for refuge to the
hope that is set before us, and give a thousand thanks
to the divine mercy, that we are not piunged into this
perdition.

Remarkable Conversio:,- of Henry Webb,
Related hy credible inhwsses, and altestedjor Fact.

THERE is no truer maxim than that in endea-
vouring to shun one extreme, we are often apt
to fall into another : this the great Mr. Addison has
observed in respect to religion ; that, by endeavouring
to avoid the cant and hypocrisy formerly too much
practised, w^e have fallen into a* habit of being quite
ashamed of any religion at all. This too has been the
case with every thing unconmion or more than ordi-
nary, especially in regard to spiritual matters; the
fear of being imposed upon, and the many idle stories
we often hear, make us refuse to give credit to any
thing of this sort though ever so well attested, and
though we have very sensible evidence of a great and
good end being answered tliereby.

That God Almighty does sonietimes make use of
extraordinary means, more particularly in the con-
version of some sinners is too well attested by scri})-
ture, repeated experience, and the testimony of the
wisest and best of men, to admit of any doubt; and
likewise, that he has made use of no method so often
as that of visions of the night ; many are the proofs

which mi

of this, J

instance ]

genious 1

lately pul

ol til em

while it

which su]

since it te

not upon

convey ii

work imj

4tli chapi

Temanite

happened

Henry

l)orn at (

of John

years in

fourteen i

or near th;

him, acc<

young,^ r

cordwaine

dient, he

and goini

company,

mou swea

of goodne

tinned, w

year of h

Tliomas ]

nules fro]

Monday,

ed with a

working t

self worse,

half a mil

house, an

whicli jnight be brought I'lum scripture of the truth
of this, particukrly tliat very striking arul amazing
instance recorded in the book of Job, which the in-
genious Mr. Hervy, in his book of meditations,
lately published, justly says, " is a proof of the reality
ol them upon some veiy extraordinary emergencies,
while it discountenances those legions of idle tales,
which superstition has raised, and credulity received ;
since it teaches us, that when they come to pass, it is
not upon any errand of frivolous consequences, but to
convey intelligences of the utmost moment, or to
work impressions of the highest advantage." In the
4tli chapter of Job, and the 12th verse, Eliphaz the
Temanite describes a vision of this nature, which had
happened to himself.

Henry Webb, The subject of this relation, was
horn at Crewkerne, in vSomersetshire, being the son
of John and Mary Webb, both known for many
years in that place, his father being deceased but
fourteen months ago, and his mother still residing in
or near that place. He had a common education given
him, according to their abilities; and was, wlien
young, put out apprentice to Mr. John Hooper, a
cordwainer, in that place, but being wild, and disobe-
dient, he soon ran away from his master and parents,
and going many miles distant and falling into bad
company, he soon became a reprobate liver, a com-
mon swearer, and sabbath-breaker, having no thoughts
of goodness or religion at all: in this state he con-
tinued, without any serious reflection, till the 21st
year of his age, at which time he worked with Mr.
Thomas Eades, at a place called Euley, about five
miles from Lymington in Hampshire, where, on
Monday, the 11th of February, 1749-50, he was seiz-
ed with an oppression on the spirits, but continued
working till Tuesday about noon, when finding him-
self worse, he was bled, after which he walked about
half a mile, drank half a pint of warm ale at a public
house, and then returned homo. a,nd sat down bv the

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fire till four or five o'clock iti the al'teniooii, .still
growing worse, when lie went up to bed ; in Avliich
he had not been long before he seemed to himself to
be dying or fainting away, or rather his soul going
out of his body ; at which tune (as he has since
been told) the people belonging to the house, hearing
a deep groan, eauie up stairs, and found his arm had
burst out a bleeding to the (puintity of near two
quarts, and him, to all appearance dead, his e>'es and
teeth being closed, and not the least breath i)erceivable;
upon which, after having applied several lemedies to
no purpose, they resolved to lay him out in order to
be buried; but his master, Mr. Eades, perceiving
a small warmth in his body, was resolved he should
not be moved out of the bed till he was cold ; and in
this n)anner he lay for the space of three nights and
days, all which time he received no manner of sus-
tenance, for th(jugh they endeavoured to open his
teeth with a spoon, and pour down cordials, as he is
informed by those who administered it, none of it
went down.

At the time he felt himself dying away, as we have
mentioned above, he seemed to go into ffelds inexpres-
sibly delightful and pleasant, beautiful with streams
and fountains of water clearer than crystsl, having
at the same time a glorious pros[)ect of heaven be-
fore him, to which he directed his steps, not once
thinking upon this world, or reflecting on the hein-
ousness of his sins : after some time he seerned to
arrive at the gates of hea\ en, which shone more glo-
rious and bright than the sun in his greatest lustre:
he knocked at the gates, which were immediately
opened to him, and he saw within, three men in
bright and shining clothing, far exceeding every
thing he had ever seen, and far more glorious tliun
he can express ; two of them came up to him, and
the gates were imediately shut again; he hitreated
oi these two men in sinning clothes admittance in at
the gave, but was told l)y them, '^it was iiot a place

rM^

l(»r

my siK li wicked sinners as In? was." Jt was at
tjiis iiionicMit he first had any sense of his sinful life;
for as (jiiiek as fire catches the dry stul)ble, so quick
and pLiielruting were the words of the shining one;
for no sooner were they spoke, than all the sins he
li;i(i e\er < onnrntled in his life seemed to arise before
liiiii \\ itJJ all tlieir weight and horror, so that he be-
lii'Vt's the agonies of hell itself cannot exceed what he
feh at that lime: however, he still kept begging in the
most earnest and passionate nuuiner for entrance in
at the gnte, but was still denied, and in this manner
lie seemed to continue for several hours; at last, one
of tlie men in brigiit clothes, bid him look on his
left hand, which he doing, saw at some distance from
him, hell itself opened, whicli seemed covered with
the most dismal, lonesome and doleful darkness it
is possible to imagine, and sent forth a suffocating
smell of sulpher; but h«' did no discern any flame ;
lie saw a great nndtitude of persons in it, seemingly
ill tlic utmost agonies and torments, and the prince
of (luvkness, as it were, raging as a ravenous lion to
come at him; but what struck him with still more
iiorror and despaii', was to distinguish the faces of
three of his old wicked companions among those tor-
mented wretches, as plain as he ever saw any person
with his eyes, and to hear them utter the most dismal
cries and sad lamentations ; his eyes and attention
seemed to fix upon this dreadful scene, that he was
not able once to take them oil* for several hours, or
even turn them towards heaven ; neither was he able
to utter a word all this time, but at length gaining
utterance, he entreated in the most moving manner
the person in the shining clothes, that he would let
him return back, and lia\e some time to repent of
and reform his wicked life; but he answered him,
"those were the torments lie was going to," which
made him beg the more Aehemently that he might be
allowed to return and repent, wdiich seemed to be
denied him still : till at last, the person told him, that

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if he was allowed to return he would lead the same
course of life : but he cried out and promised in the
most solenni manner, that he would amend and lead
a new life ; n})on which this glorious person told
him, he would allow him a few months longer: but
that if he continued in the same wicked course of life
he had hitherto done, he would shorten that time-
that he seemed to turn about and direct his steps
back again to this world, the person in bright clothing
walked with him for (as it seemed) the space of two
or three miles, rebuking him all tlie way for his sin-
ful life, and telling him, " he had deserved the pim.
ishments he had seen, repeated times, and adding,
that if he led the same wicked course of life again, the
torment he had seen would be his portion for ever and
ever."

After the departure of this glorious jierson from
him, he seemed to travel for many miles through
places dark, desolate, horrible, beyond all that tongue
or pen can express, being at the same time grievously
oppressed with this heavy burden of his sins, which
seemed to be all before his eys, set against him in
terrible array. He cannot describe in what manner
he returned to life, but is informed that some of the
people below stairs, hearing a deep groan, came up
into the room, and found life coming into him, which
they were greatly surprised at, as for two hours before
he had felt colder than he had done at all ; that he
lay for the space of half an hour or more in great
strugglings and agonies, and came quite to himself,
and recovered his speech, telling them what things
he had seen, and desiring the minister of the place to
be fetched to him ; who was accordingly sent for and
soon came with his master, Mr. Thomas Eades, and
several of the neighbours who inquired how he did;
upon which he repeated to them the same account
he had given before of what had happened to him;
but the minister suspected he might probably be light-
headed, asked him several. (questions, whether he knew

241

those who were in the room, asked him the name
oi each particular person : and finding him to be
thoroughly sensible and tliat he gave rational answers
to all he asked him, he began (like a truly pious di-
vine,) and talked to him in u serious manner, telling
him how happy a thing it was, that God through his
great mercy and goodness, had not taken him away in
his sins ; exhorting him to place his faith and confi-
dence in Jesus Christ, (and not in ':j own works)
for that it was through and by him that he must be
saved ; for unless he was v .ished clean m his blood,
he could not enter into the kingdom of heaven, for
no unclean thing could enter there ; after some' fur-
ther pious Christian discourse, the minister and all
who were present, went to prayer with him, and then
left him to take some repose.

The next day but one, this worthy divine visited
him again, and enquired how he was ; to which ie re-
plied, " he was much easier in his mind, but abhorred
himself for his sins, and could tear himself to pieces
that he had not a sense of them before."

Many other times was he visited by the clergyman,
who in all his visits instructed and exhorted him by
religious conversation to amendment of life and faith
in Jesus Christ.

But in about a fortnight's time he was seized with a
very violent fever, so that his life was despaired of, at
which time the heinousness of his sins overwhelmed
him with horror, so that he was continually begging
every person who came into the room, to pray with
and for him : but during all the continuance of his
fever, (though he was sometimes light headed) yet
he never saw any thing of what he had done before
which makes it more probable that it did not proceed
from the force of a disordered imagination ; for if it
had, it is is certain that something of the same nature
wouM have happened during his fever, more especially
as his whole mind and thought had been entirely fix-
ed ever since on what he then saw.

8 2 I

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Alter some time, as it pleased God, the violence of
tlie fever abated, so that he has been able to go about
and work at his business, though he still eontivuies in
a weak condition.

He has ever since lived a regular, sober, Christian
life, shunning all loose and unprofitable c« sipany, not
being able to hear any profane discourse or oaths
from the mouths of others, without the greatest un-
easiness, and even reproving diem for it; he daily
bewails his former course of life, and frequently ap-
plies to God in prayer, being never so easy as when
he Is engaged in some religious duty or conversation;
he cannot yet speak, (though he has repeated it so
many times) of those dreadful things he saw, without
being deeply affected : but declares he is ready and
willing to die with pleasure, whenever God is pleased
to appoint as he has a strong })ersuasion of his being
made happy hereafter, through the merits of our
Saviour Jesus Christ.

Witness to the above facts, Peimenin Brewer, No.
18, Prince's street, Cavendish square. Wni. Mumford,
Honey-suckle court, near White-cross-strect. E. JSibly,
bookseller, No. '2{), Bricklane, S[)ittal-fields.

AN ACCOUNT OF AN APPARITION,

Attested by the Rec. Mr. Ihtddlc, miuisfer (it Laumrslou,

in Coru/ra/l.

(Conffnued from pa<j(> 2'28.)

IN short we went home ; I somewhat [)uzzled, he
much animated. At our return the gentlewoman
(whose inquisitiveness had missed us) watched to
speak with me ; 1 gave her a convenience, and told
her that my opinion was, that her son's complaint
was not to be slighted, nor altogether discredited, yet
that my judgement in his case was not settled. 1 gave

her cautio
wind, les
we yet ha

In this
admit of
tliat even
week. Y
pleaded a
week broi
upon the
three wee
of God to

The n€
1065, 1 w
ed the br<
turned an
trum app
I saw it t
me ; in i
time befor
my right
speak to
hand.

The ev
and myse
proposed
next mori
no dange
morning b
or servant
a field of
compass a
appointed.

Thence
Quartils ;
before the
over the i
swiftness,
steps it pi

rilini :i

243

Iwr caution moreovor, that tlie tliinej might not take
wind, lest the whole country should ring, with what
we yet had no assurance of.

In this juncture of time I had business which would
admit of no delay ; wherefore J went to Launceston
tliat evening, hut promised to see tliem again next
week. Yet I was prevented by an occasion which
pleaded a sufficient excuse: for my wife was that
week brought home very ill. However my mind was
upon the adventure, I studied the case, and about
three weeks after went again, resolving, by the help
of God to see the utmost.

The next morning, being the 27th day of July,
1065, 1 went to the haunted field myself, and walk-
ed the breadth of it without any encounter. I re-
turned and took the other walk, and then the spec-
trum appeared to me much about the same place
I saw it before when the young gentleman was with
me ; in my thoughts this moved swifter than the
time before, and about ten feet distant from me on
my right hand ; insomuch that I had not time to
speak to it, as I had determined with myself before
hand.

The evening of this day, the parents, the son,
and myself, being in the chamber where I lay; I
proposed to them our going all together to the place
next morning, and some asservation that there was
no danger in it, we all resolved upon it. The
morning being come, lest we should alarm the family
or servants, they went under the pretence of seeing
a field of wheat, and I took my horse and fetched a
compass anotlier way, and so met at the siyle we had
appointed.

Thence we all four walked leisure V into the
Quartils ; and had not passed above haif the field
before the ghost made its appearance. It then came
over the stile just before us, and moved with that
swiftness, that by the time we had got six or seven
steps it passed by. I immediately turned my head

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241

and ran after it, witli the young man by my side-
we saw it pass over the stile at which we entered'
but no farther : I stepped upon the edge at one place
and he at another, but could disern nothing, whereas
I dare avow, that the swiftest horse in England could
not have conveyed himself out of sight in that short
space of time. Two things I observed in this day's
appearance.

1. That a spaniel dog who followed the company
unregarded, did bark and run away, as the spectrum
passed by ; whence it is easy to conclude that it was
not our fear or fancy that made the apparition.

2. That the motion of the spectre was not gradu-
tim, or^ by steps, and moving of the feet ; but a kind
of gliding as children upon the ice, or a boat down
s swift river, which punctually answers the descrip-
tions of the ancients give of the motions of their
Lemurs.

But to proceed, this ocular evidence clearly con-
vinced, but withal strangely p.ffrighted the old gen-
tleman and his wife ; who knew this Dorothy Ding-
ley in her lifetime, were at her burial, and now
plainly saw her features in this present apparition. I
encouraged them as well as I could; but after this
they went no more. However I resolved to proceed,
and use such lawful means as God hath discovered,
and learned men have successfully practised in these
uncommon cases.

The next morning being Thursday, I went out very
early by myself, and walked for about an hours space
m meditation and prayer in the fields next adjoining
to the Quartils. Soon after five I stept over the stile
into the disturbed field, and had not gone above thirty
or forty paces before the ghost appeared at the farther
stile. I spake to it with a loud voice, in some such
sentences as the way of these dealings directed me,
whereupon it approached but slowly, and when I
came near it moved not. I spake again and it an-
swered m a voice neither very audible nor intelliaible.

I was no
until it a

But tl:
wherefore
met me
words of
doth app(
'turbance.
a quarter

These
with as r
and until
me about
deprive n
the Chris
these thin

As for
son to b(
of good p
though in
assurance
fitable tro
I know 1
uncommo
that tells I
as a trav
murdered,
liar, or s
have his
dulity ma

I'irst, t
positions
friars, &c
they mad(
got both
menta Vu

Second
bean prin
the rlnpfrii

\ y

245

r was not in the least terrified, and therefore persisted
until it came again and gave me satisfaction.

But the work could not be finished at this time ;
wherefore the same evening an hour after sun set, it
met me again near the same place, and after a few
words of each side it quietly vanished, and neither
doth appear since or ever will more, to any man's dis-
"turbance. The discourse in the morning lasted about
a quarter of an hour.

These things are true and I know them to be so
with as much certainty as eyes and ears can give me ;
and until I can be persuaded that my senses deceive
me about their proper obect; and by that persuasion
deprive myself of the strongest inducement to believe
the Christian religion, I must and will assert that
these things in this paper are true.

As for the manner of my proceedir ;, I find no rea-
son to be ashamed of it, for I can^astify it, to men
of good principles, discretion, and recondite learning,
though in this case I chose to content myself in the
assurance of the thing, rather than be at the unpro-
fitable trouble to persuade others to believe it. For
I know full well with what difficulty, relations of so
uncommon a nature and practice obtain belief. He
that tells such a stor^ , may expect to be dealt withal,
as a traveller in Poland by the robbers ; viz. first
murdered, and then searched, first condemned for a
liar, or superstitious, and then (when it is too late)
have his reasons and proofs examined. This incre-
dulity may be attrubited,

First, to the infinite abuses of the people, and im-
positions upon their faith by the cunning monks, and
iriars, &c., in the days of darkness and popery. For
they made apparitions as often as they pleased, and
got both money and credit by quieting the Terticula-
menta Vulgi, which their own artifice had raised.

Second, To the prevailing of Somatism and Hob-
bean principles in these times ; which is a revival of

" — " "- "" '-•iiuuvivvCo, diiu tto II uuiiifb liie na-

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240

ture, so cannot consist with the ajiparition of spirits
on which see Leviath., p. 1, c. 12.

Third, So the ignorance of men in our age, in this
peculiar and mysterious part of philosophy and reli-
gion, namely, the communication between spirits and
men. Not one scholar of ten thousand (though
otherwise of excellent learning) knows anything of it,
or the way iiow to manage it. 'J'his ignorance breeds
fear, and abhorrance of that, which otherwise might
be of incomparable benefit to mankind.

But I, being a clergyman, and young, and a stran-
ger in these parts, do apprehend' silence and secrecy
to be my best security.

ANECDOTES.

Importance of Divine Knowledge.

ARIVETUS was a man of great understanding,
and much reverenced in the Dutch nation. After
a long life of study in search of divine knowledge,
being on his death bed, and conversing upon heavoiilv
things, he observed : " God has taught me more of
himself in ten days' sickness, than I could obtain by
all my labour and studies." Plain and simple are the
means of obtaining the knowledge of God and his
holy will, when we come to be in earnest, and our
hearts are sincerely concerned to know and to obey
him; "the wayfaring man though a fool (in the I
world's wisdom) shall not err therein." "

Salmasius, a famous French scholar, after writing

many volumes, in which he had shewn much learning,

and by which he had acquired great veneration among

earned men, confessed liimself so far to have mista-

ken true learnmg, and that in which solid happiness

consists, I
I have lof
thing in t
it should
epistles.—
the worl(
Lord, thii
is underst

The

"HJ

Hampton
mind of
plinient \
said the (
death-bed

YRUl

been
trains of i
graven on
the appro
lows it, Hi
whensoevt
to the sai
Cyrus, vvl
not envy i
which cov

217

consists, that lie exclaiined thus agauist iiiniself: 'Oh,
I have lost a world of time ; time, that most precious
thing ill the world ! whereof had I but one year more,
it sliould be spent in David's Psalms, and Paul's
epistles. — Oh, Sirs,' said he to those about him, ' mind
the world less, and God more.' — "The fear of the
Lord, that is wisdom ; and to depart from evil, that
is understanding."

The DaiNger ov Worldly Possessions.

WHEN Garrick showed Dr. Johnson his fine
house, gardens, statutes, pictures, &c., at
Hampton Court, what ideas did they awaken in the
mind of that great man ? Instead of a flattering com-
pliment which was expected, ' Ah, David ! David !'
said the doctor, ' These arc the things which make a
death-bed terrible !'

Mortality.

j ;; t;
1 ■ iP'' £■ ,.-:

'1 1

CYRUS, the emperor of Persia, after he had long
been attended l)y numerous armies, and vast
trains of courtiers, ordered this inscription to be en-
graven on his tomb as an admonition to all men of
the approach of death, and the desolation that fol-
lows it, namely, " O Man ! whatsoever thou art, and
whensoever thou comest, I know that thou wilt come
to the same condition in which 1 now am. I am
Cyrus, who brought the empire to the Persians ; do
not envy me, I beseech thee, this little piece of ground
which covereth my body."

s^^

»r'

248

Cakactacus.

WHEN the magaaniuous and heroic Caractacus
a British king, was sent prisoner to Rome, he
could not forbear crying out, on surveying the grand
and elegant buildings of that superb capital, " How is
it possible for the owners of such magnificent struc-
tures as these to envy the i)oor cottages of the Britons ?"
Much more may we wonder how it is possible for a
regenerate soul, which has God and heaven for his
portion, to pant after the honours, wealth and plea-
sures of a wretched, perishing world.

Of the Uncertainty of Human Life.

ARCHIAS, a supreme magistrate of the city of
Thebes, was seated, at a feast, surrounded
by his friends, when a courier arrived in great haste,
with letters containing an account of a conspiracy
formed against him. 'My Lord, (said the messen-
ger,) the person who writes these letters conjures
you to read them immediately, being senons t/tiw/s:
" Serious thim/s, To-morrow;' replied Archias laugh-
ing, and put the letters under his pillow. This delay
was fatal. The conspirators that evening rushed
into the banqueting room, and put the careless
Archias, with all his guests to the sword. 'Wiiat
folly not to attend to the warning given him ! nie-
thinks I hear you exclaim. Folly indeed ! but ah!
my dear reader, this is but a just picture ' those,
who though kindly warned of the value of their
souls, are yet, like Felix, for putting off religion to
another dav.'

he lay ex]
ly distiuc
and what
j)iring sai
tide of de

THE DEi

whereas tl
selves to
taken an c

AlexaiK
particularl
and think
solved the
against tli
rigorously

In this
who gove
posed, wii
conqueror
mighty, a
prayei's to

The nig
and bid h
down the (
ed in his ]
in their v^
and meet
king, insc

command

> m

me-

219

WORLDLY HONOUR,

WHEN Captain David Gam fell in the battle of
Agiiicourt, King Henry V. knighted him as
lie lay expiring upon the ground — What are all earth-
ly distinctions, but honours conferred on dying men?
and what superior glory does Christ confer on his ex-
piring saints? he crowns them kings in the very ar-
ticle of death.

Tin: DESTRUCTION OF THE JEWS PREVENTED BY A

DREAM.

WHEN Alexander laid siege to Tyre, the Samar-
itans sent him a considerable body of troops ;
whereas the Jews thought they could not submit them-
selves to him, so long as Darius to whom they had
taken an oath of allegiance, should be living.

Alexander, being little used to such an answer;
particularly since he had obtained so many victories,
and thinking that all things ought to bow to him, re-
solved the instant he had conquered Tyre, to march
against the Jews, and punish their disobedience as
rigorously as he had done that of the Tyrians.

In this imminent danger, Jaddus, the high priest,
who governed under the Persians, seeing himself ex-
posed, with all the inhabitiints, to the wrath of the
conqueror, had recourse to the protection of the Al-
mighty, and gave orders for the offering up public
prayers to implore his assistance, and make sacrifices.

The night after, God appeared to him in a dream,
and bid him to cause flowers to be scattered up and
down the city ; to set open all the gates, and go cloth-
ed in his pontifical robes, with all the priests dressed
in their vestments, and all the rest clothed in white,
and meet Alexander, and not fear any evil from that
king, insonmch as he would protect them. This
command was punctually obeyed; and accordingly
9 2k

m i

250

( 1

this august procession, the very day after marclied out
of the city to an eminence called Shapha, whence
there was a view of all the plain, as well as of the
temple and city of Jerusalem. Here the whole pro-
cession waited the arrival of Alexander.

The Syrians and Phenicians who were in his army,
were persuaded that the wra^h of this prince was so
great, that he would certainly punish the high priest
after an exemplary manner, and destroy that city in
the same manner as he had done Tyre; and flushed
with joy upon that account, they waited in expecta-
tion of glutting their eyes with the calamities of a
people, to whom they bore a mortal hatred.

As soon as the Jews heard of the king's approach,
they set out to meet him with all the pomp before de-
scribed ; Alexander was struciv at the sight of the
high priest, in whose mitre and forehead a golden
plate was fixed, on which the name of God was
written. The moment the king perceived the high
priest, he advanced towards him with an air of the
most profound respect ; bowed his body, adored the
august name above mentioned, and saluted him who
wore it with a religious veneration. Then the Jews
surrounded Alexander, raised their \oices to wish
him every kind of prosperity. All the spectators were
seized with inexpresible surprise, they could scarce
believe their eyes ; and did not know how to account
for a sight so contrary to their expectation, and so
vastly improbable.

Parmenio, who could not yet recover from his asto-
nishment, asked the king how it came to pass that he
who was adored by every one, adored the high priest?
I do not, replied Alexander, adore the high priest,
but the God whose minister he is : for whilst I was
at Dius in Macedonia (my mind wholly fixed on the
great design of the Persian war,) as Twas revolving
the methods how to conquor Asia, this very man,
dressed in the same robes, appeared to me in a dream,
exhorted me to banish every fear, bid me cross the

Heliespo

march at

over that

Alexai]

he knew

his face,

Dius ; th

command

ven, that

sure he s

stroy the

the reasor

his priest

menio, er

then walk

rusalem,

temple, a

high pries

ON A|
ham;
ruinous in
what now
sire is, tht
my ertects.
First, I (
three year
I forged a
concerning
and silenct
Kennedy's
which wdi
died, to w
poor lad, j

251

•

Hellespont boldly ; and assured me that God would
march at the head of my army, and give me victory
over that of the Persians.

Alexander added, that the instant he saw this {Driest
he knew him by his habit, his stature, his air, and
his face, to be the same person whom he had seen at
Dius; that he was firmly persuded, it was by the
command, and under the immediate conduct of hea-
ven, that he had undertaken this war ; that he was
sure he should overcome Darius hereafter, and de-
stroy the empire of the Persians ; and that this was
the reason why he adored this God in the person of
his priest. Alexander having thus answered Par-
menio, embraced the high priest, and all his bretheren
then walking in the midst of them, he arrived at Je-
rusalem, where he offered sacrifices to God, in the
temple, after the manner prescribed to him by the
high priest.

APPARITION OK THE LAIRD OF COOL.

(Continued from page 228.J

ON April 5, 1722, as I was returning from Old-
hamstocks, Cool struck up with me at the
ruinous inclosure, I told him, I am glad to see you,
what now are your demand upon meP C. All I de-
sire is, that you will go to my wife, who possesses all
my effects, and inform her of the following particulars.
First, I owed Provost Crosby 5001. ( Scots ) with
three years interest. On his death, my brother and
I forged a discharge, and when his heir wrote to me
concerning this bond, 1 showed him this discharge
and silenced him. Second, when I heard of Robert
Kennedy's death I forged a bill of 1901. sterling
which was paid ine. Third, When Thomas Greor

i died, to whom 1 owed 861. sterling,

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Greor's account, hut 1 liad not a receipt, wliioli I
desired he would write for me. He Hew into a pas-
sion, and said, he vvouhl ratiier he hanged. I said,
Nay, I was hut in jest, and desired lie would never
mention it to any. Fourth, I sent lor my hrotlier,
who did all I desired for a guinea, and for a guinea
and a half more gave nie a discharge for 1*200 more
(Scots) which i owed to your father-in-law. But
what vexes me more than all the rest, is the injustice
I did to Homer Maxwell, for whom I was a factor.
I had borrowed two tijousand marks from him, two
hundred of whicli he had borrowed from another, for
tliis I gave him my bond. He died that year, leaving
nine children. His wife died a month before him.
His eldest daughter desired me to look over the pa-
pers and give her an account of the stock and debts.
I slipped this bond into my pocket : whereby his
circumstances proved bad, anil the nine children are
all starving.

These things 1 beg you woidd represent to my wife,
and let them be rectified. She has funds sulficicht.
If these be done, I think I shall be easier.

After a short pause, J answei'ed, "It is a good
errand you would send me on, to do justice to the
oppressed; and 1 might be a gainer inyself; yet I
beg a little time to consider on the matter. You need
not bid me take courage; for thouffh I see what
your cstite is, I am no more afraid of ^you than of a
new born child. Tell me then, since your agility is
such, that in the twinklhig of an eye you can fly a
thousand miles, why cannot you i\v to vour wife,
empty her bags into your hat invisibly, and do
these people justice? C. I cannot. O. But vou sav,
if these people were rectified, you should be easier.
I cannot understand that. For whatever justice be
now done to the people, the guilt of the injustice still
lies upon you. But why cannot you take money to
pay your (sebts: C. I cannot touch any man's
money, by reason oi" tlnjse who are the stated ffuar-

(bans of
the n)one_
do it, tha
C. God V
indeed m
not agaii
thuig thai
not y<tu
enough tl
good or
gold. O.
it? C.A
0. But V
and tell li
of the (pi
go, I wil
ble.

On Af
him agaii
heath call
sidered tl
in the sa
make of
tell your ^
me of mai
ed, for wl
it probabl
siie not ra
for scanda
interview.

Here tl
did not J
vented his
certain.

Althou^
account w
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not the ad

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(liaiis of juiitice. (). Nav, but do not men lake

the

)f oth

money oi oiners continually? And cannot you
(Jo it, that can put yourself into an hundred shapes ?
i\ God will not sutler us thus to injure men. Ami
indeed men may guard themselves against men ; but
not against spirits. Were not these restrained, no-
tliiiig that a man had would be safe. O. But might
not you go to the mines of Mexico, whore is gold
enough that would never be missed? C No s[)irits
good or bad have any power to touch money or
gold. O. But what hinders bad spirits from doing
it? C. A superior power that guards and governs all.
0. Hut why cannot you go to your wife yourself;
and tell her what you have a mind ? C. That is one
of the (juestions I will not answer. But if you will
go, 1 will make you full satisfaction for your trou-
ble.

On April 10, coming from old Cambus, I met
liini again upon the post road, on the head of the
heath called the Pees. He asked, whether 1 had con-
sidered the matter? I told him, '* I have, and am
in the same opinion still. For what a fool should I
make of myself, if I should go to Dumfries, and
tell your wife, that you had appeared to me, and told
nie of many forgeries and villanies you had committ-
ed, for which it behoved her to make reparation. Is
it probable, she would part with her mone\ ^ Would
siie not rather say 1 was mad ? If she did not sue me
for scandal. But dropping these matters till our next
inter\iew.

Here the manuscrii)t ends. Whether Mr. Ogilvie
did not see him any more; or whether death pre-
vented his writing the rest of their conversation is not
certain.

Although there are several things in the preceding
account which I do not understand, yet this is no
considerable objection to me, as my understanding is.
not the atlequale measure of truth.

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AN ACCOUNT OI' r|{K BROTHKRS* STKPS.

Ati (lescnbid in a letter from a Frieml.

I THINK it would be worth your while to t^ike
a ^iew of those wonderful marks of the Lord's
hatred to duelling, called, The lirothers Steps
They are in the fields, about the third of a mile nortl>
ward from Montague House. And the awful tra-
dition concerning them is, That two brothers quar-
relled about a worthless woman, and according to
the fashion of those days, fought with a sword and
pistol. The prints of their feet are about the depth
of three inches, and nothing will vegetate, so nnich
as to disfigure them. The number is only eigl-^v',
three: but probably some at present are filled up.
For I think there were formerly more in the centre,
where each unhappy combatant wounded the other
to death. And a bank on which the first who fell
died, retains the form of his agonizing couch, by
the curse of barrenness, while grass flourishes all
about it. Mr. George Hall, who was the Librarian
of Lincoln's Inn, first showed me those steps twenty-
eight years ago, ^hen I think, they were not quite
so deep as now. He remembered them about thirty
years, and the man who first showed them him about
thirty more: which goes back to the year 1092;
but I suppose they origiMated in the reign of king
Charles the second. My mother well remembered
their being [)loughed up, and corn sown to deface
them, about filty years ago. But all was labour
in vam; for the prints returned in a while to their
pristine form, as probably will those that are now
filled up.

This account appeared to me (says the editor) so
very extraordinary, that I knew not what to think
of It, I knew Mr. W. to be a p,erson of good un-
derstanchng and real piety. And he testified what

he hail y
more witi
in Copth;
Brothers''
had liear(
" sixteen
Another i
could till
a week
another p

We so
could fin
no nor lu
were almc
was at w
joining to
for, aboul
House, ai
ham Cou
cription.
about tin
East to JS
but we w<
one or boi
is still bar
bank, wh
sat to see

What s
ist, or inf]
about thei
phets, the

But to UK

of God, I
stance, he
of the just
he has de
tie reseml
%-tree, I
ever ? 1

155

he had seen witli his own eyes: but still 1 wanted
more witnesses; till a while ago, being at Mr. Cary's
in Copthall Unildings, I occasionally mentioned, The
lirolhers lumlslcps, and asked the Conipany, iC tliev
had heard any thing of them':* " Sir," said Mr. Cary,
"sixteen years ago, I saw and counted tliem myself."
Another added, " And I saw them lour years ago." I
could then no longer doubt but they had been. And
a week or two after, I went with Mr. Cary and
another person to seek them.

We sought for nearly half an hour in vain. We
could find no ste|)s at all, within a quarter of a mile,
no nor half a mile, north of Montague House. We
were almost out of hope, when an honest man, who
was at work, directed us to the next ground, ad-
joining to a pond. There we found what we sought
for, about three quarters of a mile North of Moi)tague
House, and about live hundred yards East of Totten-
ham Court lload. The steps answer Mr. W.'s des-
cription. They are of the si/e of a large human foot,
about three inches deep, and lie nearly from North-
East to South-West. We counted only seventy-six :
but we were not exact in counting. The place where
one or both the brothers are supposed to have fallen,
is still bare of grass. The labourer showed us also the
bank, where (the tradition is) the wretched woman
sat to see the coinbat.

What shall we say to these things ? Why to athe-
ist, or infidels of any kind, I would not say one word
about them. For, //' then hear not Moses and the pro-
phets, they will not regard any thing of this kind.
But to men of candour, who believe the Bible to be
of God, I would say, is not this an astonishing in-
stance, held forth to all the inhabitants of London,
of the justice and power of God ? Does not the curse
he has denounced upon this ground bear some lit-
tle resemblance to that of our Lord on the barren
ng-tree, lIe»eeforth let no fruit (jrow upon thee Jor
ever ? 1 see no reason or pretence for any rational

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250

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man to doubt of tlie truth of the story ; suice it has
been coufiruied by tliese open visible tokens for more
than an hunch-ed years successively.

Arm. M(f(/. Vol. IV. (l'S\.)

THE APPARITION OF SAMUEL, 2 SAM. XXVIII.

THE Philistines, recruited about this time, as Sir
Isaac Newton judges, by vast numbers of men
driven out of Egypt by Amolis, resolve upon a new
war with Israel. Nor were Samuel's death and David's
disgrace (as we may well judge) inconsiderable mo-
tives to it.

Now, forasmuch as the event of this war turned
upon a remarkable piece of misconduct in Saul, as a
captain ; and a grievous and deliberate violation of his
own duty to God, as his Creator and his King: the
sacred historian here interrupts the course of his rela-
tion, to acquaint us with that event ; and, in order to
it, acquaints us with the situation of both armies. At
tha. time Saul encamped upon Mount Gilboa, and
the Philistines, in full prospect under iiim, upon the
plains of Sunem.

When Saul saw the mnnbers, their orders, and
their appointments, he judged liimself greatlv over-
powered, and fell into great terror upon the {)rospect.
What should he do? Samuel was dea'l, and Ahiatliar
was with David. He had for some veais pust,
shown no regard, or to sjieak n.ore justly, shown
all imaginable disregard lo religion. His pride had
lifted him up above his duty ; he had said in his iieart,
' There is no God :' but now his fears had got the bet-
ter of his infidelity. He then, too late, had recourse
to God for aid. He had massacred the priests of
God at Nob, all but one; and that one was gone
away to David with the ephod. He applied himself
to some other priests. And since he coiisultetl God

Fair scier
And m

Large wa
Heaver

He gave '

He ga

fri

Nor farth
Or dra^

(Tiiere th
The bo

A TRU

The next
at C

THIS
on {
versation
fit to grai
Mrs. Barr
peared al
and I ca
fifteen or
I can CO
youth, t(
since this
that are f
peared; \
be a reflec
9

265

THE EPITAPH.

HERE rests his head, upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth.
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recom pence as largely send ;

He gave to misery all he had, a tear ;
He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a
friend.

Nor farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(Til ere they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

A TRUE RELATION OF THE APPARITION OF ONE

MRS. VEAL,

The next day after her death, to one Mrs. Bar grave,
at Canterbury, the 8th of September, 1705.

THIS thing is so rare in all its circumstances, and
on so good authority, that my reading and con-
versation has not given me any thing like it. It is
fit to gratify the most ingenious and serious enquirer.
Mrs. Bargrave is the person to whom Mrs. Veal ap-
peared after her death; she is my intimate friend
and I can avouch for her reputation, for these last
fifteen or sixteen years, on my own knowledge ; and
I can confirm the good character she had from, her
youth, to the time of my acquaintance; though
since this relation she is calumniated by some people,
that are friends to the brother of Mrs. Veal, who ap-
peared ; who think the relation of this appearance to
be a reflection, and endeavour what they can to blast
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Mrs. Bargrave's reputation, and to laugh the story
out of countenance. But by the circumstances there-
of, and the cheerful disposition of Mrs. Bargrave
notwithstanding the ill usage of a very wicked hus-
band, there is not the least sign of dejection in her
face ', no did I ever hear lier let fall a desponding
or murmuring expression; nay, not when actually
under her husband's barbarity, which I have been
witness to, and several other persons of undoubted
reputation.

Now you must know, Mrs. Veal was a maiden
gentlewoman of about thirty years of age, and for
some years last past had been troubled with fits,
which were perceived coming on her, by her going
off from her discourse very abruptly, to some imperti-
nence : she was maintained by an only brother and
kept his house in Dover. She was a very pious wo-
man, and her brother a very sober man to all appear-
ance; but now he does all he can to null and quash
the story. Mrs. Veal was intimately acquainted with
Mrs. Bargrave from her childhood. Mrs. Veal's cir-
cumstances were then mean : her father did not take
care of his children as he ought, so that they were
exposed to hardships; ^ud Mrs. Bargrave in those
days had as unkin^^ a father, though she wanted for
neither food nor -^>thin,f^ wliile Mrs. Veal wanted
lor both, u^somuch .hiu she would often say, Mrs
Bargrave, you are not only the best but the only
Iriend 1 havp m the world, and no circumstances in
life shall ever li sulve my friendship. They.woi'l.]
olten coirJole , ach cUier's adverse fortunes, and read
together Drelincou-t upon Death, and other Lood
books ; and so, like two Christian friends, they com-
lorted each other under Uieir sorrow.
^ Some time after Mr. Veal's friends got him a place

AT t S"^^^"^ ^^"^^ ^t Dover, which occasiored
Mrs. Veal, by little, and little to fall off from lier
intimacy with Mrs. Bavgrave, ^hough there was never
any sucli thing as a quarrel, an indifferency oa?iie

207

on by degrees, till at last Mrs. Bargrave had not seen
her in two years and a hall"; though above a twelve-
month of the time Mrs. Bargrave had been absent
from Dover, and this last half year ha:j been in
Canterbury, about two months of the time, dwellin"-
in an house of their owi'. ^

In this house, on the 8th of September, 1705, she
was sitting alone in the forenoon, thinking over her
unfortunate life, and arguing he , .cif into a due resigna-
tion to Providence, thor.gh her condition seemed hard.
And, said she, I have been provided for hitherto, and
doubt not but I shall be still, and am well satisfied
that my afflictions shall end when it is most fit for me ;
and then took up her sewing work, which she had no
sooner done, but she hears a knocking at the door.
She went to see who was there, and this proved to be
Mrs. Veal, her old friend, who was in a riding habit.
At that moment of time the clock struck twelve at
noon.

Madam, snyL Mrs. Bargrave, I am surprised to
see you, you have been so long a stranger ; but told
her, she w- 3 glad to see her, and offered to salute
iier : which Mrs, Veal complied with till their lips
almost torj.ied, and then IMrs. Veal drew her hand
across hue <-wn eyes, and said, I am not very well, and
so wp"< I It. She told Mrs. Bargrave she was going
a jc a ihiy, and had a great mind to see her first.
But, says Mrs. Bargrave, how came you to take a
journ^M^ slorie? 1 am amazed at it, because I know
you have a fond brother. Oh! says Mrs. \eal, I
gave my brother the slip and came away, because I
had so great a desire to see you before I took my
jc uiiey. 8o Mrs. Bargrave went in with her into
another room within the first, and Mrs. Veal sat her
Hown in an elbow chair, in which Mrs. Bargrave was
aung when she heard Mrs. V-al knock. Then says
ivhj. Veal, my dear frienl I am come to renew
our old friendship again, and beg your parri^n
foi m} breach of it: and if cu can forgive toe,

III

^ik^.

i < <

268

you are the best of women. Oh ! says Mrs. Bar-
grave, do not mention such a thing; I have not
had an uneasy thought about it, I can easily for-
give it. What did you think of me, said Mrs.
Veal? Says Mrs. Bargrave, I thought j'-ou were
like the rest of the world, and that prosperitv had

made you forget yourself and me. Then*^ Mrs.

Veal reminded Mrs. Bargrave of the many friendly
offices she did her in former days, and much of the
conversation they had with each other in the times of
their adversity ; what books they read, and what com-
fort in particular they received from Drelincourt's
book of Death, which was the best, she said, on that
subject ever written. She also mentioned Dr.
Sherlock, the other two Dutch books, which were
translated, written upon death, and several others;
but Drelincourt, she said, had the clearest notions of
death and the future state, of any who had hand-
led that subject. Then she asked Mrs. Bargrave
whether she had Drelincourt? she said, yes, 8ays
Mrs. Veal, fetch it. And so Mrs. Bargrave goes up
stairs and brings it down. Says Mrs. Veal, dear
Mrs. Bargrave, if the eyes of our faith were as open
as the eyes of our body, we should see numbers of
angels about us for our good. The notions we have
of heaven now, are nothing like what it is, a.s Drelin-
court says. Therefore be comforted under your afflic-
tions, and believe Ihat the Almighty has a particular
regard to you, ami that your r.filictions are marks of
God's favour; and when they have done the business
tliey are sent for, they shall be removed from you.
And believe me, my dear friend, believe what I say
to you, one minute of future happiness will infinitely
reward you for all your sutierings; for I can never
believe (and claps her hand upon her knee with great
earnestness, which inded ran through most of her dis-
course) that ever God will sutler you to spend all your
days in this afflicted state, but be assured that your
afflictions shall leave vou, or vou them, in a short

:V^: 1'

269

time. Hhe spake in that pathetic and heavenly man-
ner, that Mrs. Bargrave wept several times, she was
so deeply afleeted with it.

Then Mrs. Veal mentioned Dr. Horneck's Ascetick,
ai the end of which he gives an account of the lives of
the primitive Christians. Their pattern she recom-
ineiKled to our imitation, and said, their conversa-
tion was not like this of our age. For now, says she,
there is nothijig but frothy vain discourse, which is far
diii'erent from theirs. Theirs was to edification, and
to build one another up in faith ; so that they were
not as we are, nor are we as they were ; but said she,
we ought to do as they did. There was a hearty
friendship among them, but were is it now to be
found ? Says Mrs. Bargrave, it is hard indeed lo find
a true friend in these days. Says Mrs. Veal, Mr.
Norris has a fine copy of verses, called friendship in
perfection, which I wonderfully admire. Have you
seen the book, says Mrs. Veal ; no, says Mrs. Bar-
gra\e, but I have the verses of my own writing out.
Have you, says Mrs. Veal, then fetch them. Which
she did from above stairs, and offered them to Mrs.
Veal to read, who refused, and waved the thing, say-
ing, hohUng down her head, it would make it ache ;
and then desired Ivlrs. Bargrave to read them to her,
which she did. As they were admiring friendship,
Mrs. Veal said. Dear Mrs. Bargrave, I shall love
you for ever. In these verses there is twice used the
word Elysian. Ah ! says Mrs. Veal, these poets have
sucli names for heaven. She would often draw her
hand across her own eyes and say. Mis. Bargrave,
do you not think I am mightily impaired by my fits ?
No, says Mrs Bargrave, I think you look as well as
ever I knew you.

To It concluded in our next.

f li

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270

THE STORY OF DAVID HUNTER,

Neat-herd to ike Bishop of Down mid Connor, at

Portniore in Ireland.

BAVID Hunter, neat-herd to the bishop's house
at Portniore, there appeared to him one ni'dit
carrying a log of wood into the dairy, an okl wonmn|
which amazed liim, for he knew her not; but his
fright made him tiirow away liis k)g of wood, and run
into the house. The next niglit slie appeared again
to him, and he couhl not chuse but follow her all
night; and so almost every night for three quarters
of a year. Whenever she canje he must go with
her through the woods at a good round rate ; and the
poor fellow looked as if he was bewitched and travel-
led oft' his legs. And when in bed with his wife, if
she appeared, he must rise and go. And because his
wife could not hold him in his bed, she would go
too and walk after him till day, though she saw no-
thing, but his little dog was so well acquainted with
the apparition, that he would follow her as well as
his master. If a tree stood in her walk, he observed
her always to go through it. In all this while she
spoke not.

But one day, the said David going over a hedge,
into the high way, she came just against him, and he
cried out, "Lord bless me, would I was dead;
shall I never be delivered from this misery?" At
which, And the Lord bless me too, says she, it was
very happy you spoke the first, for till then, I had no
power to speak, though I have followed you so long.

My name, says she, is Margaret , I lived here

before the war, and had one son by my husband;
when he died I married a soldier, by whom I had se-
veral children, which the former son maintained,
else we must all have starved. He lives beyond the
Baun-water, pray go to him, and bid him dig under
such an hearth, and he shall find twenty-eight
shillings. Let him pay what I owe in such a place,

and the rest to the charge unpaid at my funeral; and
go to my son that lives here, which I had by my
latter husband, and tell him that he lives a wielded
and dissolute life, and is very unnatural and ungrateful
to his brother that maintained him ; and if he (hjes
not mend his life, God Almighty will destroy him."

David Hunter told her he never knew her. No
says she, I died seven years before you came into
the country ; but for all that, if he would do her
message, she would never hurt him. But he defer-
red doing, as the api)arition bid him, and she appeared
the night after as he lay in bed, and struck him on
the shoulder very hard ; at which he cried out, and
asked her if she did not promise she would not hurt
him ? Siie said, that was if lie did her message, if not,
slie wouUl kill him. He toh) her he could not go now,
by reason the waters were out. She said, slie was
content, lie should stay till they were abated; but
charged him afterwards not to fail her. So he did her
errand, and afterwards she appeared and gave him
thanks. For now, said she, 1 shall be at rest ; there-
fore pray you lift me up from the ground, and I will
trouble you no more. So David Hunter lifted her up
from the ground, and, as he said, she felt just like a
bag of feathers in his arms. So she vanished, and he
heard most delicate music as she went off, over his
head, and he was never troubled again.

This account the poor fellow gave us the very day
that the apparition spoke .o him ; and my Lady Con-
way came to Portmore, where she asked the fellow
the same questions and many more. This I know
to be true, being all the while with my lord of Down,
and the fellow a poor neat-herd there.

THOMAS ALCOCK.

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CONSCIENCE.

F all the horrors human beings can feel, none
perhaps are equal to those of a guilty consci-

27-2

III

dice. It embitters every eoinlbrt, it dashes every
pleasure with sorrow, it fills the riiiiid with despair,
and produces wretchedness in the greatest degroe.—
"To live under such disquietude," says Blair, "js
already to undergo one of the most severe punisli-
ments which human nature can suffer. When the
world threatens us with any of its evils, we know
the extent and discern the limits of the danger.—
We see the quarter on which we are exposed to its
attack. We measure our own strength with that
of our adversary, and can take luecautions, either
for making resistance, or for contriving escape. But
when an awakened conscience places before the sin-
ner the just vengeance of the Almighty, the j)rospect
is confounding, because the danger is boundless. It
is a dark unknown which threatens him. Tiie arm
that is stretched over him he can neither see nor
resist. No wonder that the lonesome solitude,
or the midnight hour, should strike him with
horror."

1. The following, we are Informed is a true re-
lation of an event which happened in a neighbour-
ing state not many years ago. — A .leweller, a man
of good character, and considerable wealth, having
occasion in the way of business, to travel at some
distance from the place of his abode, touk along
with him a servant. He had witii him some of his
best jewels, and a large sum of money, to which
his servant was likewise privy. The master ha\ing
occasion to dismount on the road, the servant watcJied
his opportunity, took a pistol from his master's
saddle, and shot him dead on the spot; then rilling
him of his jewels and money, and iianging a large
stone to his neck, he threw him into the nearest
canal. Witli this booty he made oti^ to a distant
part of the country, where he had reason to believe
that neither he nor his master were known. There
he began to trade, in a verv low way at fi-st, that
his obscurity might screen him from observation:

257

by Uriiii, it is evident, that lie had also gotten ano-
llier ephod made ; not eonsiderinji; the |)eculiar sanctity
of tiie first, or tiiat God would confine his manifesta-
tions of himself to that which was of his own appoint-
ment. At least, »Saul had no reason to hope, that
God would exhibit himself in an extraordinary man-
ner in his favour. Samuel was dead, and Gad was
witii J)avi(l; and we hear of no other on whom the
Spirit of God rested in those days. However he ap-
plied himself to some of the prophetic colleges, pro-
bably to some of the most eminent of those sons of
the prophets he had seen at Ramath ; but to no
j)urpose : God refused to answer him, either by Urim,
by prophets or by dreams.

What should he do? The heart of man is fond of
prying into futurity, and more especially upon the
edge of great events. In great dangers men are de-
sirous even to know the worst; it is some consolation
to be ])rei;ared for it. He had long since renounced
every thing that was serious in religion. However,
he had been threatened as from God ; and, in all
l)r()l)ability, the time was now come, when the sen-
tence, so long since pronounced upon him, was to
be executed: could he but see Samuel, he should
know all! It was said, there were men who had
power over spirits. Who knows how far that power
might extend ? God had forsaken him ; he could be
no worse on that side ; he might be better on some
other; he resolved to try.

Saul had, in the days of his devotion, partly cut
oft", and [)artly frighted away, those wizards and sor-
cerers : those exerable wretches, the pest of society
and enemies of true religion, whom God command-
ed to be extirpated. However, some of them might
have remained, or returned ; he inquired, and was
informed of a Pytlioness, (a witch) that dwelt not far
off, at Endor. His anxiety would let him think of
nothing else ; he could neither eat nor drink until it
was done. To Endor he hies that very night, stripped
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ol' liis regal apparel, uihI disgiiisod as well as lie could,
and attended otdy hy two companions. When Ik'
arrived, he prayed the woman to divine to him by ho
familiar spiiit, and to bring him up whom he should
name to her. She answered, that he knew very well,
►Saul had cut ort'all of that protlesion ; and why should
he go about to lay such a snare for her to have her
destroyed? He replied wi'h a solemn oath, by the
living God, that no evil shotdd happen unto her upon
that account. She then demanded whom he would
have raised? He answered, Sanmel. And in the in-
stant he pronounced his name, * the woman saw
Samuel, and shrieked out aloud, in terror and surprise;
and soon after asked the king, why he had deceived
her, for he was Saul? Shu saw an apparition she did
not expect; she knew the prophet; she knew the
veneration Saul had for him ; she knew that prophets
were only sent to kings : and she knew the poor delud-
ed mortals she had to do with, had no notion of having
to do with persons of sacred character ; and she knew
her art, whatever that was, had never exliibitcnl a
person of that figure to her.

When the king heard her cry out in such terror, ho
bade her not be afraid ; and asked her what she saw 1*
She answered, that she saw gods, or, as the word may
be translated, lords ascending out of the earth. Saul
then enquired after his form '; and she told him it was
that of an old man covered with a mantle. The text
then immediately adds, that Saul perceived that it
was Samuel himself: and stooped with his (lice to the
ground, and bowed himself.

The narration is short, and uncircumsfcnicial ; but,
as I humbly ai)prehend, the matter was thus :

* Here English translators have inserted the particle w/«tf« ;
And when the woman saw Samuel. Which would imply, that
some space of time was passed between Saul's recpiest and the ap-
pearance of Samuel— Whereas the original text stands thus : men
baulsaid, bring me up Samuel, then immediately follows :— And
the woman saw Samuel, and cried, &c.

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angels.

251)

Saul, to provont all dtihision, would not toll the
Pvtiionoss whotu he would have raised, until he
hroujjjlit her to the very cell * or place of her incan-
tations ; and then he told her he would have Samuel
called unto hini. And the very instant he said this,
tsln^ looked into her cell, and saw Sanuiel ; and seeing
him so unex[)ectedly, and without the aid of her art,
she was aftrightxul, and cried out : and the king, up-
on enquiry, liearing that it was an old man with a
mantle, helieved it was Samuel she saw ; and straight-
way going to the cell, and [)erceiving f tlie prophet,
(lid him obeisance. Immediately Sanniel asked him,
why he had discjuieted ! im, to bring him up? (Will
not this ground a piesumption, that the Pythoness
had not disturbed him by her incantations? for if she
had, the question had been more natuarally directed
to her.) To which Saul answerer., that he was sore
distressed ; for the Philistines warred against him ;
and God had forsaken him, and would neither answer
hiui by dreams, nor prophets. Therefore, says he, I
iiave called unto thee J that thou mayst make known
unto me what 1 shall do.

Then said Samuel Wherefore then dost thou ask
of me ; seeing the ijord is departed from thee, and
is become thine enemy ? And the Lord hath done
for himself, as he spake by me ; for the Lord hath
rent thy kingdom out of thy hand, and given it to
thy neighbour, even unto David : because thou
obeyest not the voice of the Lord, nor executest

* For 1 bflieve it can be no doubt, that all persons of that cha-
racter had places peculiarly set apart for those accursed rites : and
ue have reason to believe, from xxixth of Isaiah, verse 4, that
they were caverns or cells under ground.

t 'J'he original word signilics knowing, and sometimes see-

I Saul expri'ssi's himself here in the same terms tliat David
makes use of to signify his praying to (iod. Whiclf persuades me,
that Saul invoked him, as some deluded Christians do saints and

angels.

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his fierce wrath upon Amalek. Therefore hath the
Lord done tliis thing unto thee this day.

In this we see the prophet foretels, that Saul
shoukl that da/ be stripped of his kingdom ; and that
the kingdom should be divided, and given to David.
Then follows, what nothing but infinite and uner-
ring prescience could predict ; an exact, minute, pre-
cise account of all the circumstances of the then de-
pending event. Moreover the Lord will also deliver
Israel with thee, unto the Philistines; and to-mor-
row shalt thou and thy sons be with me ; and aiso the
camp of Israel shall the Lord deliver into the hands
of the Philistines.

I own, I am astonished at the inattention ( shall I
call it?) or impiety, or both, of those critics and
commentators, who could ascribe this prediction to
the sagacity of an impostor, or even of the devil. I
shall take a proper time to refute them ; and, in the
mean time, go on with my history.

When 8aul heard this dreadful sentence, pronoun-
ced upon himself, his family, and his people, the ter-
ror of it struck him to the heart ; and he hasted to
get away from that fatal place ; but as he went, his
fears operating upon a mind weakened with guilt,
and upon a body exhausted with fatigue and fasting,
he lost all power of motion, and fell at his full length
upon the floor. The woman seeing this, ran up to
him, and, finding the distressed and weak condition
he was in, endeavoured to persuade him, as well as
she could, to take some sustenance : which he abso-
lutely refused. Then, calling his servants to her
aid, the all, in a manner compelled him to consent.
So he arose from the earth, and sat upon the bed.
And the woman had a fiit calf in the house, and she
hasted and killed it; and took flour and kneaded it,
and did bake unloavened bread thereof; and she
brought it before Saul, and before his servants, and
they did eat. Then they rose up and went away that
night.

201

What remorse, wliat despair, what desolation of
minds, what horrors of guilt, what terrors and antici-
pations of divine vengeance, haunted him by the
way; may no reader of this history ever learn from
his own experience.

(To he concluded in our next.)

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

(Bij Mr. Gray.)

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way.
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.
And all the air a solemn stillness holds.

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight.
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :

8ave that, fj-om yonder ivy-mantled tower.
The mopin ;: owl does to the moon complain.

Of such as wandering near her secret power.
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade.
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid.
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of innocence — breathing morn.
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw built shed.

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing earth shall burn,
Or bn housewife ply her evening caie :

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202

No cliiklreii run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to the sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke j

How jocund did they drive their team afield !

How bowed the woods beneatli their sturdy stroke;

Let not ambition mock their useful toil.
Their homely joys and destiny obscure :

Nor grandeur here, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple an, Is of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all tha^ beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike the inevitable hour ;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where through the long drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise.

Can storied urn or anointed bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent duf^^^t.

Or flattery sooth the dull, cold ear of death ?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands that the rod of empires might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample [)age,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage.
And froze the genial current of the soul.

263

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The (lark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste it sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ;

Some mute ingloiious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command.

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty over a smiling land.

And read their history in a nation's eye.

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes in ingenious shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride.
Which incense kindled at the muses' flame.

Far from the madning crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ;

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and sha})eless sculpture decked

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spell'd by the unlettered nmse.

The place of fame and elegy supply :
And many a holy text around she strews.

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

201

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasmg anxious being e'er resigned ?

Left the warm precints of tlie cheerful day ?
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind !

On some fond breast the i)arting soul relies ;

►Some pious drops the closing eye requires :
Even from the tond^ the voice of nature cries.

Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ;

If chance, by lonely contemplations led,
►Some kinured spirit shall enquire thy fate.

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,

Brushing with hasty steps tlie tlews uway,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so hi^h.

His listless length at noon tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn.
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful man, like one forlorn.
Or crazed with care, or crossed in liopeless love.

One morn 1 missed him on the customed hill,
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree ;

Another came> nor yet beside the rill.

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ;

The next with dirges due, in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw liim
borne;
Approach and read (for tliou canst read) the lay

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

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273

and in the course of many years seemed to rise up,
by natural progress of business, into wealth and
consideration; so that his good fortune appeared at
once the effect of industry and the reward of virtue.
Of these he counterfeited the appearance so well,
that he grew into great credit, married into a good
family, and by laying out his hidden stores discreetly,
as he saw occasion, and joining to all an universal
afi'ability, he was at length admitted to a share of the
government of the town, and rose from one post to
another, till, at last he was chosen chief magistrate.
In this office he maintained a fair character, and
continued to fill it with no small applause, both as
Governor and Judge ; till one day as he sat on the
bench with some of his brethren, a criminal was
brought before him, who was accused of murdering
liis master. The evidence came out full; the jury
brought in their verdict that *he prisoner was guilty,
and the whole assemblv waited the sentence of the
President of the Court (which happened to be him-
self,) in great suspence. Meanwhile .he appeared to
be in unusual disorder and agitation of mind; his
colour changed often : at length he arose from his
seat, and coming down from the bench, placed him-
self just by the unfortunate man at the bar to the no
small astonishment of all present. " You see befoie
you, (said he, addressing himself to those who had
sat on the bench with him,) a striking instance of the
just awards of Heaven, which this day, after thirty
years concealment, presents a greater criminal than
the man just now found guilty." — Then he made an
ample confession of his heinous offence, with all its
peculiar aggravations: "Nor can I," continued
he, " feel any relief from the agonies of an awakened
conscience, but by requiring that justice be forthwith
done against me in the most public and solemn man-
ner." We may easily imagine the amazement of all
especially his fellow Judges. They accordingly pro-
ceeded, upon his confession to pass sentence upon

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274

him, and he died with all the symptoms of a peni-
tent mind. See Fordyce's Dial, on Educ. and Enc.
Brit.

2. A Mr. Thoroughgood, of the last century,
having reproved the sin of swearing, one of his
hearers, sensible of his guilt, and thinking he was
the person particularly intended, resolved to kill hirp •
and in order to it, he hid himself behind a hedge,
which he knew Mr. Thoroughgood would ride by,
when he went to preach his weekly lecture. When
Mr. T. came to the place, he offered to shoot him;
but his piece failed, and only flashed in the pan. The
next week he lay in the same place, with the same in-
tent. When Mr. T. came up the wretch offered to
fire again, but the peice would not go off. Upon this,
his conscience accusing him for such a wickedness, he
went after him, and falling down on his knees, with
tears in his eyes, related the whole to him, and beg-
ged his pardon. — Thus Provi('jnce was the means of
his conversion, and he became from that time a serious
good man.

3. The famous Mr. Gilpin, who was called the
Father of the Poor, and the Apostle of the North,
once had his horses stolen. The news was quickly
propagated, and every one expressed the highest
indignation at it. The thief however, was rejoicing
over his prize ; when, by the report of the country,
he found whose horses he had taken. — Terrified at
what he had done, he instantly came trembling back,
confessed the fact, returned the horses, and declared
he believed the devil would have seized him directly
had he carried them off when he knew they belonged
to Mr. Gilpin.

4. Experienced ministers sometimes describe the
feelings and situations of their hearers so [exactly that
while their serious part are profited, the ignorant are
astonished. It is related of Mr. Richard Garrat, that
he used to walk to Pentworth every Monday. In one
of these walks a country fellow, that had been his

275

hearer the day before, and liad been cut to the heart
by somewhat he had delivered, came up to him with
his scythe upon his shouklers and in a mighty rage
told him, he would be the death of him, for he was
sure he was a witch, he having told him the day be-
fore what no man in the world knew of him but God
and the devil, and therefore he most certainly dealt
with the devil."

5. One of the most sensible men I ever knew,
(says one,) but whose life as well as creed had been
rather eccentric, returned me the following answer not
many months before his death, when I asked him,
whether his former irregularities were not both accom-
panied at the time, and succeeded afterwards, by
some sense of mental pain ? " Yes," said he, " but I
have scarce ever owned it until now. We (meaning
infidels and men of fasionable morals) do not tell you
all that passes in our hearts !"

6. James le Fevre, of Etapies, did not outward-
ly depart from the Church of Rome: but at the
bottom of his heart was a protestant. . He was pro-
tected by the Queen of Navarre, sister to Francis I.
and dining with her in company with some other
learned men whose conversation pleased the Queen,
he began to weep ; and when the Queen asked him
the reason of it, he answed, "the enormity of his
sins threw him into that grief! It was not the remem-
brance of any lewdness he had been guilty of; and,
with regard to the vices, he felt his nund easy enough ;
but he was pricked in his conscience, that hav-
ing known the truth, and taught it to several per-
sons who had sealed it with their blood, he had the
weakness to keep himself in an asylum far from the
places where crowns of martyrdom were distributed."
He went to bed, where he was found dead a few
hours after.

7. An instance of the power of conscience we
have in Lord Rochester. *' One day," says he,

'It lii

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27(}

I was at an atheistical meeting at a person of qiia-
lity's. I undertook to manage the caus^, and was tiie
principal disputant against God and piety, and for
my performance received the applause of tlie whole
company : upon which my mind was terribly struck,
and I immediately replied thus to myself — 'Good
God ! that a man that walks ujjright, that sees ihe
wonderful works of God, and has the use of his
senses and reason, should use them to the defying of
his Creator.' "

8. A gentleman, and a man in good circumstances
too, committed a murder in or near St. Pancras,
Soaper Lane, London, many years ago ; the mur-
der was attended with some very cruel and barbarous
circumstances, such as he could not expect pardon
for; so he fled, and making his escape into France,
got out of the reach of justice.

His personal safety was a while so much satis-
faction to him, that he did not make any reflections
at all upon the fact; but soon after he took shipping
from France and went to Martinico, where he lived
several years, and even for two or three years he car-
ried it off well enough : but the first shock given to his
soul was in a fit of sickness, when being in danger
of death, he saw, as he was between sleei)ing and
waking, the spectre, as he thought, of the murdered
person, just as in the posture when he killed him, his
wound bleeding, and his countenance ghastly, the
sight of which exceedingly terrified him and at length
awaked him.

(To he convludi'd in our mwt.)

(Continued from pafje '2Q\.)

I FIND many learned men of a diflferent opinion
from me, in relation to the reality of Samuers
appearance on this occasion j some imagining that

277

it was an evil spirit that now ai>pearc(l unto Saul ; and
others, that the whole was the wori< of imposture.

I shall give my re .sons, and the reader will judge
for himself.

In the first place, then, I readily agree with one
party of those that differ from me, that neither this
pythoness, nor all the devils in hell, could raise up
Samuel ; nor is there one tittle in the \/hole narration
to support or countenance such a persuasion : but I
differ entirely from them, in supposing all this the
work of a juggler.

1. Because I can see nothing ascribed in the rela-
tion to Samuel, which is not entirely out of character
in an imposture, or absolutely out of the power of the
subtilist that ever li\ed. And,

2. Because I have as good an opinion of the author
of this history, his ability, his integrity, his know-
ledge of wliat lie wrote about, and his undesigning to
deceive, '^ have of any man that ever commenc-
ed or cr • ■ ^n it; and therefore when he gives
me to \ that the woman saw 8anmel, I
iibsolutelj It she did.

Allow tliuL ipture spe^-^^s of things according

to their appearances, and that Saul and his compan-
ions might be deceived by an imposture in Samuel's
guise : Was this author deceived, or did he mean to
deceive me, when he gives me to understand, that the
woman saw Samuel, and was frighted at the sight ?

Suppose a possibility, that Saul and his com-
panions could be imposed upon by an impostor on
this occasion: yet, surely, the highest probability
is on the c*,her side. Saul was far from having an
implicite faith, even in Samuel, although the manner
of his coming to the kingdom demonstrated the di-
vinity of the prophet's mission. And would he easily
be a dupe to a silly woman? He was perfectly
acquainted with the voice, statme, and figure of Sa-
muel. He was a brave man; and doubtless, his
compaiiions were so. Can we douut wiietiier as chose

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278

two of liis old tried friends on tliis occasion ? And,
if he (lid, they also must have been acquainted with
Samuel. They came upon the woman by night and
unprepared. Had they allowed her the least time
for juggle or artifice, or sulfered her so much as one
moment out of their sight ; would a sacred historian,
whose business it was to expose their practices, as far
as truth would adow, init these circumstances?
Would he omit all mention of the preceding sacriwoes
and incantation ? Would he omit every circumstance
that tended to detect the fraiid 1* Would he omit every
thing that tended to imply the real appearance of the
prophet ?

Shall this author relate in plain terms, that Saul
perceived it was Samuel himself ; * and shall he relate
this by a word v/hich signifies either certain know-
ledge, experience, or sensible perception, and are we
to understand by this word, (contrary to all the rules
of grammar, and rational interpretation) that he
neither knew, nor had sensible evidence of this P that
he only imagined it was Samuel, by the description
of an impostor? a description that would suit ten
thousand other men as well as Samuel !

Bat the text says not, that Saul saw Samuel.

True, but it tells us something that plainly implies
it, that he stooped with his face to the earth, and
bowed himself.

When the sacred writers express themselves in the
same style, and in the very same words, on occur-
rences of the same kind, such as the behaviour of
people upon occasion of seeing sonne extraordinary
person ; are we not to understand them in the same
sense ?

The text is both strong and full in this place. It
first says, that Saul knew that it was Samuel him-
self; and then adds, that he stooped with his face

• ■

* It is astonishing, that the English translation should leave
out this last word, himself.

279

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to the grouii'l, ami bowed hiinseir. Must we believe,
notvvithstancling, all th*s, tbat he neither knew nur
saw wiiat he bowed to? that he bowed only to a crea-
ture of the pythoness' imagination? What strango
suppositions are tliese ! and what violenje must we
(jo to the sacred text, to the arudogy of scriptures, to
connnon grannnar, and to connnon sense, to gratify
some dogmatic doubters !

But Saul was frighted out of his wits, and did not
know what he said or /lid.

I am very nnich i alined to think, that, they who
surmise tliis, believe it.

But, pray, how does it appear? The gentlemen
tliat object thus, have not, perhaps, considered,
t!' t Saul desired Samuel to be raised up to him,*
(not to the pythoness ;) which plainly shews, that
iie liad no apprehension of fear, from the thoughts of
seeing him. And when the woman was frightened,
and shrieked at the sight of Samuel, as it is i)lain, that
Saul was not; for he bids her not be afraid; and
desires to know what it was she saw, which could
cause her fear : Be not afraid ; for what sawest thou ?
And the whole tenor of his answer to Samuel's ques-
tion is rational and imdisturbed as any thing I ever
read.

In the next place, let us consider, whether this
person supposed to be an impostor, acts in charac-
ter.

Are we to believe that a little contemptible juggler,
(supposing such a person, widiou*^ any foundation,
in the history J or a poor dasterdly woman, would dare
to treat a king of Israel with that air of superiority
and contumely wherewith Samuel treats Saul on this
occasion ? Would .die, that paid such court to him
the instant the aftair was over, treat him with so high
a hand whilst it was in agitation ? Josephus observes
of this woman, that she was in her nature gentle,

* Bring up Samuel to me. ^

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280

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compassionate, and benevolent. Is this agreeable to
that character ? to insult, to threaten, and to upbraid ;
to ask him to the reproach of his reason and religion,
as well as the disgrace of her own art, how he came
to enquire of her. Would she dare to treat Saul so?
Saul, famed for rage and resentment, and not famed
for mercy ! Saul, that rooted the race of impostors
out of the land ! And all this after it was owned she
knew him ! He must have as much credulity as an
infidel, that can believe this.

In the next place, would an impostor be so very
zealous for a strict observance of the law and com-
mands of God ; and so rigid in pronouncing divine
vengeance upon the violation of them ? and, in the
death of his cunning, limit that vengeance to time,
place, and person ? and all this at no greater distance
than the next dav ?

These suppositions are too wild to be seriously
confuted ; they are the very reverse of what should
and would have been done upon such an occasion
had imposture interfered in it. Every one knows
the business of impostors is to flatter,^ to delude, to
deceive, to answer doubtfully; to promise good,
and put off the evil ; it was this woman's business
in a particular manner to act thus. Had she promised
Saul victory, and the success had answered, she was
sure of considerable advantage. He who could have
no benefit from priests, or from prophets, would,
doubtless, have had her in high honour; and with
good reason.

If he died in battle all was safe ; and even if he
escaped, and was worsted, what she said would at
least have been taken for an indication of good-
will, and good wishes to the king, and to his people;
and so would be more likely to escape an after-en-
quiry. Whereas, if she prognosticated evil to the
royal race, she was sure of destruction, if the event
did not at once justify and save her. Nay, it might
justify, and yet not save her. For, might not Saul's

281

companions, or some of his surviviiig friends, think
that this evil fortune was the effect of her incanta-
tions, anrl the work of some wicked spirits under her
inriuence? And would she, who knew her own ig-
norance, put all this to the hazard of a conjecture ?
And God would make the event exactly and minutely
conformable to that conjecture, to establish the credit
of imposture over the face of the earth, and to the end
of the world.

But an evil spirit, or even an impostor, might know
that Saul and his sons were determined either to die,
or conquer in the battle.

Let this also be allowed, without any foundation in
the text : hath not many a man been determined to
die, and yet been prevented ? But the truth is other-
wise: neither Haul nor his sons were determined to
die; they all fled from the enemy as fast and as far
as the could. The enemy first overtook the sons of
Saul, and slew them : and when Saul could fly no
farther, rather than fall into the enemy's hands, who
were hard at his heels, he killed himself.

Besides all this ; shall we so far outrage our reason
and our religion, as to believe any being, but God,
capable of seeing in futurity, and pronouncing upon
itP If there be any that think so, let me call upon
them, with Isaiah," to bring forth their strong reasons.
Let them bring fortii, and show us what shall happen.
Let them shew the former things what they be, that
we may consider (or set our hearts upon) them ; or
declare us things for to come. In one word : The
assertions and reasonings on the other side seem to
me grounded upon great mistakes, and fruitful of
grievous absurdites. I cannot assent to them ; I envy
no man that can.

The consequence from all this is clear: If that

person, who now denounced the divine vengeance upon

Saul, under the semblance of Samuel, was neither an

impostor, nur an evil spirit; he must be what the

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scriptures constantly call him throughout tills narra-
tion, Samuel.

Tliat spirits of another world may carry about them
such vehicles, as may admit them to a sensible com-
merce with us, in like manner as our spirits bear
about these bodies of ours, the best philosophy will
admit. And that they have done so upon extraordi-
nary occasions, the most authentic histories in the
world will attest. If then God Almighty thought fit
either to appoint, or permit Samuel to appear to Saul
on this occasion, I see no more difficulty in it, than in
his appearing to him on any other occasion whilst he
was in this world, and in f.dl health and strength.
For Saul no more saw his spirit then, than he did
now ; and his spirit was as well able to bear a body
about with it now, as it was then.

The only question then is : Why God should ap-
point, or permit Samuel to appear on this occasion?
And this is a question which no man living hath a
right to ask, and be informed in. Such questions as
these are the very source and fountain-head of all in-
fidelity : I do not know why things should be done so
and so ; and therefore I will not believe they were
done. And what is this, but saying, in other words,
that you are as wise as God ; and as good a judge of
fit and just, at least with regard to things of this
world, as he can be ? and therefore it is ridiculous to
suppose, that he transacted any thing in the affairs of
this world, which you cannot discover to be wise, and
fit, and just. Can any thing in nature be more ex-
travagant than such surmises as these ?"

"But is it likely, that God should refuse to an-
swer Saul, when he consulted him in ways appointed
by himself, and yet should answer him in a forbidden

way ?

I answer. What if it be not? that is, What if my
little understanding cannot reach the reasons of this
conduct? Must it follow, that there was no such

823

thing? Is it not the same infatuation of arrogance
which was just now reproved and exposed ?

But after all; What if God did not depart from
his own institutions? What if Saul did not consult
him in his ways appointed by himself? The ways ap-
pointed by himself to consult him were by prophets,
to whom he manifested himself in visions, as he did
to Sanniel ; or by prophets, to whom he vouchsafed a
more open communication ^r his purpose, as to Moses ;
or by Urim and Thunnnim.

It is not likely, that Saul consulted God by the
Urim and Thummim of his appointment: for that
was with Abiathar, and Abiathar with D-'vid. ^ And
very probably, there was no prophet then alive, to
whom God communicated himself either by vision, or

by his word. , ,> j

On the other hand; What if Saul did consult God
in a way appointed by himself : and what if God did
depart from his own institutions on this occasion ? Is
God so tied down to his own institutions, that he can-
not at any time depart from them ?

Here is a fine dilemma; If God confines the com-
munication and manifestation of himself and his pur-
poses, to priests and prophets : are all the re^t of his
creation excluded ? Is he the God only of priests and
prophets? All this is artifice and contrivance, plain
priestcraft ! If at any time he is said to have mani-
fested himself in a different manner, such accounts are
incredible ; for is it likely he should depart from his
own institutions?

Bat if Samuel had been raised by God, no doubt,
he would never have said unto Saul, Why hast thou
disquieted me? for it would have been no disquiet,
nor trouble to him, to come upon God's errand.

But is this gentleman sure, that the prophet's dis-
quiet arose from his being sent on that errand ? Surely
he will not say so, upon better deliberation. No,
his disquiet plainly arose from Saul's hardened im-
penitence in the ways of religion: it was this that

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284

grieved and provoked his righteous spirit. And so
it should be translated, What hast thou provoked me,
to make me rise up? Why dost thou ask of me,
seeing the Lord is departed from thee? Hath God
forsaken you? and do you hope for help from me?
from me his minister, who act in nothing but in obe-
dience to his will ! Is God ofiended with you ; and
will you inquire what to do, in a way that he hath
forbidden? Will you go on still to ofiend him more?
Know then, that I am now come to confirm that sen-
tence, which God long since passed u[)on you by my
mouth, for disobeying his commandments. Your
kingdom is divided, and given even to David : and
God will deliver you, your sons, and your people,
into the hands of the Philistuies; and this sentance
shall be executed upon you to-morrow ; To-morrow
shall you and your sons be with me among the dead.
All this is plainly spoken in the indignation of a
righteous spirit against guilt; and he must have read
it with very little attention, that does not see it to
be so.

Give me leave to add, that the Bible is a history
of God's providence, more particularly to a pecular
people. It teaches us, that all revolutions in the
world are of his appointment, and all events in his
hands ; that nations are punished, and kings deposed,
for their guilt, and others appointed in their stead.
And in order to convince his people of these great
truths; God, at sundry times, mised up prophets
from amongst them to denounce his judgments upon
their guilt, and to foretel the fatal consequences
of it. If they repented upon these monitions, his
judgments were averted : if not, they were surely ex-
ecuted.

Now the case stands thus ; The scriptures say, Sa-
muel was seen on this occasion ; that Saul perceived
it was Saniuel himself: that Samuel spake, and
denounced the divine judgments, and Saul heard
him ; and the judgments which he denounced were

And so
iked me,
: of me,
ath God
;'oin me?
t in obe-
ou; and
^ he hath
m more?
that sen-
u by my
Your
vid : and
• people,
sen tan ce
i-morrow
the dead,
ion of a
lave read
see it to

a history
1 pecular
s in the
ts in his
deposed,
iir stead,
ese great
prophets
[its upon
equences
ions, liis
Lirely ex-
say, Sa-
perceived
ike, and
ul Iieard
ced were

285

demonstrably such, as none but God could denounce.
And some men that call themselves critics, without
attending to the text, the nature of the prophet's
threats, or the reason of his appearance, say, it was
not Samuel that did all this, but some impostor or
some evil spirit; and they say this upon the idlest
reasons that ever were urged ; reasons that have al-
readv been abundantly confuted and exposed. And
can it yet be made a question, which we shall be-
lieve?

I liave but two observations to annex : The first is ;
That the son of Syrach, who seems to have had as
mucli wisdom, penetration, and piety, as any critic
that came after him, is clearly of opinion with the
sacred historian, that it was Samuel himself, who
foretold the fate of Saul and his house in this inter-
view. And it is no ill presumption, t'.iat his judg-
ment was also that of the Jewish church upon this
head.

The next is : that whereas, it hath been made a
question, wether the Jews had any belief of the im-
mortality of the soul ; this history is a full decision
upon that point; and, perhaps the establishment of
that truth upon the foot of sensible evidence, was not
the lowest end of Samuel's appearance upon this oc-
casion.

SIGNAL AND AWFUL JUDGEMENTS.

WHATSOEVER a man soweth, that shall
he also reap." He who contracts guilt, in-
curs punishment, and punishment too in general
adapted to the nature of his guilt; yea, not unfre-
quently, the very member which has been the instru-
ment of the one, is found to be the theatre of the
other.

Yonder is Jeroboam lifting up his arm to strike
the prophet Jeremiah ;" as this servant of the Lord is

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286

delivering the solemn message of his master, the arm
of the rebel, in the very act of stretching itself forth,
is dried up, so that he cannot pidl it into him again.
Yonder, Ahitoimiel, whose counsel was as the ora-
cle of God ; who, for the prostitution of his men-
tal powers, loses his reason, and becomes a drivelling
idiot. Yonder, Nebuchadnezzar, who, for liis in-
tolerable pride, was driven from the society of men,
" and did eat grass as oxen, and his body was wet
with the dew of heaven, till his hairs were grown like
eagles' feathers, and his nails like birds claws." Yon-
der, Herod, arrayed in royal apparel, sits upon his
throne, makes an oration ; the people shout — It is the
voice of God, and not of man ; — and immediately the
angel of the Lord sn)'tes him, because he gave not
God the glory ; and he is eaten up of worms. Who
does not know that the besetting sin of seamen is
profane cursing and swearing? And what so com-
mon as for the bold blasphemer that " goes down to
the sea in ships, and sees the works of the Lord, and
his wonders in the deep ;" as to (Uimn ids eyes, and
blast his sight? And what is more common in every
maritime town, than a blind sailor ? And who has
not remarked, that heaven has thus sent these melan-
choly witnesses to bear testimony in every place by
their blindness, that "there is a God that judgeth in

the earth." The other day a presumptuous wretch

appealed to the heart-searching God, for the con-
firmation of a lie; in his awful presence he wished

he might lose the use of his right arm, if what he
advanced were not strictly true : when before many
respectable persons his arm became inmiediately mo-
tionless !

8ome years since, another waited upon a magis-
trate in the vicinitv of Hitchim, and informed him,
that upon the preceding evening, he was stopped by
a young gentleman of Hitchim, who knocked him
down, and searched his pockets; but not finding any
thing therein, suffered him to depart. The magis-

trate, astonished at this piece of intelligence, dis-
patched a messenger to the young gentleman, order-
ing him to appear immediately before him, to ans\yer
to the complaint lodged against him ; the youth in-
stantly obeyed the summons, accompanied by his
guardian, and an intimate friend. Upon their arrival
at the seat of justice, the accuser and the accused were
confronted, when the magistrate hinted to the man,
he was fearful he had made the charge with no other
view than that of extorting a sum of money from the
young gentleman, and bid him, if that was the case,
to take care how he proceeded in the business ; cau-
tioning him, in the most earnest and pathetic manner,
to beware of the dreadful train of consequences at-
tending perjury ; but all his arguments were in vain !
he was too old a disciple in the school of vice to be
diverted from his purpose by any advice that could be
given him j he insisted upon making oath to what he
had advanced ; which at last was administered to him,
and the business was then entered upon, when the
young gentleman's innocence was manifestly proved,
he having, by the most incontrovertible evidence,
clearly proved an alibi* Upon this the magistrate
dismissed the parties, having first obtained a promise
from the young gentleman's guardian, that he would
indict the man for perjury at the next assizes for the
county. The infamous wretch, finding his infernal
intentions thus frustrated, returned home much cha-
grined, and meeting soon afterwards with one of
his neighbours, he declared to him, that he had not
sworn to any thing but facts, and called God to
witness the same in the most solemn manner, and
wished, if it was not as he asserted, that his jaws
might be locked, and that his flesh might rot upon his

bones; when, terrible to relate; Listen, ye

sons of impiety, while the horrid tale is told; ye
who adect to doubt the existence of a Supreme Be-
ing, and scoft' at his judgment; his jaws were
* Law Term for Absence.

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Instantly arrested, the use of speech denied him fur
ever, and, nfter lingering near a fortnight in great
agonies, he expired : liis desh literally rotting upon
his bones.

Another but why speak we of a solitary in-
stance or two? Behold a nndtitude wiiich no man
can number! See whole bands of blasphemers, of
murderers, of persecutors, of whoremonger.s, of drun-
kards; some stricken dumb, some deaf, some blinrl:
others, distorted in tlieir countenance, lingering in
disease, raving in madness, rotting alive. Some roar-
ing in pain, soliciting the hand of their friend to shoot
them through tiie head, to put an end both to their
existence and their agony. Others bark like dogs,
and some howl like devils.

The bo(]}/ then of the sinner, as well as his con-
science, is sometimes the monument of woe, where the
vindictive justice of God writes in flaming characters

Magor-misabib Nor does the nnseiable scene close

here : it is also fearfully exhibited in the peculiar man-
ner of his death.

*' Bloody and deceitful men do not live out half their
days." Abandoned of God, and devoted to the devil,
they gratify their vilest lust, and break though every
restraint both human and divine. Not satisfied with
that enormity which threatens their eternal ruin, they
are even eager to commit that by which their lives are

forfeited to man. Their accession of guilt creates

them monsters of vice. Society, no longer able to
tolerate their existence, call aloucl for their extermina-
tion. Heaven gives commission to earth and upon tiie
scaffold, the gibbet, the wheel, the rack, amidst infamy
and torture, they shock both men and devils.

Others, impatient to fill up the measure of their
sin and sorrow, wait t the arrival of the officer of
justice, but turn their own executioner. In an at-
tempt to escape the present, they seek future and
greater torments. Judas, that arch traitor of our
Lord, receiving the wages of unrighteousness, is stung

fuge.

him iur

in great

"g upon

litary in-
no man
mers, of
of dnin-
le blinfl:
jering in
)me roar-
to shoot
li to their
ke dogs,

his con-
vhere the
haracters
ene close
liar man-
half their
the devil,
gh every
fied with
jin, they

lives are
It creates
• able to
itermina-
upon tiie
5t infamy

of their
officer of
n an at-
ture and
r of our
» is stung

as with ten thousand scorpions ; he drinks the bitter
cup of damnation, and deems it a felicity to know the
worst of hell. " He went out and hanged himself."
Tliis man takes the lead, and a host follow — a host,
who have " sinned against the Lord, and whose sin
lias found them out." The spirit of a man, may sus-
tain the infirmities of a man, but "a wounded spirit
who can bear?" Hanging, shooting, stabbing, poi-
soning, drowning, — these, are their cheering cordials,
and death, in its most hideous form, their only re-

fuge.

-Dreadful attempt

Just reekiug from self slaughter in a rage,

To rush uito the presence of our Judge;

As if we challenged him to do his worst,

And matter'd not his wrath. — Unheard of tortures

Must be reserv'd for such ; these herd together,

The common daran'd shun their society.

And look upon themselves as fiends less foul."

Others, whose crimes have not dragged them to a
gallows, or precipitated them into suicide, yet wa-
ging war with omnipotence, they have brought upon
themselves swift destruction. Their punishment, by
the righteous hand of God, has instantaneously suc-
ceeded their offence, and in the very act they have re-
ceived their doom. Death has arrested them in the
name of him whose majesty they insult : and amidst
convulsions, groans and shrieks, they have expired
on the spot. Korah, Duthan, and Abiram, re-
bel against God and Moses, and the ground on-
which they stand cleaves asunder; they go down
alive into the pit. The wife of Lot in opposition to
the divine command, looks back upon the cities of the
plain, and she becomes a pillar of salt Ana-
nias and Sapphira lie not unto man, but unto

God, and they fall dead at the apostle's feet A

v/oman in one of our public markets presumptuously
wished she might drop down dead ttiat very moment
10 2p

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if she had not actually puid for the corn she had just
received, when, Oh! ihe ju^t judgnient of Almigh-
ty God ! that very nionieiil she (hopped (h)wn deail!
and upon examiuation the n:oiiey was founti in her
hand.* — Another woman after eating a hearty din.
ner, impiously said, " I am now fit for IJeaven or
Hell,*' and that verv instant slie fell from the chair,
and gave up the ghost. — A soldier went with others
to wash in a shallow ri\er : he asked if there was a
deeper to swim in ; they told him there was one
nigh at hand, but dangerous, as it was a deep pit;
to which he called on God to danm him if he diil
not venture through it, though it were as deep as
hell. He was no sooner in, but sunk to tiie bot-
tom, and never rose again. — The wicked husband of
an irreligious woman, being informed, when at the
public-house, that his wife, who had been danger-
ously ill, was dead, replied, "then she is gone to
hell, and I shall soon follow her," though, perhaps,
with little or no apprehension that his own departure
was at hand. He was however soon arrested by the
invisible King of Terrors. A few hours j)revious
to his departure, he reipiested a friend to assist him
in the arrangement of his temporal allairs, which
being done, the person who had been thus engaged,
said, *' I have something more to say to you, and I
must not deceive you; you are a dying man, your
past life has been exceedingly wicked, you have, per-
haps, but a few hours to live, it therefore becomes
you to meditate seriously upon death and eternity,
and call upon God for mercy. I would advise you
also to send for a person who could instruct you, and
pray for you ; give me leave to recommend the dis-
senting minister here: I have heard him preach a
few times with much pleasure ; and I am sure he
will come, if you will send for him." At which the
dying man, with apparent rage and resentment,

* This fact is recorded ou a atone, iu the Maiket-place at Devizes.

f»

had just
Almigh-
n dead!
I ill her
Yiy dill.
?aven or
le cliair,
li o tilers
e wiis a
was one
cep pit;

lie dill
deep as
the bot-
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I at the

danger-
gone to
perhaps,
lepartuie
d bv the
j)ievious
sist him
, which
engaged,
, and I
m, vour
ive, per-
beconies
eternity,
vise you
;ou, and
the dis-
ireach a

sure he
hich the
entment,

it Devizes.

261

exclaimed, " Do you mean that you have been at that
TTieetiiig ? I would sooner go to hell than go there.
Send lor him? (meaning the y.erium recornniended.)
I hiid rather be damned than he should come here."
Awful to says ii» iv sliort space of time, his soul en-
tered upon tlie eternal state.— Henry, Archbi.jihop of
Mentz (says Mr. Clark, in his Looking Glass for
Persecutors,) a godly and religions man, was accused
of being guilty of heresy to the Pop<s who sent two
ol his cardinals to examine the matter, and they most
unjustly deposed him, and ciist him out of his place;
whereupon he said unto tljem, ''If I should, from
your unjust tribunal, appeal unto the Pope, 'tis like I
shnidd find no redress from him ; wherefore I appeal
to the Lord Jesus Christ, that jus* and righteous Judge
of all the world ; and I cite you to answer me before
the Judgement seat, for this\ui just act of yours;" to
which they scoifingly answered, " go you first, and we
will follow after." Not long after this the good arch-
bishop died : which when the cardinals heard of, they
said jestingly one to another, "Behold, he is now
gone before, and we must follow after." And indeed
shortly after they both died upon one day : the one
sitting in a privy, voided out his entrails; the other
gnawing his own fingers, having made himself defor-
med wilh devouring himself. They died miserably.

(To be concluded in the next.)

A TRUE RELATION OF THE APPARITION Of MRS. VEAL.

(Continued from page 269.J

AFTER which the apparition \mi in this discourse
in much finer words than Mrs. Bargrave said
she could pretci.u to, and as much more than she can
remember, for it cannot be thought that an hour and

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three quarter's conversation could be retained, thoui^h
the main part of it she thinks she does. She said to
Mrs. Bargrave siie wouhl liave her write a letter to
her brother and tell him she would have him give
rings to such and such, and that there was a pmse of
gold in her cabinet, ajid that she would have two
broad pieces given to her cousin Watson.

Talking at this rate Mrs. Bargrave thought that
a fit was coming on her, and so placed her in a chair
just before her knees, to keep her from falling to the
ground if her fits should occasi<jn it, for the elbow
chair she thought would prevent her frcmi falling on
either side; and to divert Mrs. Veal as she thought
she took hold of her gown sleeve several times and
commended it. Mrs. Veal told her it was a scoured
silk and newly made up. But for all this Mrs
Veal persisted in her request. And told Mrs Bargrave
she must not deny her ; and she would have her tell
her brother all their conversation, when she had op-
portunity. Dear Mrs. Veal, says Mrs. Bargrave,
this seems so impertinent that I cannot tell how to
comply with it: and what a mortifying story vv'ill our
conversation be to a young gentleman. Why says
Mrs. Bargrave, it is much better melhinks, to do it
yourself. No, says Mrs. Veal, though it seems im-
pertinent to you now, you will see more reason for it
hej'^after. Mrs. Bargrave then to satisfy her im-
portunity, was going to fetch a pen and ink, but
Mrs. Veal said. Let it alone now, but do it when I
am gone; but you must be sure to do it; which was
one of the last things she ei^oined her at parting,
and so she promised her.

Then Mrs. Veal asked for Mi-s. Bargrave's
daughter; she said siie was not at home, but if you
have a mind to see her, says Mrs. Bargrave,* I'll
send for her. Do, says Mrs. Veal. On which she left
her, and went to a neighbours to seek for her : and
by the time Mrs. Bargrave was returning, Mrs. Veal
was got without the door into the street, in the face of

I, though
le said to
loiter to
liini give
. l)mse of
lave two

ight that
n a chair
ng to tile
le elbow
lUing oij

tliought
imcs and

scoured
til is Mrs
Bargrave
'. iier tell

had op-
3argrave,
I iiovv to

will our
liy says

to do it
'erns ini-
;oii for it
lier im-
ink, but
, when I
hic'h was

parting,

argrave's
t if you
rave,* I'll
1 she left
ler: and
Irs. Veal
e face of

293

tlie beast market on a Saturday, which is market-
day, and st(»o(l ready to part as soon as Mrs. Bar-
grave came to her. Slie asked her why she was in
such haste? She said she was goini;, thougli
perhaps she might not go her journey till xVIonday :
and told Mrs. Bargrave, she hoped she would see
her again at her cousin Watson's before she went
whither she was going. Then she said, she would
take hci It^ave of her, and walked from Mrs. Bar-
grave in her view, till a turning interrupted the sight
of her, wliich was three quarters after one in the
aft^'rnoon.

Mrs. Veal died the 7th of September, at twelve
o'clock at noon, of her fits, and had not above four
hours' senses before death, in which time she receiv-
ed the sacrament. I'he next day after Mrs. Veal's
appearing, being Sunday, Mrs. Bargrave was migh-
tily indisposed with a cold and a sore throat, that she
coidd not go out that day ; hut on Monday morning
she sent a person to Captain Watson's to know if
Mrs. Veal was there. They wondered at Mrs. Bar-
grave's inquiry, and sent her word that she was not
there, nor was expected. At this answer Mrs. Bar-
grave told the maid, that she had certainly mistook
the name or made some blunder. And though she
was ill, she put on her hood and went herself to Cap-
lain Watson's, though she kn w none of the family,
to see if Mrs. Veal was there or not. They said
they wondered at her asking, for that she had not
been in town; they were suic if she had,, she would
have been there. Says Mrs. Bargrave, I am sure she
was with me on Saturdav almost two hours. Tliey
said it was impossible; for they must have seen her il
she had. In comes Captain Watson while the were
in dispute, and said that Mrs. Veal was certainly
dead, an(i her escutcheons were making. This
strangely surprised Mrs. Bargrave, when she went to
tiie person immediately who had the care of them and
found it true. Then she related the whole story to

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Captain Watson's family, and what gown she had on
and how stiipod, and that Mrs. Veal told Iier it was

(I. 'J'hen Mrs. Wat?

hav(

scoured, i nen i\Jrs. waison criea oui, you nave seen
her indeed, for none knew but IMrs. Veal and myself
that the gown was scoured, and Mrs.' Watson owned
that she described the gown exactly ; for, said she, I
helped iier to make it u{). 'J'his Mrs. Watson blazed
about tlie town, and avouched the demonstration of
the truth of Mrs. Bargrave seeing Mrs. Veal's appa-
rition. And Captain Watson carried two gentlemen
immediately to Mrs. Bargiave's house to hear the
relation from her own mouth. And when it spread
so fast, that gentlemen and persons of quality, the
judicious and sceptical part of the world, flocked in
upon her, it at last became such a task that she was
forced to go out of the way, for they were in general
extremely satisfied of the truth of the thing, and
plainly saw that Mrs. Bargrave was no hypochon-
driac ; for she always appears with such a cheerful
air, and pleasing mien, tiiat she has gained the fa-
vour, and esteem of all the gentry, and it is thought
a great favour if they can get the relation fiom her
own mouth. I should have told you before that Mrs.
Veal told Mrs. Bargrave that her sister and brother-
in-law were just come down from London to see her.
Says Mrs. Bargrave, how came you to order matters
so strangely ? It could not be helped, said Mrs. Veal.
And her brother and sister did come to see her, and
entered the town of Dover just as Mrs. Veal was ex-
piring. Mrs. Bargrave asked her, whether she would
drink <ea. Says Mrs. Veal, I do n.ot care if I do, but
I'll warrant this mad fellow (meaning Mrs. Baigrave's
husband) has broken all your trinkets. But, says
Mrs. Bargrave, I'll get something to drink in, for all
that ; but Mrs. Veal waved it, and said, it is no mat-
ter, let it alone, and so it passed.

All the time I sat with Mrs. Bargrave, which was
some hours, she recollected fresh sayings of Mrs.
Veal. And one more material thing she told Mrs.

thing
design
Mrs. ]

J had on,
»• it was
>ave seen
1 myself
1 owned
id she, I
1 blazed
ration of
I's appa-
entlemen
hear the
it spread
ilitv, the
3cked in
she was
general
ng, and
pochon-
cheerful
the fa-
thought
Vom her
hat Mrs.
brother-
see her.
matters
rs. Veal,
her, and
was ex-
le would
do, but
ill grave's
lut, savs
, for all
no mat-

lich was
of Mrs.
old Mrs.

Bargrdve, that old Mr. Hretoii allowed Mrs. Veal ten
pounds a year, which was a secret, and unknown to
Mrs. Bargnive till Mrs. Veal told it her.

Mrs. Bargrave nexer varies in her story ; which
puzzles those who doubt the truth, or are u-.iwilling
to believe it. A servant in a neighbour's yard, ad-
joining to Mrs. Bargrave's bouse, heard her talking
to sonieb(^dv an hour of the time Mrs. Veal was with
her. Mrs. Bargrave went out to her next neighbour's
the very moment she parted with xMrs. Veal, and
told her what ravishing conversation she had had with
an old friend, and told the whole of it. Dreliucourt's
book of Death is, since this happened, brought up
strangely. And it is to be observed, that notwith-
standnig all the trouble and fatigue Mrs. Bargrave
has undergone upon this account, she never took the
value of a fartldng, nor suffered her daughter to take
any thitig of any body, and therefore can have no
interest in telling her story.

But Mr. Veal does what he can to stifle the mat-
ter, and said, he would see Mrs. Bargrave; but yet
it is certain matter of fact, that he as been at Cap-
tain Watson's since the death of his sister, and yet
never went near Mrs. Bargrave; and some of his
friends report her to be a liar, and that she knew of
Mr. Breton's ten pounds a year ; but that the person
who pretends to say so, has the reputation of a no-
torious liar, among" persons whom 1 know to be of
undoubted credit. Now Mr. Veal is more of a gen-
tleman than to say she lies ; but says, a bad husband
has crazed her. ^But she need only present herself,
and it will eH tuallv confute that pretence. Mr. Veal
says, he asked his "sister on her deathbed, whether
she had a mind to dispose of any thing ; and she said,
No. Now, the things which Mrs. Veal's apparition
would have disposed of, were so trilling, and no-
thing of justice aimed at in their disposal, that the
design of 'it appears to iTie to be only in order to make
Mrs. Bari^rave to demonstrate; the truth of her ap-

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pearaiice, so as t<j siitisfy the worhl of the reality
thereof, as to what she had seen and heard, and to se-
cure her reputation, among the reasonahle and under-
standing part of mankind. And then again, Mr.
Veal owns that there was a purse of gold ; but it v/as
not found in her cabinet, but in a comb box. Tiiis
looks improbable : for that Mrs. Watson owned that
Mrs. Veal was so very careful of the key of the ca-
binet that she would trust nobody with it. And if so,
no doubt she would not trust her gold out of it. And
Mrs. Veal often drawing her hands over her eyes,
and asking Mis. Bargrave, if her (its had not impaired
her, looks to me as if she did it (m purpose to remind
Mrs. Bargrave of her fits, to prepare her not to
think it strange, that she should put her upon
writing to her brother, to dispose of rings and gold,
which looks so much like a person's bequest ; and it
took accordingly with Mrs. Bargrave, as the effects
of her fits coming upon her ; and was one of the many
instances of her wonderful love to her, and care
of her, that she should not be affrighted ; which in-
deed appears in her whole management, particularly
in her coming to her in the day time, waving the sa-
lutation, and when she was alone ; and then the man-
ner of her parting, to prevent a second attempt to sa-
lute her.

Now, why Mr. Veal should think this relation a
reflection (as it is plain he does, by his endeavour-
ing to stifle it,) I cannot imagine; because the gene-
rality believe her to be a good spirit, her discourse
was so heavenly. Her two great errands were to com-
fort Mrs. Bargrave in her affliction, and to ask her
forgiveness for tlit? breach of friendship, and with a
pious discourse to encourage her. 80 that, after all,
to suppose that Mrs. Bargrave could hatch such an
invention as this from Friday noon to Saturday noon
(supposing she knew of Mrs. Veal's death the very
first moment) without jumbling circumstances, and
without any interest too ; she must be more wdtv..

V>97

wicked too, than any indirteient person, I dare Kay
will allow. I asked Mrs Bargrave several times, ii
she was sure she felt the gown : she answered modestly,
" If my senses be to be relied on, I am sure of it." I
asked her, if she heard a sound when she clapped her
hand upon her knee : she said she did not remember
she did ; but said she appeared to be as much a sub-
stance as I did who talked with her, " and I may,"
said she, " be as soon persuaded that your apparition
is talking to me now, as that I did not really see her :
For I was under no manner of fear, and received her
as a friend, and parted with her as such. I would
not, says she, give one farthing to make any one be-
lieve it : I have no interest in it : nothing but trouble
is entailed upon me for a long time, for ought I know ;
and had it not come to light by accident, it would
never have been made public." But now, she says,
she will make her own private use of it, and keep
herself out of the way, as much as she can ; and so
she has done since. She says, " she had a gentleman
who came thirty miles to her to hear the relation ; and
that she had told it to a roomful of people at a time."
Several particular gentlemen have had the story from
Mrs Bargreave's own mouth.

This thing has very much affected me, and I am as
well satisfied as I am of the best grounded matter of
fact. And why we should dispute a matter of fact,
because we cannot solve things of which we have no
certain or demonstrative notions, seems strange to me.
Mrs Bargreave's authority and sincerity alone would
have been undoubted in any other case.

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APPAJUTION TO (.AI'TALN HEMiV HKI.L.

CAPTAIN Henry BelJ, in liis narrative prefixed
to Luther's table talk, printed in England in 1052-
after having mentioned the mystery and providence
of the discovery of it under ground in Germany, where
it had lain hid fifty two years, relates the following
CLstonishing admonition relating to the translating
into English :

Caspar Van Spar, a German gentleman, having,
as before observed, recovered the copy from the worms'
desired Capt. Bell, with whom he was well acquainted]
while he was the agent for King James I. on the
continent, to translate it into English, and publish it
in London for the advancement of religion : but Capt,
Bell was always some how most unacountably hinder-
ed from prosecuting that work in such sort as to brin^r
it to a proper conclusion, being prevented by such
intervening business as his i)ub]io occupation required
him to execute.

About six weeks after he had received the German
copy, being well in health, and in bed with his wife,
between twelve and one o'clock, there appeared to him]
standing at the side of the bed, an ancient man clothed
in a light coloured habit, and of a most reverend aspect,
having a broad and white beard, which hung as low
as his girdle, who smiling at him, said, in a gentle
manner of rebuke : " Will you not take time to translate
that book which is sent you out of Germany; If you
do not, I will shortly hereafter provide you "both time
and place to do it;" and then instantly vanished.

This extraordinary vision afhighted him so much
that he fell into an extreme sweat ; so that his wife
awaking, and finding him all over wet, she asked him,
what he ailed ? he then related to her his vision, and
the remarkable message attending it. But Captain
Bell not payhig much attention to the matter after-
wards, time wore it off his memory, and he paid no

:>90

more regard to what he had seen and heard than it
had been a mere dream.

However he had soon reason to recollect the old
man's words, for soon after being at his lodgings in
King-street. Westminster, at dinner with his w j.
two^iessengers came from the Council Board, with a
warrant to carry him to the Gate-House, there to be
confined till farther orders from the Lords of the Pri-
vy Council. Upon this warrant he was detained ten
whole years a close prisoner, wliereof he spent five in
the translation of the afore-mentioned worlc ; having
good cause to be mindful of the old man's saying, " I
will shortly provide for you both time and place to

translate it."

This narrative is extracted from the preface to Lu-
ther's t<able talk, printed in 1052, and from what Mr.
Aubrey observes upon the story, which he ])riefly re-
lates, it appears, that, whatsoever was pretended for
the cause of his confinement, yet the true reason of
the Captain's commitment, was, because he was urgent
with the Lord Treasurer for his arrears which amount-
ed to a great sum ; he was unwilling to pay, and to
be freed from his clamours, hit upon the scheme ot
holding him in prison.

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SUPCRNATURAL IMPRESSIONS.

IN the year 1081, a gentlman who lived near ^6-
erdeen, came to town on purpose to ask advice of
some of the ministers. He told them he had an im-
pression continually following him, to go to Rotter-
(Inm. They asked him, "For what reason?" But
he could tell none; on which they advised him to
stay at home. Some time after he came again, and
informed them. " Either I must go to lioliet'dam, or
die, for this impression follows me day and night, so
that I can neither eat nor drink nor sleep/' They

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300

then advised him to go. Accordingly he embarked
and came to Boltcrdam. As lie was leaning, his foot
slipped and he fell into the sea. A gentleman who
was walking on the quay, leaped in and caught hold
on him, brought him out, and conducted him to an
inn. He then i)rocured some dry linen for him, and
a warm bed, in which he slept soundly for several hours.
When he awoke, he found the gentleman sitting by
his bed-side; who taking it for granted, he would be
hungry, had bespoken a dinner, which to his great
satisfaction, was immediately served up : The Scotch
gentleman desired the other to ask a blessing, which
he did, in such a manner as quite surprised him. But
he was still more surprised, both at the spirit and lan-
guage, in which he returned thanks ; and asked hini,
"Sir, are you not a minister?" He answered, "I am;
but I was some time since banished from Scotland."
The other replied, " Sir, 1 observed, though you be-
haved quite decently, you seemed to be extremely hun-
gry. Pray permit me to ask how long is it since you
took any food?" He said, "Eight and forty hours;"
on which the Scot started up, and said, "Now, I
know why God sent me to Rotterdam. You shall want
for nothing any more; I have enough for us both.
Shortl}^ after the revolution ensued, and he was reinsta-
ted in his living.

Old Mr. 0(/i//rir, Aherdem, wl.o told me the story,
knew the gentleman and the nunister.

,,,(.

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rJlJilING the persecution of the protestants, by
the Roman Catholics in the seventeenth century, some
children were playing on the banks of the Suir, near
Golden, in the country of Tipperary, when a man
came to them, knowing them to be born of Protestant
parents, and with a pike, threw most of them into
the river, where thev were instantlv drowned. One

»*

nibarked

his foot
nan who
?ht hold
m to an
lim, and
al hours,
itting by
vould be
his great
e Scotch
?, which
ni. But
and lan-
ded hini,

" I am ;
Gotland."

you be-
el y hun-
ince you

hours ;"
'Now, I
lall want
us both.
5 reinsta-

lie storv,

mts, by
y, some
lir, near
a man
rotestant
em into
d. One

301

of the chil(hen, however, a girl al)out eleven years of
age, ran oil and escaped to C^lonniell, thirteen miles

At waterford a ship lay bound to America, taking
ill servants and ])assengers!! An agent of the Captain's
was at Clonmell, who, finding the child unprovided
for, took her as an indented servant, with many others
in equal indigence. The Captain sold her time to a
planter, a single voung man. The rectitude of her
conduct, her amiable disposition, and comeliness of
person, so attracted her master's affections, that after
her time was expired, he proposed to marry her ; which
proposal she, at length, acceded to, and they lived
together in much happiness for seveial years, during
which she brought him six children. She then declined
in health and spirits ; a deep melancholy overspread
her mind, so as greatly to distress her husband. He
observed her particularly when she thought him asleep
to sigh deeply, as if something very weighty lay upon
her spirits. After much entreaty and a(iectionate
attention, she related to him what she saw when she
was a girl in Ireland, and said that scarce a day or night
had passed for the last twelve monthes, but she had ielt
a pressure on her mind, and had, as it were, heard
distinctly a voice, saving, " thou must go to Ireland,
and bring the murderer of tiie children to justice."
This, at times, she believed to be a divine intimation,
vet on reasoning about it, she thought the effecting of
It by her to be' impossible, and consequently that the
apprehension of its being required by God must be a
delusion. Then she was tossed to and fro in her mind,
uncertain how to determine, and her agitation was
such, that it was apprehended her dissolutian was
near at hand. Her husband strongly encouraged her
to fulfil, what he had no doubt was a divine injuntion ;
and as the Governor's brother was Lord Lieuteiant ot
Ireland, he thought it a suitable season then. He
waited upon the Governor, who obliged him with
letters of recommendation to his brother and such

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302

gentlemen as wouici enable her to bring this man to
justice; whose name she did not know; but whose
person was indelibly stamped on her memory. Her
kind husband prepared every accomodation for the
voyage, encouraged her by his sympathizing tender-
ness, so that in a few weeks she recovered her former
health and spirits, and embarked with suitable attend-
ants on board a vessel for Dublin.

On her arrival, she waited upon the Viceroy at the
castle, and delivered her letters. He entered warmly
into the matter, as worthy of public concern ; yet he
thouglit great secrecy and prudence requisite to effect
the desired purpose. The Viceroy as a wise man,
sent for the judges just then appointed for the Munster
circuit, and showed them the 1^'tters she had brought
from his brother, and requested they would interest
themselves ii; this business. The judges treated her
with great respect, and assured her of their vigorous
assistance to bring the murderer to justice; but as she
did not know the man's name, nor where he now
dwelt if living, tliey saw much difficulty in the matter
However if she was desired not to communicate with
any one but the Viceroy and themselves ; and as the
assizes for the county of Tipperary were very numerous-
ly attended, they would take care she should be placed
m such a convenient part of the court-house every day
at Clonmell, tiiat, if he should be there, she could not
but have an opportunity of seeing him. The day
after her arrival there, and during the first of their
sitting, she vyas placed, by the direction of the Judges
to the SheriM', in a commodious place for her purpose.
With anxious solicitude she watched for the person.
At length a jury was returned to try a cause. On
their names being called over to be sworn, she saw a
man com'- forwarfl, whom she instantly knew to be
the person she came to prosecute, and then heard his
name called. At a suitable time she informed the
Judges that the man was in court and "-ave them his
nam . The Judges instantly adjourned the court, and

is mail to
but whose
ory. Her
)n for the
ig tender-
her former
jle attend-

roy at the
3d warmly
•n; yet he
3 to effect
ivise man,
e Munster
^ brought
id interest
reated her
' vigorous
but as she
? he now
;he matter
icate with
nd as the
mmerous-
be placed
every day
could not
The day
t of their
le Judges
' purpose,
e person,
use. On
she saw a
lew to be
heard his
rmed the
them his
ourt, and

:iO;i

sent the SliorifVto the .hirymaii to meet them immedi-
ately at their lodgings, where they soon arrived. On
sitting down, one of the .fudges said, " Madam, be
pleased to relate to this gentleman what you related
to us, and the Lord Lieutenant, last week in Dublin
Castle."

The Lady looking the Juryman full in the face,
said, " My Lords, when I was a girl, I saw that man
now before you, throw seven little children into the
river 8uir," and proceeded with the particulars —
Whilst she was speaking, he grew pale, and trembled
exceedingly ; but, when she came to that i)art of her
relation, respecting feeling a j^ressure of mind for
more than a year, which she believed to be from God's
requiring her to come to Ireland, and endeavour to
bring him to justice for these murders, he was quite
overcome, and confessed his guilt, and the truth of all
which she asserted. On this the Grand Jury was sent
for, and bills of indictment were found against him.
Next day he was tried, found guilty, and executed in
Clonmell.

She speedily returned to her husband and children,
lived many years after in great happiness with them,
fully restored to her health, in peace and serenity of
mind.

This man had read his recantation from the Church
of Rome, had professed himself a Protestant, and thus
became qualified to be a Juryman.

ON the borders of Scotland, James Dickinson and
Jane Fearon (two Quakers) were travelling, on religious
service, with a person who attended as a guide to a
town which they proposed to reach that night. But
the 'weather being very inclement, and .lane much
latigued, they were desirous of accomodation^ short of
the distance which they had at first intended to travel

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that day. Their guide assured them no such iiiu would
present itself; but, being weary, and coming to a de-
cent looking house, James rode up to it, and Miquired
if they could be accomodated. Tiiey were tolu they
could. This determined them to alight, contrary to
the wish of their guide, who, with a heavy heart,
took leave of them, saying, he could not be of further
service to them. He had remonstrated strongly
against their calling there at all, before they went up
to the house; but did not choose to speak in the
hearing of the family. They were introduced into a
small room with a lire in it, which opened into the
common room where the family dwelt. There was
every appearance of tolerable accomodation ; the horses
were taken care of, and their wet things put to dry.
A posset was made, and a cold meat pie set for their
supper: but on their first sitting down, they became
very uneasy, which, however, each of them not know-
ing how the other felt, they kept to themselves; until,
at last, Jane said her apprehensions were so great, and
her opinion of the family so bad, that she verily
believed the pie to be made of human flesh, which,
however, J. Dickinson did not think was the case, as
he had eaten of the pie and thought it good. As they
sat, Jane observed three ill-looking fellows come in,
and, in a low voice, tell the Landlady they had good
horses. She answered, " Aye, and good bags too."
James' uneasiness increasing, his mind became closely
engaged to seek for the cause, and for divine counsel
how to ace. Under this exercise he was induced to
believe, that if they kept close to the divine intimation,
they should be preserved, and a way would be made
for their escape. On this he inquired about their
lodgings, saying they had to write, and should want
candles, and proposed to retire soon. They were shown
into a chamber, on the side of the yard, with two beds
in it, but without any bolt to the door. Observing a
fofm, they tried it, by netting one end to the door;
it would just wedge in Detween it, and the foot of one

I iiiu vvuiild
»ig to a (le-
hI Miquired
tolti they
contrary to
eavy heart,
e of further

I strongly
y went up
eak in the
Liced into a

I I into the
There vvas
; tlie horses
put to dry.
;et for their
ley became
not know-
ives; until,
great, and
she verily
sh, which,
le case, as
. As they
7S come in,
,' had good
bags too."
.me closely
lie counsel
induced to
intimation,
I be made
bout their
ould want
vere shown
h two beds
bserving a

foot of one

305

llii; foot of ont' of the betls. Heiiig thus secured, Jane
sat down on one of the beds, and manifested her dis-
tress ; wringing her hands, and saying, she believed
they should in that house lose their lives. James sat
down by her, desiring her to be still ; told her he
had been under similar apprehensions, after they had
entered the house, but that after deej) exercise, and
seeking for Divine direction, his mind had been fa-
voured with that which had never deceived him, and
believe<l, if they carefully minded its pointmys, they
should be directed how to escape. On this they sat
in perfect silence some sonsiderable time, attentively
waiting for light how to act. At length James told
her the time for them to fly for their lives was now
oonie ; and having observed a door opposite to that
they came in at, which led to a pair of stone stairs on
the outside of the house next the road, they believed
that was the way for them to escape. They pulled off
their shoes, and softly opened the door, when they
perceived by a light through a chink, between the
first stone and the house, a woman sharpenineg a large
knife : they went softly down the steps, and forward
on the road, until they were out of hearing. They
thus walked away as fast as possible. When they
were distant about half a mile from the house under
very heavy rain, they discovered a hovel, where
they tried to rest themselves, but found by the pain-
ful impressions renewed on their minds, that this
was not safe. Then notwithstanding excessive wea-
riness, Jane being ready to sink also, through discou-
ragement, James urged the necessity of exertion, un-
der the firm hope that they should be preserved. —
They proceeded until they came by the side of a
stream, the course of which they followed to a bridge,
over which they attempted to pass, but were restrained
when upon it.' James said, that was not their way.
So they returned, and went down the course of the
wster, which as tliey prc-ceeciCvi, wic«eneu greav«y.
James stopped at about the distance of half a mile from
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the bridge, utid toid liis cuinputiioii they must cross at
that place, which exceedingly alarmed her, having
given way to so much discou'agement, that she could
scarcely lay hold of any hope that they should not to-
tally sink under their present situation. She told
James, she apprehended, if they went into the water,
they should be drowned ; but he endeavoured to cheer
her, reminding her of the evidence he had been blessed
with, that they siiouhl be [)reserved, if they icept
their laith, having their eye on divine <lirectioii-
which he believed had led tliem thus far, and their
way was through the water at that place, and that
they should also get safe. Whereupon, with the hold
of his arm, she ventured, and they got safe to the
other side. Walking on they came to a sand bank,
and here, sitting down, James said, " I am not easy,
we must go further." Upon which Jane Fearon said,
" Well, 1 must go by tliy faith, I now know not
what to do." Then proceeding u little way further,
they found another sand bank, wherein was a cavitv.
Here they sat down. After they had continued some
time, James said, " 1 am now easy, and believe we
are perfectly safe, seeing in my heart a song of
thanksgiving and praise." Jane replied, " I am so
far from that, 1 cannot say, The Lord have mercv
upon me." When they had been about half an hour,
they heard a noise of some people on the opposite side
of the river. Upon which J. Dickinson finding Jane
alarmed, and thence fearing they should be disco-
vered, softly said to her. " Our lives depend upon
our silence. Attentively hearkening, they heard them
frequently say, " Seek them. Keeper," and believed
they were the men they had seen in the house accom-
panied with a dog : that the dog refusing to go over
the bridge, had followed the sceiit of their feet along
the river side to the place where they had crossed,
where stoping, the people repeatedly cried, " Seek
them. Keeper." This they not only heard, but saw the
people with a lantern. They also heard one o(

: cross ai
, having
he could
[1 not to-
•^he told
ic water,
to cheer

I blessed
ley kept
irectioii ;

II k1 their
iiid that
the hold
e to the
1(1 bank,
lot easy,
ion said,
now not
' further,
a cavitv.
led some
lieve we
song of
' I am so
e mercv
an hour,
3site side
ing Jane
>e disco-
lid upon
ird them

believed
s accom-
► go over
et along

crossed,
, "Seek
t saw the

one oi

n07

them say, "There tlu'V crossed the river; and the
reply of another, "That's impossible, unless the devil
took them over, for the river is brimful." After
wearying themselves a considemble time in their
search they went away, aii(i were seen no more.
When day-light appean.'d, they s.i w a man on a hiil at
some distance, looking about him in every direction :
they continued quiet in their retreat until some time
after sunrise, when taking a view of their situation,
they discovered that, under the sand bank, they might
iidve been seen from the other side of the river ;
whereas, the place they remained in was shaded from
view ; an advantage they had been ignorant of, as they
could not make the observation the night before. How
to recover their horses, saddle-bags, &c. excited some
consideration. .Tames Dickinson pro{)osed that they
should return for them; which was done, after he
had kindly re})lied to his companion's suggestions of
fear, that he believed the horses and bags would be
ready for them, and that no questions would be asked,
nor should they see an individual of the people they
had seen the preceding evening. Still Jane was
afraid, till encouraged again by J. D. who told her she
might safely venture, being convinced by Uiat which
nevei;deceived him. They returned to the house found
their horses standing in the stable saddled, the bags
upon them, their clothes dried and laid ready to put
on, and they saw no person but an old wonian sitting
in a corner by the fire side, whom, they did not re-
member to have seen the night before. They asked
her what they had to pay, discharged it, and proceeded
on their iournev. Some time after, James Dickin-
son, travelling the same way on religious service,
passed by the place, where the house had stood,
found it pulled down, and totally destroyed. On in-
quiring what was the cause of the house being thus in
ruins; he was told, that a short time after he and
Jane were there, some travellers, who were observed
to go there to lodge, were nnssing, and the house hav-

308

been long under a bad name, the peojjle being slrongly
suspected of murdering many that went there, the
neighbourhood rose with a general consent, and beset
the house. They took up the people, and, on search-
ing the premises, found tlie bodies of the above who
were missing, with many others in different states of
decay, who had been evidently murdered, with some
parts of their bodies wanting ; nmch clothes were also
found, supposed to belong to the nnirdered. The
people were tried, five were executed, and the house
razed to the ground.

(To he eontinucd.)

APPARITION OF A GHOST TO A MFLLKR TO DISCOVER

A HIDDEN MURDER.

From Wi'hdev on Witchcrajl.

ABOUT the year of our Lord, 1032, (as near as
I can remember) near unto Chester-in-the-Street,
there lived one Walker, a ^^eoman of good estate,
and a widower, who had a young woman to his kins-
woman that kept his house, who was by the neigh-
bours suspected to be with child : and was towards
the dark of the evening one night sent awa}^ with one
Mark Sharp, who was a collier, or one that digged
coals under grcund, and one that had been born in
Blackburn Hundred in Lancashire ; and so she was
not heard of a long time, and a little or no noise was
made about it. In the winter time after, one .James
Graham or Grime, (for so in that country they call
them) being a miller, and living about two miles
from the place where Walker lived, was one night
alone \evy late in the mill grinding corn ; and at about
twelve or one o'clock at night he came down stairs,
having been putting corn in the hopper, the mill
doors being fast shut, there stood a woman upon
the midst of the floor with her hair about her head
hanging down all bloodv, with five largo wounds on

5 strongly
there, the
and beset
on search-
bove who

states of
with some

were also
•ed. The
the house

DISCOVER

s near as
lie-Street,
od estate,
i his kins-
he neigh-
> towards

with one
at digged
I born in

she was
loise was
ne James

they call
wo miles
>ne night
I at about
wn stairs,

the mill
lan upon
her head
Minds on

309

her head. He being much affrighted and amazecf,
began to bless himself, and at last asked her who she
was, and what she wanted ? To which she said, I
am the spirit of su(*h a woman, who lived with Walker j
and being got with child by him, he promised to send
nie to a private place, where I should be well looked
to until I was brought to bed, and well again, and
then I should come again and keep his house.

And accordingly, said the apparition, I was one
night late sent away with one Mark Sharp, who, upon
a Moor (naming a place the Miller knew) slew me
with a pick, (such as men dig coals withal) and gave
me these five wounds, and after threw my body into a
coal pit hard by, and hid the pick under a bank ; and
his shoes and stockings being bloody, he endeavoured
to wash them, but seeing the blood would not wash
out, he hid them there. And the apparition further
told the miller that he must be the man to reveal it,
or else she must still appear and haunt him. The
Miller returned home very sad and heavy, but spoke
not one word of what he had seen, but eschewed as
much as he could, to stay in the mill after night without
company, thinking thereby to avoid seeing again that
frightful apparition.

But, notwithstanding," one night when it began to
be dark, the apparition met him again, and seemed
very fierce and cruel, and threatened him, that if he
did not reveal tlie murder, she would continually pur-
sue and haunt him. Yet for all this, he still concealed
it until St. Thomas'-eve, before Christmas, when,
being after sunset, walking in his garden, she ap-
peared again, and then so threatened and affrighted
him, that he faithfully promised to reveal it next
morning.

In the morning he went to a magistrate, and made
the whole matter known, with all the circumstances ;
and diligent search being made, the body was found
in a coal pit, with five wounds in the head, and the
pick and shoes, and stockings yet bloody, in every

^ i ■ I

I i

■1 '■

310

circumstance as the apparition had related unto the
miller : whereupon Walker and Mark Sharp were
both*^ a})prehended, but would confess nothing. At
the assizes following (I think it was Durham) they
were arraingned, found guilty, condemned, and exe-
cuted, but 1 could never hear that they confessed the
fac't. There were some who reported that the appa-
rition did appear to the Judge, or foreman of the Ju-
ry, (who was alive at Chester-in-the-Street, about ten
years ago) as I have been credibly informed.

ON ETERiNITY.

BY DR. GIBBONS.

WHAT is Eternity ? Can aught
Paint its duration to the thought?
Tell every beam the sun emits,
When in sublimest noon he sits ;
Tell every light vving'd mote that strays,
Within its ample round of raj^s ;
Tell all the leaves, and all the buds.
That crown the garden, fields, and woods ;
Tell all the spires of grass the meads
Produce, when Spring propitious leads
The new-born year ; tell all the drops
That night u[)on their bended tops,
Sheds in soft silence, to display
Their beauties with the rising day ;
Tell all the sand the ocean leaves,
Tell all its changes, all its waves ;
Or tell with more laborious pains
The drops its mif hty mass contains ;
Be this astonishiiig account
Augmented with the lull amount
Of all the drops the clouds have shed,
Where'er their watVv fleeces spread :

I i;

311

Through all time's kmg protracted tour,
From Adam to the present hour,
Still short the sum : nor can it vie
With the more nimieroiis years that lie
EmbosomVl in ETERNITY !

Were there a belt that could contain
In a vast orb the earth and main,
With figures were it cluster'd o'er,
Without one cypher in the score,
And could your lab' ring tliought assign
The total of the crowded line,
How scant th' amount ! the attempt iiow vain f
To reach duration's endless chain 1
For when as many years Q,ie run,
Unboimded Aye is just begun !

Attend, O man, with awe divine
For /Ais Eternity is <Amp;

11 >

A THOUGHT ON ETERNITY.

By Mr. Gay.

1. 1

RE the foundations of the world were laid,

Ere kindling light the Almighty Word obey'd.
Thou wert ; and when the subterraneous flame
Shall burst its prison, and devour this frame,
From angry heaven when the keen lightening flies.
When fervent heat dissolves the melting skies,
Thou still shalt be ; still as thou wert before
And know no change when time shall be no more,

endless thought ! divine Eternity !
Th' immortal soul shares but a part of thee;
For thou wert present when our life began,
VViien the warm dust shot up in breathing man.

Ah ! what is life, with ills encompass'd round,
Amidst our hopes fate strikes the sudden wound :

iiiilli'

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iii:

. ' i. ■:

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6\'2

'l\)-(Iav the statesinau of new honour dreams,
To-monow death destroys his airy schemes !

Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confinM ?
Tliink all that treasure thou must leave behind ;
Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazon'd hearse;
And all thy hoards with lavish hand disperse.
Should certain fate th' impending blow delay,
Tiiy mirth will sicken and thy bloom decay.
Thy feeble age will all thy nerves disarm,
No moie thy blood its narrow channel warm.
Who then should wish to stretch this narrow span
To sulfer life beyond the date of man ?

The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim,
And life regards but as a fleeting dream :
She longs to wake, and wishes to get free.
To launch from time into PJternity.
For while the boundless theme extends our thought,
Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought.

AN ACCOUNT OF AN APPARITION.

Extracted from BeanmonCs Treatise on Spirits,

IR Charles Lee had only one daughter by his first
' Lady, of which she died in child birth. Her sis-
ter, Lady Everard, had the education of the child.
When she was marriageable, a match was concluded
for her, with Sir William Perkins ; but was then pre-
vented in an extraordinarv manner.

Miss Lee, one night, thinking she saw a light in
her chamber, after she was in bed, knocked for her
maid, who coming into the room, her mistress asked,
Why she left a candle burning in her chamber ? The
maid said she left none, and that there was none, but
what she brought with her at that time. Miss
Lee then said it was the fire ; but that, the maid told

and said, sue

U-V J

ut:iiuveu

it WQ.3

313

only a dream ; to which the young lady replied, It
might be so, and composed herself again to sleep.

About two o'clock she was waked again, and saw
the apparition of a little woman, between the curtain
and the pillow, who told her, she was her mother ;
that she was happy, and that by twelve o'clock that
day, she would be with her. On this Miss Lee
knocked again for her maid ; called for her clothes,
and when she was dressed, went into her closet and
came not out till nine o'clock. She then brought with
her a letter for her father, which she gave to her aunt,
the Lady Everard, telling her what had happened,
and desired that it might be sent to him, as soon as
she was dead. But the Lady thought her niece was
suddenly fallen delirious, and sent to Chelmsford for
a physician and surgeon. When they came, the
physician declared he could discern no indication of
what the Lady imagined, or of any indisposition of
body. However the Lady would needs have her let
blood, which was done accordingly ; and when the
young lady had patiently let them do what they
pleased with her, she desired the chaplain might be
called to read prayers. When prayers were ended,
she took her guitar and psalm book, and sat down
upon a chair without arms, and played and sung so
melodiously, that her music master, who was then
there, wondered at it.

Near twelve o'clock, she arose and sat herself down
in a great chair with arms, and immediately expired,
at Waltham, in Essex, three miles from Chelmsford.

When the letter was sent to her father, in War-
wickshire, he was afflicted, that he came not to Wal-
tham till she was buried; but when he came he
caused her to be taken up, and buried by her mother
at Edminton, about the year 1662. This relation, the
then Bishop of Gloucester, had from Sir Charles Lee
himself.

•2 s

II..

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wtKL 1

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' IHUl ''^' '

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314

Sir.NAL AM) AWFUI, JL IXiDMEN TS.

(Concluded from paqe 291.)

OTHERS, who though permitted to die what is
called a natural death, yet in their last moments
have disclosed a scene which chills the blood.

Young La^itia was a lover of pleasure more than a
lover of God; more devoted to the dissipations of
the age, than the exercise of religion ; she lived
without God, and died without hope. As in her hfe
her only amusements were the route, the theatre, and
the card table ; so in death she sought no higher bliss.
Every thing that looked like religion was deemed too
serious and too melancholy, even for that season in
which she was confined to her bed, and solemnly
warned by an alarming consumption to prepare for
eternity. Flattered and soothed by fond but mistaken
friends, she could scarcely believe her approaching
dissolution, notwithstanding nothing but death stared
her in the face. Sometimes indeed the king of terrors
would force her attention ; but no sooner did she see
his ghastly appearance, and hear him say " prepare,"
than she fainted ; the instant she recovered, inste'^a
of the bible and prayer, she called for the romance and
the cards : and though she had scarcely strength to
hear the one, or even hold the other, she looked to
both as the only relief of existing gloom. One day
after listening for some time to t'_ vilest trash, her
young friend (who was as vain and as trifling as her-
self,) had been reading, she eagerly desii-ed a game
at whist J while attempting to shuffle and to deal out
the cards — poor Liietitia suddenly gave a shriek — and
expired !

Old Avaro found to his cost, that gold will neither
heal a wounded consciece, nor ward off the blow of
death. For years he had cursed the world with his
covetousness, and heaped up wrath against the day of
wrath. But that period arrived when Avaro must

e what is

moments
I

3re than a
patioiis of
she Hved
n her hfe
eatre, and
gher hHss.
jeiiied too
season in

solemnly
repare for
t mistaken
preaching
atli stared

of terrors
d she see
* prepare,"
d, iiiste'^a
nance and
trength to
looked to

One dav
trash, lier
ig as her-
d a game
) deal out
riek — and

'ill neither
e blow of
i with his
the day of
ARO must

315

read the vanity, and feel the vexations of all his
w^ordly possessions. Some faithful friend had access
to his ear, and told him plainly he must die. His
alarm began — he strove to suppress — it increased ;
agitated in the extreme, he commanded his coffer to
be placed by his side, with eagerness he fixed his dying
eyes upon the mammon of unrighteousness ; and after
a momentary pause, he exclaimed, " Oh, my God !
and must I leave aH this treasure? Give! Give!" said
he, grasping at the same time some bags filled with
guineas, and pressing them to his heart ; and, as he
was cursing Death and the Doctor, his frame shook
— the bags dropped from his hand — and he breathed
his last.

AvERNUS, whose impious breath was never drawn
but to poison the air with his blasphemy — mad against
God, and bitter against man, he always vented his
spleen in the language of hell. To hear his common
conversation, and to see him transported with rage,
one would suppose him not to be human, but some
fiend assuming flesh and blood. This infernal being
could breathe nothing but oaths and damnation. Divine
patience became exhausted, and vindictive justice,
though slow in its movements, yet sure in its admin-
istration, at last commanded the arrest of the wretch.
A burning fever drank up his vitals. His tongue,
that iniquitous, but feeble bow, from whence he shot
his daring arrows at the Great Eternal, was so swollen,
that it could scarcely be contained in his mouth, and
so scorcherl with heat, that no cinder could look more
black, or feel more hot. Standing by his bed you
would imagine you saw a heart wrapt in flame, and
streams of fire issue from every pore of his body. No
one could enter his chamber without realizing the state
of the damned ; and so shocking was the scene, that
scarcely any one could be prevailed upon even to ad-
minister .to his wants. His implacable enmity against
God and godliness increased in proportion to his agony.

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:J16

fli.i-

To spend every breath in the most hitter and un-
heard of imprecations, was a latitude of rebelHon, not
sufficient to gratify his worse than devilish disposition,
because it was the contracted rebellion of an individual
only : he therefore longed for society, that he might
enlarge the scale of his blasphemy. And, however
incredible it may appear, he actually hired on his last,
his dying day, one of the most notorious swearers in
all the neighbourhood, to sit by his bed and help him
to swear. In this awful employment he continued
several hours ; and when his wicked companion was
so exhausted that he could swear no more he persevered
in it ui long as he was able to speak. Finding death
about to seal his blasphemous lips in this world, and
to transmit his guilt to the tribunal of his Judge, he
became raving ; with his hair erect, and with a most
ghastly stare, as though he saw something terrible
approacn him, he jumped up in his bed; and with

horror which cannot be described, he roared out

" damn you by God I will not die." For a few

seconds he appeared to be struggling as with some
invisible monster; after which the most dismal yell
succeeded — and the wretched Avernus was no more.

Leaving the sad, the dying chamber of vice, I
hasten a momentar}^ visit to the gloomy apartments of
despair.

I enter the first. ^There I behold a youth,

who, it seems, had very early imbibed the principles
of an infidel. Like others of his companions, he
affected to despise that, of which indeed he was totally
ignorant. Assuming the consequence of a free thinker ;
he could brook no restraint ; and began to dictate law
to himself. As principle and practice are inseparably
connected, having prevailed upon himself to believe
there was no divine revelation, he felt no check to
vice, no stimulus to virtue. His infidelity, as it
might be supposed, became the parent of all iniquity.
The excess of riot into which he ran, laid u foundation

ter and iin-
ellion, not
liiBposition,
1 individual
it he might
d, liowever
on his last,
swearers in
d help him
continued
panion was
I persevered
iding death
world, and

I Judge, he
ith a most
ng terrible
; and with

ed out

For a few
with some
iismal yell
3 no more,
of vice, I
irtrnents of

J a youth,
; principles
anions, he
was totally
ee thinker;
dictate law
nseparably
to believe
) check to
lity, as it

II iniquity,
foundation

for that disease which terminated in his death. In
liis last moments, he had an awful discovery of the
fallacy and danger of his system. As eternity drew
near, his terror increased. Some religious people
attempted his comfort; but all was in vain : his wound
was incurable. The exhibition of the gospel only
served to aggravate his distress. The mercy of God,
the death of Christ, the pureness, the fulness, the
blessedness of salvation far from administering that
relief to him, which they have done to millions, stung
him with keener reflections, and beyond all concep-
tion enhanced his torments. Not once did he feel the
cheering ray of hope: all was agony and despair.
After lingering in extreme torture, he expired, crying
out, " Oh the insufferable pangs of Hell !"

I enter the second. — As Dr. Doddridge was once
discoursing on the dignity of the Christian's calling,
and his glorious hopes and prospects, he had acciden-
tally a man for his hearer, who, after worship, went
into the vestry, and addressed him in the following
terms. — " You have made an excellent and encourage-
ing discourse. Dr. D. on the privileges of the people
of God; but these privileges do not belong to me, nor
shall I ever have the least interest in them." "What
reason have you for saying so ? (replied the Doctor)
Jesus Christ is able to save to the uttermost!" "I will
tell you, Sir, my circumstances, and then you will not be
surprised at my speaking so decisively upon the subject.
I once made a credible profession of religion, which
was supported with great decorum and rugularity for
several years. I was very strict and conscientious in
the discharge of those various external duties, which
are connected with the Christian system. None could
charge me with immorality of conduct, or the neglect
of positive command. But in course of time, my
zeal departed from me, and I became careless and
remiss in my walk and conversation. I felt no satis-

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3 IS

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faction of iiiiii(i arising from the performance of de-
votional exercises, and gradually declined my custom-
ary observance of them. Instead of praying in secret
twice or tlirice in a day, I only prayed once ; the same
vvitii respect to family religion : and at last these secret
engagements were entirely omitted, whicli soon dis-
covered itself by my outward conduct, which received
an impression of my dissipation. Ungodly company,
and the gratifications of sense, were then the only
sources of enjoyment in which I could indulge, free
from those strong convictions of guilt and dreadful
apprehensions of future punishment, which retirement
ar d calm reflexion impose upon the mind. 8oon after
this change took place, I was left guardian to a young
lady, whose fortune was committed to my care till
she came of age ; but I expended the money, and
debauched the girl. Still I was sensible how far pre-
ferable a virtuous and good life was to vice and pro-
faneness ; and I was careful to instruct my children in
the principles of religion ; and on the Sabbath-day
would give them portions of scripture to commit to
memory. When I returned one evening from the
sinful amusements of tlie day, I asked them as usual,
if they could repeat their lessnos? * Yes, (says the
youngest child) and I have a lesson for you too. Papa;'
* Well what is that my dear!" She opened the Bible,
and read to me tha awful passage in Ezekiel xxiv.

13. 'In thy filthiness is lewdness; because I have

purged thee, and thou wast not purged, thou shalt
not be purged from thy tilthiness any more, till I have
caused my fury to rest upon thee.' This I received
as the seal of my irrevocable doom, and I know there
remaineth no more sacrifice for sin; but a certain
fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation,
which shall devour the adversaries."

I enter the third. Francis Spira was a lawyer

of considerable eminence, residing in the city of
Venice, and living in the reign of Edward the Sixth,

.'U«J

ice of de-
y custoni-
J in secret

the same
lese secret
soon dis-
1 received
company,

the only
ulge, free
dreadful
etirenient
:5oon after
) a young
care till
)ney, and
V far pre-

and pro-
liildren in
?bath-day
ommit to
from the

as usual,
(says the
o, Papa;'
;he Bible,
<iel xxiv.
se I have
lou shalt
ill I have
[ received
low there
a certain
ligiiation,

a lawyer
! city of
he Sixth,

For s<'veral years he enil)r.aee(l and /ealoiisly professed
die Protestant religion. Dwelling in the very seat of
Popery, and surrounded with its bloody ministers, he
was perpetually harrassed with solicitations to recant,
what they presumed to call, his new fangled doctrine.
Solicitation was enforced with threatening. After a
severe conflict between conscience and the world, poor
Spira turned apostate : and before the heretical tribu-
nal of the see of Rome, he abjured the truth as it is
in Jesus, From that time his conscience took alarm ;
which so far from subsiding, increased to an uri'^om-
nion degree ; till it last it plunged him into an the
depths of desperation.

"This [)0()r despairing man, (says Dr. Wood waid
in his Fair Warnings to a Careless VV^orld) seemed, as
it were, to be hanged up alive in justice from above to
terrify all men from those vices wliicli brought on him
such unspeakable torment, and anguish of spirit. He
became a perfect spectacle of spiritual misery. His
soul was smitten through with a dart : and there was
no visible intermission or redress. The dreadful sense
of divine wrath for his coveteousness, falshood, and
apostacy, seemed to rend his soul in pieces, and made
him utter the most dreadful expressions."

As no mind can fully conceive the agonies of his
unhappy mind, but his own \ so no tongue but his can
describe them.

" Ah ! that I were gone hence ! that somebody
would let out this weary soul ! I think there never
was such a monster as I am — never was any man
alive such a spectacle of excessive misery. I now
feel God's heavy wrath within me, and afflicting my
soul with pains unutterable. Verily, desperation is
hell itself. The gnawing worm of regret, horror,
and confusion, tortureth me: and, what is worse,
despair drinketh of my spirits, and the unquenchable
wrath of God devoureth me. And now I count my
present state worse than il" my soul, separated from

\-''\

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my body, were with Judas. The truth is, iicver liad
mortal man such experience of God's anger and
hatred as I have : the danmed in hell cannot enchire
any thing worse, nor, methinks, any thing so bad.
If I could but obtain the least hope ol a better state,
I could be content to endure the most h< \ ^r wrath of
God for two thousand years. Oli that X juld hope
for an end of my misery ! Oh that God would loose
his hand from me, and that it were with me as in
times past! I could scorn the threats of the most
cruel tyrants, bear their torments with invincible
resolution, and glory in the outward profession of
Christ, till I were choked in the dames, and my body
turned to ashes."

" In this condition, (says the writer of his memoirs)
he lay about eight weeks, in a continal burning,
neither desiring nor receiving any thing but by force,
and that without digestion, so apent that he appeared
a perfect anatomy, expressing to the view nothing
but sinews and bones : vehemently raging for drink ;
ever pining, yet fearful to live long ; dreading hell,
yet coveting death : in a continuing torment, yet his

own tormentor and thus consuming himself with

grief and horror, impatience and depaii like a

living man in hell, he represented an extraordinary
example both of the justice and power of God.

Having thus traced the sinner from stage to stage,
we might continue our pursuit from world to world.
Having seen him in the most afflictive circumstances,
in life and death, we might behold him in a more awul
situation — at the bar of God, and in flames of hell;
but I forbear — the subject is too painful : however be-
for I close, let me propose a few improving reflections.

If such be the misery of the sinner in this world,
what must it be in that which is to come ? If one drop
of damnation, and that for one moment, be so intole-
rable, what must be an ocean, and that for eternit} ?
What is it for wrath to come to the uttermost

iii'ver liad
ngev jind
Dt endure
5 so bad.
Iter state,
wrath of
uld hope
iikl loose
me as in
the most
n vincible
ession of
my body

tnenmoirs)

burning,

by force,

appeared

nothing
ir drink;
ling hell,
, yet his
self with
— like a
lordinary
1.

to stage,
io world,
nstances,
lore awul

of hell;
vever be-
fleetions.
IS world,
one drop
o intole-
Bternit} ?
itterniost

3t^l

none Imt devils and duninetl spirits know ; and that
in an infinitely small proi)ortion to what they will
through everlasting ages. To be lost for ever ! To
l)e damned forever! Oh vvlia vords ! What ideas
(ire these! God grant, my dear r ^der, you may never
know them by dreadful experience.

What an infinite evil is sin ! Who can enter the
theatre of divine ju<lgments without l)eing sensible
that the procuring cause of these must be an evil, and
an evil too of the greatest magnitude ? Surely, a God
of love would not permit, nuicli less inflict, a punish-
ment so severe, if there were not something in the
nature of the crime that would justify his procedure.
Sin is an abon)in;ition. ft strikes at the divine glory,
and all created felicity, it is that ugly monster that
the Lord hath said, "my soul hateth," and that uni-
versal murderer that has '* brought deatli into the world,
and all our woe." Stand in awe, my soul, and sin not.
Abstain from the ai)pearance of evil • tremble to har-
bour this traitor for a moment : expel this serpent from
thy bosom ; thy life, thy all is at stake. Fly to the
Saviour; tell him thy danger: seek his assistance.
His grace is sufficient for thee. He hath said to many

an humble supplicant " my strength shall be made

perfect in thv weakness," and many an humble sup-
plicant hath kiid, " most gladly therefore I glory in
my infirmity, that the power of Christ may rest upon
me." And why fear he will deny thee thy suit? Has
he not all compassion ? Has he not all power ? Is
he not made to poor believing sinners, wisdom, righte-
ousness, sanctification, and redemption? Go then for
mercy to pardon — for grace to sanctify. Thy guilt is
great, but his blood is all efficacious to cleanse : thy
nature is depraved, but his holy spirit is both willing
and able to subdue thine iniquities, and to keep thee
by his power through faith unto salvation. "Lord, if
thou wilt thou canst make me clean."

How distinguishing the privilege, and unspeakably
blessed is the state of every child of God! "Happy
11 2t

'.¥' »(

fL**

322

art thou, O Israel ! wiio is like unto thee, O people
saved by the Lord, thy shield of help, and the sword
of thine excellency ! surely he shall deliver thee from
the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pesti-
lence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and,
under his wings shalt thou trust : his truth shall be
thy shield and thy buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid
of the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth bv
day ; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness ;
nor lor the destruction that wasteth at noon day. A
thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at
thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh thee : only
with tbine eyes shalt thou behold, and see the reward
of the wicked; because thou hast made the Lord,
which is thy refuge, even the Most High, thy habi-
tation. And thou shalt be called a new name ; which
the mouth of the Lord shall name ; thou shalt also be
a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord, and a royal
diadem in the hand of our God ; thou shalt no more
be termed ' Forsaken,' neither shall thy land any more
be termed ' Desolate,' (a thou shalt be called Heph-
zebah, and thv land Beulah, for the Lord delighteth
in thee." * ^

REMARKABLK CONVERSION.

M.m

THE Rev. .f. Newton, who, having written a
sketch of his own life in a series of letters to
another clergyman, declares, that his conversion was
effected by a most remarkable dream.

This now reverend gentleman went early in life to
sea, suffered many hardships, arising chiefly from his
own imprudence, wci^ punished for leaving his ship,
and afterwards, for many years, remained in a state of
slavery on the coast of Africa.

Recovering: from that abject situation, hv the frnnd

' O i)eople
the sword
thee from
Dnie pesti-
hers, and,
li shall be
t be afraid
t flieth by
darkness ;
11 day. A
ousand at
hee : only
he reward
the Lord,
thy habi-
le; which
alt also be
nd a royal
t no more
any more
ed Heph-
delighteth

written a

letters to

rsion was

' in life to

r from his

: his ship,

a state of

the ornorl

— _,

323

providence of the Almighty, he returned to England.
On his way thither, one evening he dreamed that he
saw the mouth of hell open to receive him, heard the
jiorrible howlings of the unhappy inmates in the in-
fernal pit, and every moment expected to meet that
destruction that awaited him. In the midst of this
dreadful confusion, he beheld a venerable old man,
comely in his countenance, and majestic in his de-
portment, who spake to him in a language the most
alarming, warning him to flee frmn the wrath which is
to come, and seek an asylun under the shadow of his
wings, who is Almighty to save. He awoke from
this terrible vision, and resolved to be obedient to the
call. A sense of this so operated upon his mind, that
it never left him, till he saw himself safe on the salva-
tion side of the river which makes glad the city of God.
On his return to England, he found friends to help
him on in the world; and though for a series of years,
in consequence of such help, he carried on business
to the coast of Africa in the slave trade, yet he at
length was prevailed upon to abandon that business,
study the scriptures in their original, and became a
minister of the gospel. He is now a well known popu-
lar preacher, and esteemed a sincere christian.

The nature of the human soul is such, and manner
of its connection with the body is so unknown to us,
that as 8t. Paul observes, it is impossible to deter-
mine whether such things happen in the body, or out
of the body ; however, it seems most likely that the
soul alone is concerned, and leaves the body at that
lime ; for the most learned men, and the greatest en-
quirers into the nature of the soul, have all agreed,
that being so active a principle, it cannot possibly re-
main in a state of inactivity , and that the body is
little more than a clog or prison, which confines its
operations, and consequently, whenever it gets free
from that, it makes excursions, soars to heights, and
feels perceptions which it never could attain to whilst
in the bod v. That it has been often observed, more

• ! llfu

'' !

a]>

324

particularly in good men, that when the body is just
upon the point of dissolution, the soul seems to gain
new vigour, and feels more noble powers than it ever
was sensible of while the body was in full health.

Something of the same nature we experience almost
every night in wliat we call ou dreams: for how
many various afiairs do we transact in them, how
many sensations do we feel, how great spaces do we
pass over from one place to another, how particular
are we in every circumstance, and yet all this passes
perhaps in the space of half an hour, which, if really
performed in the body, would take up many days.

This has given occasion to some to think, that the
soul really makes excursions from the body, whilst
asleep, and transacts matters of which the body has
no sensation.

Many have been warned of their own death, and
yet have not had the power to escape it : for either
their presumption of security had pushed them on to
facilitate the malice of their enemies, or else their
caution and circumspection have contributed to hasten
it, by the methods designed to prevent it.

Alexander the Great was entreated by the Chaldean
wise men not to enter into Babylon, as a place that
would be fatal to him. When he was in India, he wat;
warned by an Augor in train, that he would be poison-
ed at Babylon. He himself dreamed he saw Cassan-
der i-epresented to him as his mu xlerer : but he said no
credit was to be given to dreams, and so gave Cassan-
der the opportunity to administer that poison which
had been already prepaied for him in Babylon.

"'i<:

3Q5

A RKMARKABLC ANECDOTE OF 3IR. WILLIAM REID.

IT seems, that to gratify a penchant for the superb,
the inagniiicent, and the antique, in building,
when a child, he frequently neglected school, not for
the usual diversions of children, but to obtaiji a view
of all the churches in London, during the hours of
praver in the working days !

the same disposition, when he was about thirteen
vears of age, and in Warwickshire, led him some-
thing out of his way in a solatary walk one Sunday
evening, in the winter, to take a view of an ancient
hall then uninhabited, since pulled down. The court-
yard being made use of to prepare timber for some
houses building near at hand, he had an easy access,
and had been some time indulging this pleasing propen-
sity 'when his attention was excited by the appearance
of what he supposed to be two young ladies, unatten-
ded, and coming from the new buildings into the court !
As Mr. Reid was not perfectly assured that the hall
was not inhabited, it was then only that, and their
want of attendance, that excited his curiosity; he
kept his eyes upon them as much as consistant with
good muimers, till they passed within a few yards of
him in their way to the door of the house, the opening
of which, though it was the principle thing he expect-
ed, he was disappointed of, l)y their vanishing when
upon the steps of it imperceptibly and instjintaneously !
Notwithstanding this, as Mr. Reid had not yet the
least idea of a spectre, he still imagined that they
were gone down the area into the kitchen, as is fre-
quent in gentlemen's houses in London, &c. ; but in
this he was soon set right, by coming up to the place,
the windows of which being shut, and the area lull of
standing water, presented a true picture of desolation !
It was not till that moment, that fully undeceived him,
that he felt the least emotion of fear, he accordingly
loft the spot with some precipitation, and telling his

i f

iiBI'

,!:•

! ■ ■

i \

320

t 'II

;i 1

^^1

kill

:1f I

siory to his juvenile companions, received an answer
that he observed is vulgarly characteristic of every
antique building, viz. "that it was haunted;" the
account then Mr. Reid gave of these appearances was
" that they seemed to him to be two young ladies, one
about fifteen or sixteen years of age, and the other
eleven or twelve; that they were without caps; that
their hair was plaited and powdered : that their eye-
brows were black, and that their gowns, which were
red damask, spangled with silver, had cross leading
strmgs at the back of them;— that they were very
pale, and that the least of them walked on the side
towards him." .

The most striking features of this relation however
the most strongly evince its reality ; as in the first
place, Mr. Reid being without fear or apprehension of
spectres, &c. neither his prejudice or his imagination
could have any hand in imposing upon him.

Secondly.— Not knowing the place before', the bare
report of its being haunted could not have the least
mriuence upon his judgment.

And thirdly. ^-The reality of the appearance is

proved by the simplicity of the first account he gave of
their dress, viz. that they had cross leading strings to
their gowns! whereas he should have said hanging
sleeves, which were much in vogue about half a cen-
tury ago !

' ••'A

i- 'i

AN AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF THE LAJST MOMENTS OF

VOLTAIRE.

BOCTOR Tronchin (having been sent for) found
him in the greatest agonies, exclaiming with
the utmost horror, I am abandoned by God and man !
The Rector of the parish had just quitted the room.
(omni rehfacta,) On a sudden, before he could be
prevented, he seized what was in the chamber poi,

I ;: i

in answer,
of every
ted;" the
mces was,
adies, one
the other
^aps; that
their eye-
hich were
5s leading
»vere very
1 the side

however

the first

lension of

lagination

. the bare
! the least

iaraiice is
le gave of
strings to
hanging
If a cen-

::nts of

►r) found
ing with
nd man !
he room,
could be
iber pot,

327

and ate it. This Dr. T. related afterwards to all his
acquaintance ; and added, that he wished all who had
imbibed tlie irreligious tenets of this unhappy man,
could have been present at his last scene, as it must
have been productive of the best effects. Several of
the CoryphaBi of the sect endeavoured to prevail with
the doctor to suppress or soften what he saw and heard,
but in vain. As long as he lived, he uniformly per-
sisted in giving the same account.

Two persons had undertaken to print a most elegant
edition of Voltaire's works ; but all the French bishops
having represented to the king, the dangerous conse-
quences with which they would be attended to the
cause of religion, he ordered them to be suppressed.

A gentleman, then in France, adds, when Dr.
Tronchin first came to monsieur Voltaire, he said,
''Doctor, I will give you half of what I am worth,
If you can give me six months life." The Doctor
answered, "Sir, you cannot live six weeks." He
replied, " Then I shall go to hell, and you will go
with me."

And this is the Hero of modern Infidels ! This is
the man, whose works are published here, for the
honour of England.

CONSCIENCE.

(Concluded from page 276.)

BUT being awake and finding it was but a dream,
and that tlie murdered person did not really
appear to him, as he called it, haunt him, h^ was
easy as to that part ; but being in a high fever, and
believing he should die, conscience began to stare
at him, and to talk to him ; he resisted a long time,
but death approaching, he grew very pensive, though,

i'l" ^

ii 1 r

'] , :\

' l]i

•

■V- li

I ;i

n'mi

32S

as he said, still more afraid of dying, than penitent
for his crime.

After he recovered, he grew easy, and began to for-
get the affair; came over to Europe again, and being
at Rouen, in Normandy, he dreamed he saw the mur-
dered man again, and that he looked frightful and
terrible, and with a threatening aspect ; and this drew
him into a kird of melancholy, which increased ex-
ceedingly, the spectre, as he called it, coming to hini
every night.

But this was not all ; for now as he dreamed of it
all night, so he thought of it all day ; he was before
his eyes continually, his imagination formed figures
to him, now of this kind, then of that, always relating
to the murdered man ; so that in short he could think
of nothing else ; and it seemed as if the murdered man
was never out of his sight.

He was so reduced by the constant agitation of his
soul, that he was in a very weak condition, and in
a deep consumption ; but in the midst of these tu-
mults of his soul, he had a strong impression upon his
mind, that he could never die in peace, nor go to
heaven, if he did not go over to England, and either
get pardon, or if he could not ol)tain a pardon, then
he would surrender himself into the hands of justice,
and satisfy the law with his life, which was the debt
he owed to the blood of the man he killed, and could
no other way be expiated.

He withstood this as a wild distracting thing, and
the fruit of his disturbed mind: what, said he to
himself, should I go to England for ? to go there is
to^^o and die ; and these woids qo and die ; ran daily
upon his mind : but though they came tirst into his
thoughts, as an answer to his otiier distractions, yet
they returned upon him soon after, and he dreamed
that the murdered man said to him, go and die ; and
repeating it, said, (jo io Emjland and die; and this
followed him night and day, asleep and awake, so
that lie had always in his ears, go to England and die.

gan to for-
aiid being
V the niur-
?litful and
i this drew
reased ex-
ing to liim

iiied of it
van before
ed figures
^s relating
'uld tliink
;lered man

on of his
fi, and in
these tu-
i upon his
lor go to
Jid either
[Ion, then
3f justice,
the debt
iiid could

ling, and
lid he to

there is
•an daily

into his
;ions, yet

dreamed
(fie; and

and this
wake, so
I and die.

^'29

In short, he was so continually terrified by the re-
proaches of his conscience, and the voice which he
thought followed him, that he answered it once in his
sleep thus : well, if it must be so, let me alone, I
will //<> (Did die.

It was sometime, however, before he did; but at
last, unable to support the torture of his mind; he
resolved to come over to England, and did so; he
landed at Gravesend, and there took passav ■ in the
tilt-boat for London.

When he arrived at London, intending to land at
Westminster, he took a wherry at Billingsgate to
carry him through the bridge. It happened that
lighters loaded with coals ran foul of the boat he was
in, and of one another, over against Queen Hitlie;
the watermen were so hard put to it, that they had
much ado to avoid being crushed between the lighters,
so that they were obliged to get into one of the
lighters, and let the boat sink.

This occasioned him, contrary to his design, to go
on shore a little to the eastward of Queen Hithe; from
thence he walked up on foot towards Cheapside,
intending to take a coach foi Westminster.

As he passed a street which crossed out of Bread-
Street into Bow-lane, bemg almost night, and he not
well knowing the streets, having been absent eighteen
years, he heard somebody cry. Stop him ! stop him !
It seems a thief had broke into a house in some place
as he passed by, and was discovered, ana ran for it,
and the people after him, crying. Stop him, stop him !

It presently occurred to him, that being so near the
place where the murder was committed, and where
lie had lived, he thought that somebody knew him,
and that it was he they were crying after; upon
which he began to run with all his might.

Had the people cried, stop thief, he had taken no
notice of it, knowing , as he said, that he had stolen
nothing : but the crowd crying, Stop him, stop him,
,11 2 u

i
4

I. ■ .t

" In''

iiii

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it was as likely to be him an not; and his own guilt
concurring, he ran as above.

As he ran with all his might, it was a considerable
time before the people overtook him ; but just at the
corner of Soaper-Lane, near about where now stands
the Rummer Tavern, his foot slipt, and his breath
failed him, so he fell down.

The people not knowing who he was, had lost their
thief, and pursued him ; when they came up to him,
they found him not the right person, and would have
left him ; but his own guilty conscience', which at first
set him a running, and which ilone was his real pur-
suer, 'continued to follow him close, and which at last
had thrown him down too, so increased his fright,
that believing they all knew him, he cried out, it is
very true, I am the ninn. It was I who did it.

It seems, when he first fell, some people in a house
opposite, came to the door upon hearing the noise,
and said one to another. There he is, that's he, thev
have catched him ; and it was upon that saying that
he answered, it is very true, I am the man, and I did
it; for still he imagined they knew him to be the
murderer, that killed the man so long ago ; whereas
there was nobody there that had any knowledge of
the matter, and the very memory of the thing was
almost forgot in the place, having been done eighteen
years before.

However, when they heard him cry, I am the man,
and I did it, one of the people that came about him
said, what did you do ? why, I killed him, says he,

I killed Mr. , and then repeated his name: but

nobody remembered the name.

Why, you are mad, says one of the people ; and
then added another, the man's a distracted, disordered
man. They pursued a little shop-lifting thief, and
here then have frighted a poor gentleman, that they
own is not the person, but is an unhappy disordered
mail, and imagines they pursue liim.

But are you sure he is not the man ? Sure, says

another, why they tell you so themselves. Besides
the man's distracted.

Distracted, says a third, how do you know that?

Nay, says the other, he must be distracted, or iu
drink, don't you hear how he talks. I did it, I killed
him, and I don't know what. Why, here is nobody
killed, is there? I tell you the poor man is crazed.
Thus they talked awhile, and some ran forwards to-
wards Cheapside to look for the real thief, and were
about to let him go, when one grave citizen, wiser
than the rest, 'cried, nay, hold, let us inquire a little
farther, though he is not the thief, they look for, there
may be something in it ; let us go before the Lord
Mayor with him : and so they did. I think the Lord
Mayor then in being was Sir William Turner.

When he came before the Lord Mayor, he con-
fessed the fact, and was afterwards executed for it; I
had the substance of this relation from an ear witness
of the things, so that I can freely say that I give en-
tire credit to it.

It was remarkable also, that the place where this
man fell down when he ran, believing he was pursued
and known, though at first he really was not, was
just against the very door of the house where the per-
son lived that he had murdered.

AN EXTRAORDINARY CURE.

BISHOP HALL, speaking of the good offices
which angels do to God's servants, says. Of
this kind was that marvellous cure, which was wrought
upon a poor cripple, at St. Maderns, in Cornwall :
whereof, besides the attestation of many hundreds of
neighbours, I took a strict examination in my last
visitation.

This man, for sixteen years together, was obliged
to walk upon his hands, by reason the sinews of his
legs were so contracted.

11 i>i

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3 .r-.

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332

Upon ail admonition in liis dmim, to wash in a
certain well, he was suddenlv restored to his limbs
that 1 saw him ahle to walk and get his own main-
tenance. — The name ol' this cripple was John

Trebble.

(And, were "many hundreds of the neighbours"
together with Bishop' Hall, deceived in so notorious
a matter of fact; or did they all join together to palm
such a falsehood on the world ? O incredulity ! what
ridiculous shifts art thou driven to ! what absurdities
wilt thou not believe, rather than own 'any extraordi-
nary work of God !)

MURDER PREVENTED BY A THREE-FOLD DREAM.

MONDAY, April 2, 1781, [ was informed by a
person in an eminent station, of a very un-
common incident.

He had occasion to correct, with a few stripes, a
lad that lived with him at Rochester, which he re-
sented so as to leave his place. But some time after
he seemed to repent, humbled himself, and was re-
ceived again. — He now behaved in a most becoming
manner, and was doubly diligent in his service.

But his mistress dreamed one night, that this lad
was going to cut her throat. And she had a twin sis-
ter, between whom and her there is so strange a sym-
pathy, that if eitlier of them is ill, or particularly af-
fected at any time, the other is so likewise. 'J'his sis-
ter wrote to her, from another part of the kingdom,
that she had dreamed the \ery same thing. She^arii-
ed this letter to her father, a gentleman" that lives not
far off, and was surprised to heai-, that he likewise on
the same night, had a dream to the same eHect.

The lad had been obser\ ed to come up about noon,
into his lady's apartment, with a case knife in his
hand; and being asked, why he did so? he said

333

he was going into the adjoining n)oni, to scmi)e the
dirt off from his master's embroidered clotiies.

His master now took the lad aside, and examined
him strictly. Alter denying it for a considerable
tiaic, it was at length extorted from him, "That he
had always remend)ered, with indignation, his mas-
ter's severity to him : and that he had fully resolved
to be revengerl : but in what particidar manner he
would not confess." On this he was totally dismissed
without delay.

EXTRACT FROM A SERMON ENTITLED "THE GOOD

STEWARD."

WE have this trust reposed in us, only during
the short, uncertain space that we sojourn here
below : oidy so long as we remain on earth, as this
fleeting breath is in our nostrils. The hour is swiftly
approaching, it is just at hand, when we, "can be
" no longer stewards." The pioment the body
" returns to the dust as it vvas, and the spirit to God
" who gave it," we bear the character no more ; the
time of our stewardship is at an end. Part of those
goods wherewith we were before intrusted, are now
come to an end ; at least they are so with regard to
us ; nor are we any longer intrusted with them ; and
that part which remains, can no longer be employed
or improved as it was before.

Part of what we were intrusted with before, is at
an end, at least with regard to us. What have we
to do, after this life, with food and raiment, and
houses, and earthly possessions ? The food of the dead
is the dust of the earth ; they are clothed only with
worms and rottenness. They dwell in the house pre-
pared for all tlesli ; their lands know them no more.
All their worldly goods are delivered into others hands,
and they have no more portion imder the sun. •

IW' If

fii

331

! ■ I:

M\ I j

The case is the same with regard to the body. The
moment tlie spirit returns to (iorl, we are no longer
stewards of this machine, whicli is then sown in cor-
ruption and dishonour. All the parts and members
of which it was composed, lie mouldering in the clay.
The hands have no longer power to move; the feet
have forgot their office; the flesh, the sinews, the
bones, all are hasting to be dissolved into common
dust.

Here end also the talents of a mixt nature, our
strength, our health, our beauty; our eloquence,
and address ; our faculty of pleasing, of persuading,
or convincing others. Here end likewise all the ho-
nours we once enjoyed, all the power which was lodg-
ed in our hands, all the influence which we once had
over others, either by the love or the esteem which
they bore us. Our love, our hatred, our desire is
perished; none regard how we were once affected
toward them. They look upon the dead as neither
able to help or hurt them ; so that " a living dog is
better than a dead lion."

Perhaps a doubt may remain concerning some of
the other talents wherewith we are now intrusted, whe-
ther they will cease to exist when the body returns to
dust, or only cease to be immoveable. Indeed there is
no doubt but the kind of speech which we now use,
by means of these bodily organs will then be intirely
at an end, when those organs are destroyed. It is
certain the tongue will no more occasion any vibra-
tions in the air; neither will the ear convey these
tremulous motions to the conmion sensory. Even
the sonus e.vHiis, the low, shrill voice, which the poet
supposes to belong to a separate spirit, we cannot al-
low to have a real being ; it is a mere flight of imagi-
nation. Indeed it cannot be questioned, but separate
spirits have some way to communicate their senti-
ments to each other ; but what inhabitant of flesh and
blood can explain that wayp What we :erm speech
they cannot have. So that we can no longer be stew-

dy. The

lo longer

vn in cor-

members

the clay.

; the feet

lews, the

common

ture, our
loquence,
rsuading,
1 the ho-
^as lodg-
once had
m which
desire is
affected
LS neither
S dog ia

some of
:ed. whe-
eturns to
d there is
now use,
e intirely
d. It is
ay vibra-
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'. Even
the poet
mnot al-
►f imagi-
separate
lir senti-
Hesh and
n speech
be stew-

.Sa.')

ards of his talents, when we are numbered with the dead.

It may likewise admit of a doubt, whether our
senses will exist, when the organs of sense are de-
stroyed. Is it not probable, that those of the lower
kind will cease? the feeling, the smell, the taste, as
thoy have a more immediate reference to the body,
and are chiefly, if not wholly, intended for the pre-
servation of it? But will not some kind of sight re-
main, although the eye be closed in deatli ? And will
there not be something in thr . jul, equivalant to the
present sense of hearing? Nay is it not probable
that these will no< only exist ii- the separate state,
but exist in a far greater degree, in a more iminent
manner than now ? When the soul, disentangled from
its clay, is no longer,

" A dying spark in a cloudy place :

When it no longer

" Looks through the windows of the eye and ear/
But rather is all eye, all ear, all sense, in a manner
we cannot yet conceive. And have not yet i clear
proof of the possibility of this, of seeing without the
use of the eye, and hearing without the use of the ear?
Yea, an earnest of it continually ? For does not the
soul see, in the clearest manner, when the eye is of
no use, namely, in dreams? Does she not then enjoy
the faculty of hearing, without any help from the ear?
But however this be, certain it is, that neither will our
senses any more than our speech, he intrusted to us in
the manner they are now, when the body lies in the
silent grave.

How far the knowledge of learning which we have
gained by education will then remain, we cannot tell.
Solomon indeed says, "There is no work, nor
device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave
whither thou goest." But it is evident, these words
cannot be understood in an absolute sense. For it is
so far from being true, that there is no knowledge
after we have quitted the body, that the doubt lies
on the other side, whether there be any thing as

I A

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real kiiovvlec'^^e till then ? Whether it be not a plain,
sober truth, not a mere poetical fiction.

That " all these shadows, which for things we take

Are but the empty dreams, which in death's sleep
we make ?"

Only excepiing those things which God himself has
been pleased to reveal to man. I >'ill epeak for one:
after having sought for truth with some diligence for
half a century, I am at this day hardly sure of any
thing, but what I learn from the JBible. Nay, I posi-
lively atlirm, I know nothing else so certainly, that
1 would dare to stake my salvation upon it.

So much however we may learn from Solomon's
words, " that there is no such knowledge or wisdom
in the grave," as will be of any use to an unhappy
spirit; there is no device there whereby he can im-
prove those talents, with which he was once intrusted.
Fo" time is no more : the time of our trial for ever-
lasting happiness or miseiy is past. Our day, the
day of man is over ; the day of salvation is ended.
Nothing now remains but the day of tb,e Lord, usher-
ing in, wide, unchangeable eternity.

But still our souls, being incorruptible, and im-
mortal, of a nature little lower than the angels, (even
if we are to understand that phrase of our original
nature, which may well admit of a doubt,) when our
bodie.'^ are mouldered into earth, will remain with all
their faculties. Our memory, our understanding,
will be so far from being destroyed, yea, or impaired
by the dissolution of the body, that, on the contrary,
we have reason to believe, they will be inconceivably
strengthened. Have we not the clearest reason to be-
lieve, that they will then be wholly freed from those
defects, which now naturally results from the union
of the soul vvitli the corruptible body ? It is highly
probable, that from the time these are disunited, our
memory will let nothing slip : yea, that it will faith-
fully exhibit every thing to our view, which was ever
committed to it. It is true, that the invisible wodd

is in scripture termed the land of forgetfulness i or as
it is still more strongly expressed in the old transla-
tion, " the land where all things are forgotten." They
are forgotten ; but by whom ? Not by the inhabitants
of that land, but by the inhabitants of the earth. It
is with regard to them that the unseen world is that land
of forgetfulness. All things therein are too frequently
forgotten by these; but not by disembodied spirits.
From the time they have put off the earthly tabernacle,
we can hardly think they forget any thing.

In like manner, the understanding will doubtless
be freed from the defects that are now inseparable
from it. For many ages it has been an unquestioned
maxim. Ilnvumum est errare et nescire : ignorance
and mistake are inseperable from human nature. But
the whole of t'lis assertion is only true with regard to
living men, and holds no longer, than while the cor-
ruptible body jjresses down the soul. Ignorance in-
deed belongs to every finite understanding, seeing
there is none beside God that knoweth all things : but
not mistake. When the body is laid aside, this also
is kud aside for ever.

As the soul will retain its understanding and me-
mory, notwithstanding the dissolution of the body,
so undoubtedly the will, including the affections, will
remain in its full vigour. If our love or anger, our
hope or desire perish, it is only with regard to those
whom we leave behind. To them it matters not,
whether they were the objects of our love or hate, of
our desire or av^ersion. But in separate spirits them-
selves, we have no reason to believe, that any of these
are extinguis^hed. It is more probable, that they work
with far greater force than while iio soul WctS clogged
with ilesh and blood.

But although all these, although both our know-

aiid senses, our memory and understanding,

together with our will, our love, hate, and all our

aftections, remain after the bodv is dropt off, yet in

11 *^ 2 X

ledge

iil ' t

' ; ' '

(

•

:?3»

this respect liiey are as tliougli they were not, we are
no longer stewards of them. The things continue,
but our stewardship does not j we no more act in that
capacity. Even the grace which was formally intrust-
ed with us in order to enable us to be faithful and
wise stewards, is now no longer intrusted for that
purpose. The days of our stewardship are ended.

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

BY the blue taper's trembling light.
No more I waste the wakeful night.
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolman and the sages o'er.
Their books from wisdom widely stray.
Or point at best the longest way,
I'll seek a readier path and go.
Where wisdom's surely taught below.

How deep \^on azure dyes the sky !
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie.
While through their ranks in silver pride.
The nether crescejit seems to glide,
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe.
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire.
In dimness from the view retire :
The left presents a place of graves.
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides the doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melanchoUy state.
By all the soletnn heaps of fate.
And think, as softly— sad you tread
Above the venerable dead, "
Time was, like theej thev lifV^ possest.

339

And time shall be when thou shalt rest.
Those graves with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thoughts disclose,
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones, that bear a name
The chisels slender help to fame.
Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away.
A middle race of mortals own.
Men half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie.
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, epitaphs, and bones,
(These all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the rich or praise the great.

Ha! while I gaze, p' t Cinthia fades,
The bursting earth, unveils her shades !
All slow, and w an, and wrapped with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,
And all with sober accents cry,
Think mortal^ what it is to die.

Now ^rom yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methmks I hear a voice begin ;
Ye mvens cease your croaking din ;
Ye lolling clocks, no time resound.
O'er the long lake and midnight ground.
It sends a peal of hollow groans.
Thus speaking from among the bones.
When man my scythe and darts supply,
How great a King of fears am I !
They view me like the last of things :
They make, and then they dread, my stings..
Fools ! if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears,

!^ Ir

k.J

ji ;

'440

Death's but a patfi that must be troti.
If man would ever pass to God ;
A port of calms, a state of ease,
From the rough rage of swelling seas.

Why then thy flowing sal)le stoles.
Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles.
And plumes of black, that as they tread.
Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead !

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these*^forms of woe :
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell.
Whenever their suffering years are run.
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun.
Such joy, though far transcending sense.
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body placed,
A few, and evil years they waste ;
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the bright scene unfolding wide.
Clap their glad wings, and tower away.
And mingle with the blaze of day.

SUPERNATURAL IMPRESSIONS.

(Concluded from page 308.J

CUPTAIN HARRIS was taken prisoner in the
y last war, and carried to Dunkirk. During his
imprisonment he was observed to be much depressed
in mind, and, in general, very pensive anrl thought-
lul. And when an order came from the French
Government to remove the prisoners to Versailles,
(a distance of more than 200 miles up the country,)
his anxiety, and perplexity seemed to be much in-
creased, ^^^m^ of a very reserved disposition, he

ff ■

341

kept his troubles to himself. They therefore preyed
incessantly upon his spirits. But a rnoriiiiig or two
before they marched to Versailles, a Frenchman came
into the prison, and made tiie following renjark-
able declaration. " There is some person in this jirison
in great distress of mind for want of money. Who it
is I know not; but the moment I see him I shall
know him, — for his person and circumstances were so
impressed on my mind in a dream last night, that I
cannot be mistaken !" Tlie moment the Frenchman
saw Captain H. he said, "That is the man!" He
immediately asked him if he was not distressed for
money ; and before he could receive an answer he
offered to lend him £40. Capt. H. was struck with
wonder and amazement, that a stranger, and an enemy,
should in a strange land, make such an offer to a man
in his circumstances. He then informed him that he
had been very unsuccessful, and had encountered many
difficulties in his last voyage : that he had deen taken
with his ship and cargo, and had laid in that prison
for some time : that he had expected remittances from
England but had been disappointed : that he under-
stood the prisoners were to be removed to Versailles ;
that all his money was expended except four-pence,
and that he had expected to die on the road for want.
The Frenchman then pressed him hard to take £40,
but he would only accept three guineas, supposing
that sum would supply his wants till he received
remittances from England. Captain H. had feared
tbe Lord from the time he was seven years of age, but
nevertheless was now in distress. After the Lord had
tried him, however (and he trieth all the righteous,)
he thus arose for help, and impressed the mind of a
stranger and an enemy, perhaps a French Deist, and
that at the very moment, to have compassion on him,
when his soul was fainting within him. Captain H.
since then has been very successful, and is now in
opulent circumstances.

(To be concluded in our next.)

■I »i1

342

A REMARKABLE DREAM OF DR. DODDRIDGE.

Preserved />// the Rev. Samuel Clarke, son of the late
Dr. Clarke, of St. AlhaiCs Mr Clarke re'ates the Nar-
rative in the followinij manner :

THE Docl .!• aii'1 my Father had been conversing
together one evening on the nature of the se-
})arate state, <.nd ilie probability that the scenes into
which the soul would enter, upon its leaving the
body, would bear some resemblance to those with
which it had been co?iversant while on earth, that it
might by degrees be prepared for the more sublime
happiness of the heavenly world. This, and other
conversation, probably gave rise to the following
dream.

The Doctor imagined himself dangerously ill at a
friend's house in London; and after lying in this
state for some time, he thought his soul left the body,
and took its flight in some kind of fine vehicle (which
though very diderent from the b.^dy it had just quited)
was still material. He pursued his coinse till he was
at some distance from the city, when turning back,
and reviewing the town, he could not forbear saying
to himself, "How trifling and how vain do these
affairs, which the inhabitants of this place are so
eagerly employed, appear to me, a separate spirit."
At length, as he was continuing his progress, and
though without any certain director, yet easy and
happy in the thoughts of the universal Providence
and government of God, which extends alike to all
states and worlds ; he was met by one who told him
he was sent to conduct him to the place appointed
for his abode, from hence he concluded that it could
be no other than an angel, though (as I remember)
he appeared under the form of an elderly man. They
went accordingly together till they came in sight of a
spacious building, which had the ai of a palace;
upon inquiring what it was, his guiue told him it
was the place assigned for his residence at present,

:U'^

upon which the J)octor observed, that lie reinemhoreiJ
to have read while on earth. That eye hath not seen,
nor ear heard, nor heart conceived, what God hath
laid up for his servants ; whereas he could easily have
conceived an idea of such a building as this, from
others he had seen, though he acknowledged they
were greatly inferior to this in elegance. The answer
his guide made him was plainly suggested by the con-
versation of the evening before ; it was that the scene
first presented was contrived on purpose, to bear a
near resemblance of those he had been accustomed to
on earth, that his mind might be more easily and
gradually prepared for those glories that would open
upon him in eternity ; and which would at first have
quite dazzled and overpowered him.

By this time they were come up to the palace, and
his guide led him through a kind of saloon into the
inner parlour. The first remarkable thing he saw
was a golden cup, that stood upon the table, on which
was embossed a figure of a vine and a cluster of grapes.
He asked his guide the meaning of this, who told him
it was the cup in which the Saviour drank new wine
with his disciples in his kingdom, and that the figures
carved on it were intended to signify the union be-
tween Christ and his people : implying that the grapes
derive all their beauty and tiavour from the vine, so
the saints, even in a state of glory, were indebted for
their establishment and happiness, to their union with
their head, in whom they were all complete : while
they were thus conversing, he heard a tap at the door,
and was informed by the angel, that it was the signal
of his Lord's approach, and was intended to prepare
him for the interview. Accordingly, in a short time,
he thought our Saviour entered the room, and upon
his casting himself at his feet, he graciously raised
him up, and with a look of inexpressible complacency,
assured him of his favour, and his kind acceptance of
his faithful services; and as a token of his peculiar

I !l

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1

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344

regard, and the intimate friendship he intended to
honour him with, he took the eup, and after drinkinc'
of it himself, gave it into his hands. The Doctor
would have declined it at first, as too great an lionour
l3Ut his Lord re^jlied, as to Peter in relation to vvasli^
ing his feet, if thou drink not with me thou hast no
part in me. This scene he observed, filled him with
such a transport of gratitude, love, and admiration
that he was ready to sink under it. His Master
seemed sensible of it, and told him, he must leave
him for the present, but it would not be long before
he repeated his visit : and in the mean time he would
find enough to employ his thoughts, in reflecting on
what had passed, and contemplating the objects
around him. As soon as his Lord had retired, and
his mind was a little composed, he observed the room
was hung round with pictures, and upon examining
them more attentively, he discovered to his great
surprise, that they contained the history of his own
life. The most remarkable scenes he had passed
through, being there represented in a most lively
manner. It may easily be imagined how much this
would affect his mind ; the many temptations and tri-
als he had been exposed to, and the signal instances
of the divine goodness towards him in the different
periods of his life, which by this means were all pre-
sented at once to his view, excited the strongest emo-
tion of gratitude, especially when he reflected that he
was now out of the reach of any future distress ; and
that all the purposes of divine love and mercy towards
him were happily accomplished. The ecstacy of joy
and thankfulness, into which these reflections threw
him was so great, that it awoke him out of his sleep.
But for some considerable time after he arose, the im-
pressions continued so lively, that tears of joy flowed
down his cheeks ; and he f^aid, that he never on any
occasion, remembered to have felt sentiments of de-
votion, lo\o, and gratitude, equallv strong.

345

A PROPHETIC DREAM.

MAURITIUS the Emperor dreamed that him-
self and his whole stock were killed by one
Phocas. He told his dream to PhUippkus, his son-
in-law. Inquiry being made if any could be found
in his numerous army of that name ; there was but
one, and he a notary. He therefore supposed him-
self secure enough from one of so mean a fortune.
Soon after there was a mutiny in the army, upon the
detention of their pay; and in the tumult Phocas
was saluted Emperor: the army returned towards
ConstanUnople, Maunlius fled to Chalcedon, where
both he and his whole progeny, by the commandment
of Phocas, were put to death.

PRESAGES OF DEATH.

THE Duke of Buckingham being to take his
leave of his Grace of Canterbury, " My Lord,"
says the Duke, "I know your Lordship has great in-
fluence over the King our Sovereign. Let me pray
you to put his Majesty in mind to be good to my
poor wife and children." At which words his Grace
being troubled, he took the liberty to ask him, if he
had any secret foreboding in his mind ? No, replied
the Duke; but I think some adventure may kill me,
as well as another man.

The very day before he was slain, feeling some
indisposition of bod}^, the King was pleased to ho-
nour him with a visit. The Duke, at his Majesty's
departure, embraced him in a very unusual and pas-
sionate manner, and likewise his friend the earl of
Holland, as if he had known he should see them no
more.

On the day of his death, the Countess of Denbigh
(his sister) received a letter from him, who. while
12 2y

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340

she was writing her answer, bedewed the paper witli
her tears ; and after a bitter passion of sorrow,
(for which she could give no reason) fell down in a
swoon. Her letter ended thus : •' I will pray for
your happy return, at which I look with a great cloud
over my head, too heavy for my poor heart to bear
without torment ; but I hope the great God of heaven
will bless you.

The day following, the Bishop of Ely came to visit
her; but hearing she was at rest, waited till she
awoke, which she did in a great fright ; for she had
dreamt that her brother passed through a field with
her in the coach, where hearing a sudden shout and
asking the reason, it was answered, that the Duke of
Buckingham was sick : which she had scarce related
to her gentlewoman, before the Bishop entered into
her bedchamber with an account of his death.

A STORY TAKEN FROM JOSEPHUS.

g^ LAPHYRA, the daughter of King Archelaus,
^VJT after the death of her two first husbands, (being
married to a third, who was brother to her first hus-
band, and so passionately in love with her that he
turned off his former wife to make room foj his mar-
riage) had a very odd kind of dream. She fancied
she saw her first husband coming towards her, and
that she embraced him with great tenderness ; when in
the midst of the pleasure she expressed at the sight of
him, he reproached her thus : *' Glaphyra, thou hast
made good the old saying, that women are not to be
trusted. Was not I the husband of thy virginity?
Have not I children by thee ? How couldst thou for-
get our loves so far as to enter into a second mar-
riage, and a third; nay, to take for thy husband a
man who has so shamefully crept into the bed of his
brother? However, for the sake of our nast loves..
I shall free thee from thy present reproach, and make

[)aper with
of sorrow,
down in a
I l)ray for
^reat cloud
art to bear
I of heaven

tme to visit
3(1 till she
Dr she
, field
shout
e Duke of
rce related
ntered into
;h.

had

with

and

Archelaus,
ids, (being
' first bus-
ier that he
ox his mar-
>\ie fancied
Is her, and
i ; when in
;he sight of
, thou hast
not to be
virginity ?
; thou for-
?cond mar-
husband a
bed of his

nnst. In VPS.
[ -- - ..

and make

347

thee mine for ever." Glaphyra told this dream to
several women of her acquintance, and died soon
after.

f thought this story might not be impertinent, as it
contains a most certain proof of the immortality of
the soul, and of Divine providence. If any man thinks
these facts incredible, let him enjoy his own opinion
to himself, but let him not endeavour to disturb the
belief of others, who by instances of this nature are
excited to the study of virtue.

WARNING GIVEN IN VAIN.

ADVERTISEMENTS were come from all parts
to Henry of Lonairiy duke of Guise, (in the
reign of Henry the third of France) that a bloody
catastrophe would dissolve that assembly he had then
occasioned of the estates. It was generally noised
that the execution should be on St. Thomas's day
The duke himself sitting down to dinner, found a
scroll under his napkin, advertising him of a secret
ambush : but he wrote underneath, " they dare not,"
and threw it under the table. Upon December 23rd,
1588, the king assembles his council, having before
prepared seven of his gentlemen that were near his
person to excute his will. The duke of Guise came;
but in the council felt a great fainting of his heart.
Soon after the king called him into his cabinet, being
one of the secretaries of state, as it were to confer with
him about some secret of importance. The duke left
the council to pass into the cabinet, and as he lifted up
the tapestry with one hand, they charged him with
swords and daggers, and so he was slain.

'^M

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THE soul's FAIv'lWL

a48

TO KARTII, A\0 APPROACHES
'\^> HEAVEN

FAREWELL thou restless world, whose unsound

false hopes, and vain pursuits, man's life destroy;
Poison in golden cups thou gav'st to me,
But I no longer have to do with thee.

My soul uplifted on celestial wing.
Hears Heaven's high vaults with Hallelujah ring.
To worlds of blessedness I bend my flight,
And tread th' immortal regions of delight :
'Spite of the cumh'rous clay my thoughts arise,
And wing'd with rapture, gain the ample skies;
Thence, on this earth's inferior surface scan
The specious pleasures of deluded man.
The glitt'ering gems of time and sense disdai-\
And all the tribe of mortal cares as vain.

Look down, my soul , upon thy prison scene, "
That globe of wretchedness, where thou hast been ;
A pilgrim, toiling o'er the rugged way.
While sin and sorrow marr'd the tedious day ;
Where the proud worldling bears despotic power,
And Satan's empire his gay sons adore ;
Where dark-ey'd Superstition madly reigns,
And grov'lling ignorance the soul enchains.

How blest am I, whom contemplation bears
Above this veil of complicated cares.
Ascend, my soul, uncheck'd thy ready wings.
Stoop not to mingle with created things ;
The smiling or the frowning world survey
With calm indifference— scene of children's play ;
Where all is tinsel, and a transient show,
And nothing lasts but vanity and woe.

Still onward haste, my soul, till towering high
Above this sphere of dull mortality.

'PROACHES

se unsound
lestroy ;

1 ring.

ise,
kies;

ir\

scene,
it been ;

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ars

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playi

high

Earili's baneful pleasures at the best may seem
"The baseless fabric" of some idle dream.

EXTRACTS FROM Tin: LIFE OF MR MORRIS,
OF MANCHESTER.

IJEING one day by myself, near the garden, and
i engaged in meditation and prayer, I observed a
beautiful white bird, about the size of a pigeon, soar-
ing towards the skies. I said to myself, "O that
I could fly to heaven, as that bird mounts the air!" I
had scarce spoken these words, when the clouds divid-
ed, and enclosed tlie bird in an instant, so that I could
see it no more. This made such an mipression upon
my mind, that I dropped down and praised the Lord.
I afterwards pondered the thing in my mind, not car-
ing to mention it to any man.

One of my intimate companions was a young gen-
tleman of agreeable manners, and I was excessively
fond of him. We were attached to the exercise of
dancing, and had spent Easter Tuesday in that em-
ployment, with our acquaintance, at a" public house,
with much mirth and jollity. The Saturday evening
after, I dreamed that the young gentleman came
into my room, and with a ghastly countenance, thus
addiessed me: "John Morris, 1 am come to warn
you, that if you do not repent and amend your
ways, you will die in a short time, and share the
same fate of misery and distress into which I am
now involved." This alarmed me in such a man-
ner, that although asleep, I arose up in my bed, and
said, in the name of the Lord who are you? Are
you such an one ? mentioning his name. He replied,
''I am." Are you dead? He answered, "I am."
When did you die, and of what disease ; He answer-
ed, " early this night." Then relating the particulars
of his disorder, informing me that he first felt it
in his ham, and that it reached his heart in twenty-

''f l*ll»i'

It : I

:, t

350

four hours. He further declared, that his soul arose
out of the body, as one awakened from sleep : that
two evil companions were ready to receive him, the
one on the right hand, and the other on the left. He
would gladly have returned again to his body, but
it would not receive him. He was thei conducted
to the bar of the Almighty Judge, who pronounced
the sentence: "depart from me ye cursed P' This
dream made so deep an impression upon my mind,
that next morning I went to the young man's house,
to inquire after him; when to my great astonish-
ment and terror, the family related the particulars of
his disorder and death, which exactly coincided with
all the circumstances of the dream.

I found it exeeding difficult to be entirely divest-
ed of all attachments to the church of Rome; and
was painfully anxious to be certified whether the doc-
trines preached by the Methodists were agreeable to
the Oracles of God ! In this dilemma, I placed all
my dependance upon the Almighty, and importuned
him in the most earnest manner 1 was capable, that
he would direct me in the way of truth and salvation.
In tlie ignorance and simplicity of my heart, I even
presumed to solicit, that he would stoop so low to his
poor, distressed, sinful creature, as to send an angel
to remove my doubts and perplexities. The Lord
saw my distress and ignorance, and con(iescended to
regard my sincerity. 1 saw in a dream, a huly angel,
clothed in shining rairnenl. surrounded witli a blaze
of light descend into my room : liis hair seemed like
sparkling gold, and his countenance was inexpressi-
bly beautiful and glorious. He approaciied me, and
said, "John Morris, I am sent from God to tell
thee, that the people among whom he hath lately
led thee, are many of them in reality his people,
and that the doctrines which ihey teach are the
doctrines of the gospel. For the truth of what I
say, I have in my hand a book which contains the
mind and will of God. He then, to my ap-

soul arose
sleep : that
e him, the
; left. He

body, but

conducted
)ronounced
dr This

my mind,

m's house,

astonish-

'ticulars of

cided with

ely divest-
tome; and
3r the doc-
;reeable to
placed all
uportuned
)able, that
salvation,
irt, I even
low to his
an angel
The Lord
(•ended to
uly angel,
li a blaze
?emed like
nexpressi-
1 liie, and
►d to tell
ath lately
is people,

are the
•f what I
itains the

my ap-

351

prehension, put a book upon my breast, saying,
search this book, and it will shew thee the way to
salvation." And then added, "Your petition was,
that God would send an angel to resolve the doubts
upon your mind ; but as you had not sufficient
strength to bear a sight so glorious, otherwise than
while asleep, The almighty hath, in tender mercy,
granted your request in sending me to visit you in
a d'^eam • for a proof of which I give you a token,
that when you awake you may be satisfied that the
Methodists are God's people; whom I charge you
to join, and never to leave while they continue to
preach the truth." The token which the angel
gave of his visitation, was by pressing the tip of his
finger thrice upon my naked breast, which caused
exquisite pain, and instantly awoke me. Immedi-
ately I felt in my bosom and found the book, which
was the Old and New Testaments bound up for the
pocket, and which belonged to the room where I lay.
The young man who slept with me was equally as-
tonished with myself, because we were both certain
that the book lay upon a box at some distance from
the bed when we retired to rest. The pain in my
breast continued only two or three days, but the
mark remained visible some months : when I after-
wards showed it to the person who brought me
among the Methodists, and related all the circum-
stances, he was so astonished at the sight, that he
almos' fainted.

As soon as the day dawned, I was anxious to ex-
amine my book, and was much surprised when I
found it was the Bible, and more especially, as it is
a thing uncommon for Catholics to read the scrio-
tures. I now embraced every opportunity of peru-
sing this sacred treasury, in which I found my own
present state decribed, and the way of salvation
pointed out, I likewise immediately joined the Me-
thodists, and trust I shall live and die among them.
This step, however brought upon me a torrent of

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352

persecution from all quarters, particular! v from mv
relations, my fellow-servants, and from the mob that
infested the Methodist meeting.

John Morris lived and died a Methodist. His last
words were, "Christ is all!" And immediately
breathed out his soul into the hands of his gracious
Redeemer, on November 8, 1793, in the 60di year of
hi. age.

MR. BOARDMAN's RE3IARKAHLK DELIVERANCE.

Northampton, Sep. 7, 1793.
^IT^HE late Mr. Richard Boardman, being at my
JL house one evening, related tlie following pro-
vidential deliverance, which througli the mercv of
God, he experienced when travelling in Wales, many
years ago. Qwen Davis.

*' I preached one evening at Mould, in Flintshire,
and next morning set out for Park Gate. After ri-
ding some miles, 1 asked a man, if I was on my road
to that place. He answered, "Yes, but you will
have some sands to go over; and unless you ride
very fast you will be in danger of being inclosed
by the tide." It then begim to snow in such a de-
gree, that I couL. scarce see a step of the way; and
my mare beii:g with foal, prevented me from" riding-
sofa st, as 1 >'h^z\vise should have done. 1 g( t to
the fiinds, ami pursued my journey over them frr
some time; but the tide then came in, and surround-
ed me uM every side, so that I could neither proceed
ijor tura back; and to ascend the perpendicu:ar
cliffs was impossible. In this situation, I commend-
ed my soul to God, not having the least expectation
of escaping u ath. In a little time I perceivfc
two men ru.ining rlown a hill, on the ot) • "de
of the water, and by some means they got a b< '
and came to my relief, just as the sea hud reacl.-^
my knees, as I sai unon the mare. They took me

358

IVoiri niv
mob that

His last
1 mediately
s gracious
)tli year of

ANCK.

^ 1793.
eing at my
wing pro-

mercy of
les, many

Davis.
Flintshire,
After ri-
1 my road

you will

you ride
: inclosed
uch a de-
way; and
3m riding

1 get to

them frr
surround-
3r proceed
jcndicujar
^ommend-
ipectation

perceive('
)t) • sde
)t a b( '
I reacl-'^
' took me

into the boat, the mare swimming by our side, till
we reached land. While we were in the boat, one
of the men cried out, " Surely, Hit, God is with

you

I answered, " I trust he is," The man re-

plied, " I know he is ;" and then related the follow-
ing cicrumstance : " Last night [ dreamed that I
must go ^o the top of such ?^ hill. When T awoke,
the dream mac-c so deep an inipression upon me that
I could not rest. I went and called upon this my
friend, and desired him to acconipany me. When v e
came to the place, wr saw nothing more than usual.
However I begged him to go with me to another hill,
at a small distance, and then we saw your distressing
situation." When we got ashore, I went with my two
friends to a public- house not far from the place where
we landed, and as we were relating this wonderful
providence, the landlady said, "This day month we
saw a gentleman just in your situation: but before we
could hasten to his lelief, he plunge! into the sea,
supposing, as we conjectured, that his horse would
swim with him to the shore ; but thev both sunk, and
were di owned toy;ethei'."

I gave my deliverers all the money I had, which I
thiak, was eighteen-pence : and tarried all night at
the public-house. Next morning I was not a little
eiiibarrussed how to pay my reckoning. I therefore
a] logized to the landlord for the want of casl', and
legged he would keep a pair of silver spurs till I
should send to redeem them. But he answered,
"The Lord bless you. Sir; I would not take a far-
ihing of yon for the world." After sol e serious con-
versation with the friendly people of the house, I bid
them farewell ; and recommenced my journey, re-
joicing in the Lord, and praising him for his great
salvation."

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AN ACCOUNT OF TUt; MIK, A r IIJCTION, TEHRORS, AND
AWFUL DEATH OF A REMARKABLE APOSTATE.

ILLIAM p.

, came to Bolton soon af-
ter Ill's first niarriagp, where he continuerl to
the time of his death. He was a man of a liwh' ima-
gination, strong passions, very fond of argument, but
could not bear contradiction. The steady conduct
and upright l)eha\ iour of one of liis neighbours, a Mo-
thodist had a great eftect upon him, and he began to
think there was something in religion more than ho.
had yet known, he therefore ivsolved to hear preaching
for himself; when it pleased the J.ord to awaken him
to a sense of his sin, and l)ring him to true repentance.
His repentance was genuine, being uccompanitd bv
faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, which brought joy ami
peace to his soul. His wife soon perceived liiat he
was become a new man, which induced her to go with
him to the Methodist chapel, and the w^ord was made
the power of God to her salvation. 8he enjoved much
of the comfort of religion, and adorned her profession
till she was removed to Paradise. In her affliction
and death she w^as gloriously triumphant, and in the
full assurance of faith and hope, slie yielded up her
soul into the hands of her S.-iviour.

Some time after her death, William married a se-
cond wife, and appeared upright in his conduct,
though not so zealous in the pursuit of holiness as
formerly, ffe first step which led him into sin, was
associating v ith some apostate Methodists, who ri-
diculed the eternity of hell torments, and believed,
or at least preten '-d to believe, in the redemption of
devils. William soon became an admirer of this no-
vel scheme, and was frequently drawn by his new
companions to the |)iiblic-house, where they had manv
opportunities of talking over the various parts of
their creed. William soon i)ecame a common
drunkard. One time when drinking in coaipany, a

msm

35.')

tippler upbrai()ed liim witli being a Methodist: to
which he answered : " 1 am not a Methodist now : it
would be better for me, were that tlie case, for while
I was a Methodist I was as happy as an angel, but now
I am as miserable as a devil."

He was now fully prepared to follow Tom Paine
ill his political career; and politics became his fa-
vourite study. He was even so zealous as frequent-
ly to fight with those who opposed his principles, and
would have made any sacrifice, to make proselytes
to his political system. But he did not stop here ;
he waded farther in error and wickedness, till he
plunged into the whirlpool of infidelity. He even
dared to depreciate the glorious Redeemer, whom
he had formerly called his Lord and Saviour ! It was
in this state that affliction found him ; which proved
to be unto death.

April 17, 1797, 1 was desired to visit William P.
For some months he had been afflicted with a con-
sumptive complaint. At the same time the state of
his mind was deplorably wretched. When I first
saw him, he said, " Last night, I believe, I have been
in hell, and have felt tlie horrors and torments of
the damned ! but God hath brought me back again,
.and given me a little longer respite. My mind is
also alleviated a little. The gloom of guilty terror
does not sit so heavy upon me as it did : and I have
something like a faint hope, that after all I have
done, God may yet save me." After exhorting him
to repentance and confidence in the Almighty Saviour
I prayed witli him and left him.

In the evening he sent for me again : I found him
in the utmost distress, overwhelmed with bitter an-
guish and despair. I endevoured to encourage him,
and mentioned the hope which he had spokon of in
the morning. He answered, " I believe it was mere-
ly nature : that, finding a degree of freedom from
the horrors which I had felt it the night, I was
a little lifted up on that account." I spoke to him

■i'i ' ^;

'* -^

35f^

of the infinite merit of the great lledeemer: of his
sufficiency, willingness, and promises to save the
chief of sinners, who penitentially return to tiim. I
mentioned several cases in which God had saved the
greatest sinners; but he answered, "no case of
any that have been saved, is comparable to mine. I
have no contrition : I cannot repent ; — God will
damn me ! — I know my day of grace is past — God
has said of such as are in my case, / will lauyh at
your calamity, I will mock 7vhen your fear cometh /"
I asked, "have you ever known any thing of the
mercy and love of GodP" "Oh yes," said he;
" many years ago I truly repented and sought the Lord.
At one time, in particular, in my distress and peni-
tential sorrow, I cried to the Lord with all my heart;
and he heard me, and delivered me from all trouble,
and filled me with peace and heavenly consolation.
This happiness continued for some time. I was then
truly devoted to God. But in the end I began to
keep company which was hurtful to me; and also
gave way to unprofitable conversation, till I lost all
the comfortable sense of God, and the things of God.
Thus I fell from one thing to another, till I plunged
into open wickedness." Indeed, he several times com-
plained to me, that the company he associated with,
had been of irreparable injury*^ to him. I prayed
with him, and had great hoi)e3 of his salvation :' he
appeard much affected; and begged I would repre-
sent his case in our society, and [)ray for him. I did
according to his desire that night in the congrega-
tion ; the people were much afiected at the account,
and many hearty petitions were put up for him.

Being obliged to go into the country a few days,
Mr. Barrowclough, my fellow-labourer visited him in
my absence, and gave the following account.

"April 18, I went to see W. P. He had all
the appearance of horror and guilt which a soul feels
when under a sense of the wrath of God. As soon
as he saw me, he exclaimed, " You are come to

357

see one who is damned for ever." I unswerd, *' I
hope not. Christ came to save the chief of sinners."
He rei)Hed, '* I have rejected him : I have denied
him; therefore he hath cast me off for ever; I know
the (lay of grace is past : gone, — gone, — never more
to return !" I entreated liim not to (haw hasty con-
chisions respecting the will of God : and I asked him
il lie could pray, or felt a desire that God would give
him a broken and contrite heart? He answered, " I
cannot pray : my heart is quiet hardened ; I have no
desire to receive any blessing at the hands of God :"
and then immediately cried out, " O the hell !— the
torment ! — the fire I feel within me ! O eternity ! —
eternity ! To dwell for ever with devils and damned
spirits *^ in the burning lake, must be my portion ! —
and that justly :— yea, very justly."

" I endeavoured to set before him all the all-sufri-
cient merits of Christ, and the virtue of his atoning
blood, assuring him, that through faith in the Re-
deemer, he might be forgiven, He fixed his eyes on
me, and answered, " O that I had hope! O that I
had the smallest beam of hope ! But I have not ; nor
can I ever have it again." I requested^ him to join
with me and another friend in prayer. To which he
replied, "It is all in vain." However we prayed,
and had some degree of access to the throne of grace
for him. When I was about to come away, he looked
at me with inexpresible anguish, and said, " do you
remember preaching from these words in Jeremiah,
be instructed, O Jernsaleni, lest my soul depart from
thee ?"" I replied, " that I recollected that time very
well ;" and asked, " did God's Spirit depart fiom you
at that time?" He replied, "No, not at that time;
for I again felt him strive within me : but, oh, soon
after I grieved, — yea, I quenched him ; and now it is
all over with me for ever !"

" On Thursday, I found him g. uaning under the
v>feight of the displeasure of God. His eyes rolled to
and fro : he lifted up his hands, and with vehemence

! r

358

■1* ' I ■>

lit*

;• 1! 1

1 . if:'

» !

cried out, - Oh the burning flame ! the hell ' the
paui 1 feel! Rocks, yea, burning mountains,' fall
upon me and cover me! Ah, no, they cannot hid
me tjom his presence who fills the universe !" I snoke
a little of the justice and power of Jehovah, to which
he made this pertinent reply, " He is just, and is now
punishing, and will continue to punish me for mv
sins. He is powerful, and will make me strong to
bear the torments of hell to all eternity !" I answer-
ed, -God IS just to forgive us, and powerful to res-
cue us fiom the dominion of sin and Satan. Jesus
came to destroy the works of the devil, and I trust
he will soon manifest his salvation to you." William
replied, " You do not know what 1 have done. Mv
crimes are not of an ordinary nature, I have done 1
done the deed !— the horrible damnable deed " ' I
wanted him to explain himself: but he sunk down
into a stupid sullenness. I prayed with him, and
lound more freedom than I expected. While I was
on my knees, he appeared to be in an agony. At
length he broke out to the astonishment of all pre-
sent, -glory be to God, I am out of hell yet'-
glory be to God, I am out of hell yet !" We im-
mediately cned out. There is mLy for you '
He said, Do you think so P O that I could feel a
desire for it.' We entreated him to pray, bu h
answered - I cannot pray ! God will not have any
hing to do with me, O the fire I feel within me."
lie then sunk down again into a sullen reservedness.
I prayed with him once n.ore : and while I was thu
employed, he said, with inexpressible rage, "I i]
iiot have salvation at the hands of God' No'— No!
I will not ask it of him." After a short pause he

wl'tl in • Y*?'"*' ^"''"' '''^^' ^'^ ^"^ brimstone !"

o'^f Mm fote ^^"^^ ^^"^' ^'^^ - ^-^ -r ^-e

(To he concluded iu our next.)

a:)9

Tin; Al'l'IOAHANt.'!: Ol IIJK liHOST OF MRS. BIILTTOX,

For fht re»-oven/ of some lands lo the poor ; in a nar^
i-alion sent to Dr. Moor, from Edward Fowler, Preben-
diiyy of Gloccster, and afterwards Bishop of that diocese.
From Dr. Sinclair's In risible World.

Bn. BRETTON, late Rector of Ludo-ate and
Deptford, living formerly in Hertfordshiro, was

married to the daughter of Dr. S . This

genllewonian was a person of extraordinary piet}',
which she expressed as in her life, so at her death.
She had a maid for whom she had a great kindness,
whose name was Alice, who was married to her
iieighl)our. Not long after her death, as Alice was
rocking her infant in the night, she was called
from her cradle by a knocking at the door, which
opening, she was surprised at the sight of a gen-
tlewoman, not to be distinguished from her late
mistress, neither in person nor habit : she was in a
morning-gown, the same to appearance with that she
had often seen her mistress wear. At first sight she
expressed veiy great amazement, and said, " Were not
my mistress dead, I should not question but that you
were she." She replied, " I am the same that was
your mistress," and took her by the hand, which Alice
declared was as cold as a clod ; she added, that she
had business of great importance to employ her in,
and that she must immediately go a little way with her.
Alice trembled, and besought her to excuse her, and
entreated her very i'^iportunately to go to her master,
who must needs be more fit to be employed. The
spectre answered, that he who was her husband was
not at all concerned, but yet she had a desire rather to
make use of him, and in order thereto, had several
times been in his chamber, but he was still asleep ,nor
had sh»^ power to do more, than once to uncover his
feet, towards tlie awakening him ; and the doctor said
he had lieard walking in his chamber of a night ;

I ;,

1 li

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wliicli till now \h) could not account for. Alice next
objected, that her husliand was gone a journev, and
she had no one to look U> her child, and that it was
very apt to cry vehemently, and she feared if it awaked
before her return, it would cry itself to dealii, or do
itself a miseiiief; the spectre replied the child sliould
sleep till her retinn.

Alice seeing there was no avoiding it, sorely against
her will, followed li 'r over a stile into a large field,
who then said to her, " Observe how nnicli of this
field I measure with my feet;" and when she had
taken a good large leisurely compass, she said, "All
this belongs to tlie poor, it having been gotten from
them by wrongful means : and chaiged her to go and
tell her brother, whose it was at that time, that he
should give it up forthwith, as he hjved her and his
dear aged motln . This brother was not the person
who did this injust act, but his father; she added that
she was the more concerned, because her name was
made use of in some writing that related to this land.
Alice asked her how she could satisfy her brother
that this was no cheat or delusion of her fancy ? She
replied, "Tell him tliis secret, which he knows that
only himself and 1 am privy to, and he will believe
you." Alice having promised to go on this errand, she
proceeded to give her good advice, and entertained
her all the rest of the night with heavenly and divine
discourse. When twilight appeared, they heard the
whistling of carters, and noise of horse-bells, where-
upon the spectre said, " Alice, I nmst be seen by none
but yourself," and then disappeared.

Tnimediately Alice made all haste home, being
thoughtful of her child, but found it as the spectre
had said, asleep as she left it. When she had dressed
it, and commited it to the care of a neighbour, away
she went to her master, the doctor, who, amazed
at the account she gave him, sent her to his brother-
in-law. He at first hearing Alice's story and message
laughed at it heartily ; but she had no sooner told

Alice next
iriioy, and
that it was
f it awaked
lali), or do
liild sliould

ely against
large field,
icli of this
li she h;id
said, "All
otten from
to go and
e, that he
31- and his
the person
added that
name was
this land,
er brother
ncy? She
:nows that
'ill believe
rrand, she
iitertained
Liid divine
heard the
Is, where-
n by none

16, being
16 spectre
id dressed
)ur, away
, amazed
s brother-
1 message
oner told

A(M

him the secret, l)Ut he changed his countenance, uAil
her he wouhl give the poor their on n, and accordingly
did so, and ihey now enjoy it.

This, with ni<jre circumstances, had been several
times lelated by Dr. Bretton himself, who was well
known to be a person of great go(»dness and sinceri-
ty ; he gave a large narrative of this a[)parition of his
sister to my two friends; II rst to one Mr. Needhani,
and afterwards (a little before his death) to Dr.
Whichcot. Ai)<)Ut forty years after 1 received the
foregoing narrative, 1 fell into company with three
sober peisons of good rank, who all lived in the city
of Hereford, and I travelled in a stiige coach three
days w ith them : 1 related this story, but told them it
was done at D^^^ ford, for so I presumed it was, be-
cause I knew tliat there Dr. Bretton lived. They
told me, as soon as I had concludeil it, that the story
was very true in the main, but only 1 was out as to the
place, for it vvas not at Deptford : but as I remember
they tokl me at Pembridge near Hereford, where tlie
Doctor was njinister, before the return of the King
and they assured me, u[)on their own knowledge, that
to that day the poor enjoyed tlie piece of ground.
They added, that Mrs. Bretton's father could never
endure to hea'* uiy thing of his daughter's appearing
alter death ; biit would still reply, that it was not his
daughter, but the devil, so that he acknowledged
something appeared in the likeness of his daughter.

This is attested by me, 17th February, 1681, Ed-
ward Fowler.

A ILLATION OF A YARMOUTH WITCH,

W/w (mill Jif teen more; convicted upon their own confess
sion,) 7vas crecufed, 1644. Extracted from Lord Chief
Justice Hale's collection of matters of fact.

■

N the year 1644, sixteen women were accused at
Yarmoutli, for witches, by Mr. Hopkins : and
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sent by the Magistrates to iMr. Whitjield and Mr.
Brinsley, Ministers of that place, to be examined.
Among these was an old woman who nsed to be re-
lieved twice a week at Mr. Whitfiehrs door, who
maHe the following confession ; viz. That she using
to work for Mr. Moulton, (a stocking merclianl, and
alderman of the town) went to his house for work,
but he being from home, his man refused to let her
have any till his master returned ; v hereupon being
exasperated against the man, she applied hersell to
the maid, and desired some knitting work ol her ; and
when she returned the like answer, she went home in
great discontent against them both. That that night
when she was in bed, she heard one knock at her
door, and rising to her window, she saw (it being
moon light) a tall black man there ; and asked what
he would have? He told her that she was discon-
tented because she could not get work ; and that he
would put her into a way that siie should never want
any thing. On this she let him in, and asked him
what he had to say to her? He told her he n.ust
first see her hand ; and then taking out something like
a pen-knife, he gave it a little scratch, so that blood
followed, and the mark remained to that time, which
she then showed them ; then he took some of the
blood in a pen, and pulling a book out of his pocket
bid her write her name : and wlien she said she could
not, he said he would guide her hand. When this
was done, he bid her now ask what she would have.
And when she desire^l first to be revenged on the
man, he promised to give her an account of it the
next night, and so leaving her some money, went
away. The next night he came to her agam, and
told her he could do nothing against the nian; tor
he went constantly to church, and said his prayers
morning and evening. Then she desired him to re-
venge her on the maid; and he again promised iier
an account thereof the next night; but then he said
the same of the maid, that therefore he could not

and Mr.

jxamined.
to be re-
oor, who
she using
hanl, and
tor work,
to let her
pon being
liersell" to
" her ; and
t home in
that night
►ck at her
(it being
isked what
IS discon-
iid that he
never want
asked him
r he niust
ething hke
that bk)od
ine, which
^me of the
his pocket
1 she could
When this
vould have.
^ed on the
it of it the
oiiev, went
again, and
e man ; for
his [)ra}ers
him to re-
■omised her
ihen he said
I could not

363

hurt her. But she said that there was a young child
in the house, which was more easy to be dealt with.
Whereupon she desired him to do what he could
against it. The next night he came again, and
brought with him an image of wax, and told her
thev must go and bury that in the church-yard, and
then the child which he had put into great pain
already, should waste away as that image wasted.
Whereupon they went together, and bu"ied it. The
child having lain in a languishing condition for about
eighteen months, and being very near death, the
minister sent this woman with this account to the
magistrates, who thereupon sent her to Mr. Moul-
ton's; where, in the same room that the child lay,
almost dead, she was examined concerning the par-
ticulars aforesaid ; all which she confessed again, and
had no sooner done, but the child, who was but three
years old, and was thought to be dead or dying,
lau<^iied, and began to stir and raise itself up^ and
from that instant began to recover. This woman, and
all the rest, where convicted upon their own confes-
sions, and executed accordingly.

This account, said Judf/c Hale, I had from a son of
Mr. W/ntJiekl, who was present

CAPTAIN FORTEUS.

IN the study of an eminent divine of the church of
Scotland, was recently found in MS. the rela-
tion of a very remarkable dream, which, with the
no less striking fulHlment of it, we present to our
readers as positively authentic.

A lady, lately married, saw one day at noon, in a
vision, the child then in embryo in her womb, rise
to an elevated situation in the world, havijg the
command of soldiers, dragged to a dungeon, tried
for murder, condemned, pardoned, but soo» after

[■.

i <

■■'hh

I I

!' ■

3(51

torn to pieces by the populace. After this she i na-
gined much confusion arose in tlie c untry, till the
name of her son was rendered odious and detestable
to almost the whole nation. When she awoke, she
related what she had dreamed to her husband, who
administered to her all the consolation in his power
assuring her that dreams always turn out quite the re-
verse of what they had discovered.

The child, agreeable to the prediction, pTOving a
son, much care was taken in his education, at one
of the public schools of Edinburgh. When he grew
up, he discovered a strong inclination for travelHng.
He went abroad without the consent of his parents,
remained many years in the King's service abroad,
and after obtaining his discharge, resided for some
years in London; all the while totally unnrindful of
lis filial duty, and indeed never taking tlie least no-
tice of his parents, who now lived in a recluse situa-
tion about ten miles west from Edinburgh : to wliich
city the hero of the story returning about t!ie year
1735, was, by the interest of a gentleman, appointed
to the command of the city guard ; and befoie we
proceed farther , it may be proper in this place to ap-
prize the reader, that this captain was no less a per-
sonage than the notified Porteus.

One day, as the captain was mustering his men in
a field adjacent to the city, he cast his eye upon a
man of Musselburg, who vvas reputed to possess the
second sight. The captain called the augur aside,
and required him to foretell his destiny. The poor
soothsayer, with much reluctancy, informed the cu-
rious inquirer, that his time would be but short; that
he would be a mkfnf(/ht market mroi. This threw the
officer into a voilent rage: and had not the sage sof-
tened the sentence, by an explanation which gave a
different turn to it, he certainly would, from a mihtary
man so tyrannical as the Ca|)tain was known to be,
have suffered a severe flagellation.

Soon after this, two men, very notorious smug-

365

glers, were condemned to die at Edinburgh, for
breaking into the King's store-house at Leith, and
carrviug away those goods which had been taken from
theni l)y the ofKcers of the revenue. Tiiese men, on
the Sunday preceding the day of execution, were
conducted to one of the churches, as was then usual,
uiuler a guard. During the sermon, notwithstanding
tiie vigilance of Captain Porteus, one of ihe priso-
ners found means to make his escape, and c^ot clear
off. The other was executed on the Wednesday
following in the Grass-market, much contrary to the
desire of the populace. As soon as the man was tur-
ned off, ti t. boys began to pelt the executioner ; ana
the impetuous Captain, who then attended with a
strong l)arty, commanded them to level their pieces,
and follow his example. He himself fired upon
a young gentleman of good family fiom the High-
lands, and killed him upon the spot; and the nien
instantly discharged their muskets, killed several of
the citizens, as beholding from their windows the
dreadful spectacle.

The captain was seized by order of the Lord Provost,
conducted to the Tolbooth, tried by the Lords of
Justiciary, and being found guilty on the clearest
evidence, received sentence of death.

It was now his mother who alone was living, heard
of the awful situation of a man whom she knew to
be her son, by a letter which she received from him
during his troubles. The lady readily recollected
her dream, flew to Edinburgh in the utmost distress,
and would certainly have been quite distrajcted had
she not been informed, from a quarter where much
confidence might be placed, that great interest was
making at London in favour of the Captain.

In a few days a respite arrived from the Queen,
(for Geor-;eirwas then at Hanover) with an order
to secure the Captain in the castle. This quite alter-
ed the face of the affairs with the Captain and lis
mother, who began to ridcule the prediction of the

ii ■

!•:
1

]

'.: .

r
■'■\

^ !

360

dream and the soothsayer. That evening they made
nieny with sl. eral friends in the prison, till the Cap-
tain was cast into a state of inebriation, and conse-
quently unprepared to meet the awful fate which
awaited him.

In this the Captain was not unlike the Eastern
monarch, who, amidst ins banquet, belield the hand-
writing on the wall. He was instantly alarmed by a
report, that the city was up in arms, and intent on
his destruction. The noise of sledge-hammers on the
iion doors soon convinced him that the alarm was not
chimerical. In short, the enraged multitude gained
entrance, dragged forth the Captain, led him in tri-
umph along the high street, piocured a rope, reached
the usual place of execution, and after suffering him
to say a short i)rayer, hung him upon a projecting
pole, a dreadful spectacle to the assembled city.

The confusion in the established national church,
occasioned by the Queen's proclamation being read
by sonie, and burnt by others, is too well known to be
recorded in this place ; but proved an almost literal
accomplishment of the visonary prediction of the
mother, who did not long survive the calamity of her
son.

THE DIFFERENT DEGREES OF HEAVENLY GLORY.

THE perfection of the spirits above, not only ad-
mit of a rich variety of entertainments, ac-
cording to the various relish and inclination of the
blessed, but it is such a perfection as allows of differ-
ent degrees even in the same blessedness, according to
the ditferent capacities of spirits, and their different
degrees of preparation.

U all the souls in heaven were of our mould, and
make, and inclination, yet there may be ditferent
sizes of capacity even in the same genius, and a dif-

they iDade
I the Cap-
ind conse-
fate which

le Eastern
the hand-
rmed by a
intent on
lers on the
m was not
ide gained
lirn in tri-
e, reached
feriiig him
projecting
city.

al church,
being read
lown to be
nost Hteral
3n of the
lity of her

GLORY,

•t only ad-
nents, ac-
ion of the
of differ-
cording to
r ditterent

lould, and
! dirFerent
md a dif-

ac7

ferent degree of preparation for tlie same delights and
enjoywiG^ts : therefore though all the spirits of the
just were unifurrn in tlieir nature and i)leasures, and
all perfect, yet one spirit may possess more happiness
and glory than another, because it is more capacious
of intellectual blessings, and better prepared for them.
So when vessels of various sizes are thrown into the
same ocean, there will be a great difference in the
quantity of the liquid which they receive, though all
might be full to the brim, and all made of the richest

metal.

Now there is much evidence of this truth in the
holy Scripture. Oar Sav'our intimates such differ-
ences of rewards in several of his expressions, Mat.
xix. 28. he promises the apostles that they, '' shall
sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of
Israel." And it is probable this may denote something
of a superior honour or dignity above the meanest of
the saints. And even among the apostles themselves he
seems to allow of a difference : for though he would
not promise James and John to sit next to him, " on
his right hand and his left in his kingdom, *' Mat. xx.
20, kc. yet he does not deny that there are such dis-
tinct dignities, but says. " It shall be given to them
for whom it is prepared of my Father." ver. 23.

Again, our Lord says, Mat. x. 41, 42. "He
that receives a prophet," and entertains him as a
prophet, " shall have o, prophet's reward ; and he
tl.at entertains a "righteous man," agreeable to his
character, and from a real esteem of his righteousness
" shall have a righteous man's reward ;" and even
tlie meanest sort of entertainment, "a cup of cold
water given to a disciple," for the sake of his cha-
racter, shall not go without some reward. Here are
three sorts of degrees of reward mentioned, extending
to the life to come, as well as to this life : now thongli
neither of them can be merited by woiks, but all are
entirely conferred by grace, yet, as one observes he.e,
''The Lord hath fixed a proportion between the

• - 1

; ii,

! U

!; if I

■iOfi

work and tlie revvaid ; so that as one has diftereut
degrees of goodness, the otlier shall have uiiiereiit
degrees of excelleucv."

Oiir Saviour assures us, that the torments of hell
shall admit of vaiious degrees and distinctions: some
will be more exquisite and terrible than others, "h
shall be more tolerable for Sodom and Comorrah in
the (hiy of judgment," who never sinned against
half so much light, than it shall be for, " C'horazin,
Bethsaida, and Capernaum," where Christ himself
had preached his gospel, and confirmed it with most
€vident miracles. Mat. xi. 21 — 24, and the *' ser-
vants Who did not the will of their Lord, shall be
beaten with" more or fewer " stripes," according
to their diflerent degrees of knowlegfle and advan-
tage of instruction, Luke xi. 47, 48. Now may we
not, by a parrallel reasoning, suppose there will be
various orders and degrees of reward in heaven, as
well as punishment in hell; since there is scarce a
greater variety among the degrees of wickedness
among sinners on earth, than tiiere is of holiness
among the saints?

When the apostle is describing the glories of the
body at the great resurrection, he seems to represent
the dilierences of glory that shall be conferred on
dilferent saints, by the dilleience of the great lumina-
ries of heaven. 1 Cor, xv. 41, 42. " 'J'here is one
glory of the sun, another glory of the n)oon, and
another glory of the stars; for as one star dirt'ereth
from another in glory : so also is the resurrection of
the dead."

The prophet Daniel led the way to this description,
and the same spirit taught the apostle the same lan-
guage ; Dan. xii. 2, 3. " Many of them, that sleep
in I he dust of the earth, shall awake, some to ever-
lasting life, and some to shame, and everlasting con-
tempt : and they that be wise shaJl shine as the bright-
ness of the firmament; and they that turn many to
righteousness," shall have a peculiar lustre, *' as the

:m)

stars, for ever and ever." And if there be a diflTtv
rence, in the visible glories of the saints at the resiir-
lection, if those who '' turn many to righteousness"
simll sparkle in that day, with brighter beams than
those who are only wise for their own salvation ;
the same reason leads us to believe a difference of
spiritual glory in the state of separate spirits, when
the recompence of their labour is begun.

So, i. Cor. iii. 8. "He that planteth, and he that
watereth, are one; and every man shall receive his
own reward according to his own labour." If all be
rewarded alike, the apostle would not have said.
" each man shall receive according to his own labour."
Surely since there is such a distinction of labour, there
will be a distinction of rewards too.

And it is with this view that the same apostle ex-
horts the Corinthians, 1st Epist. xv. ult. "Be ye
steadfast unmoveable, always abounding in the work
of the Lord, )r as much as ye know that your labour
is not in vain in the Lord." Now that great labour
and diligence, that steadfastness, in profession, and that
zeal in practice, to which the apostle exhorts them,
might seem to be in vain, if those who were far less
laborious, less zealous, and less steadfast, should ob-
tain an equal recompence.

It is upon the same principle that he encourages
them to the holy patience under afflictive trials, 2 Cor.
iv. 17, when he says, "our light affliction which is
but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceed-
ing and eternal v/eight of glory ; while we look not
to the things that are seen, and are temporal, but to
the thmgs invisble and eternal." Now if the saint,
who was called to heaven almost as soon as he was
made a christian, and went through no suffering,
should possess the same weight of glory with the mar-
tyrs, and confessors, under the long and tedious train
of cruelties which they sustained from men, or pain-
ful trials from the hand of God ; I cannot see how
12. 3 b

II s '11'

-lil fly i

I I'll

•

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'mm^

is ''

\''

Nil

•!

mi:l

370

fhcir (iJllirtittNS could In' sjii<l to work " tor thnn a far
Djoro exi'erdiiisf weij^lit ot glory."

(('om/uxh'd in our ne.rf.)

SUPERNATIRAL IMPRESSIONS.
(Concluded fit nn pajjc 243.)

A YOUNG man, servant to a silk-mercer, in
New street, Covent-Gardon, was one Sunday
intrusted with the sole care of the Iiouse. In the
evening, having as he thought, properly secured
the house, he ventured out to an evening lecture, in
the city: where he had not been long present, when,
by a sudden and unaccountable emotion in his mind,
he imagined that all was not sofe at home. At first
he paid but little regard to the intimation; but the
idea of a robbery continuing to operate upon his
fancy, he was prevailed upon to retire, and imme-
diately returned home. On his arrival at the corner
of New-street, he discovered the shop door unbarred,
and half open. On rushing into the shop, two men
ran past him with the utmost precipitation : he fol-
lowed fast, crying, stop thief! and they were taken
and conveyed to the watch house. All the most
valuable goods in the shop, to the amount of several
hundred pounds, were packed up, several imple-
ments of house breaking were found on the thieves
and in the shop. The miscerants were committed,
tried, convicted, and executed; justice having been
first moved by an invisible agent, who, like the va-
pour in the brain of King Ahasuerus, the Persian,
would not suffer her that night to rest, till two old
offenders were fast in her hands, the goods of the
mercer happily saved, and the integrity of the shop-
man vindicated.

371

IN a certain villuj^e lived a peasant, quiet, unaf-
fected, and uniioticed. Poor himself, he had mar-
ried a poor girl ; they brought nothing together but
affectionate hearts and industrious hands. However,
by unwearied labour, they acquired a comfortable
livelihood, and brought u[) their children in good
habits, like their own. At length his strength failed,
though he was little more than fifty ; and he often
said he should not live long. One morning, when
he was as well as usual, he thus addressed his family ;
"I shall soon finish my course: in nine days I shall
be in heaven. How was I obliged last night to force
my way through hosts ! but at last I got safe. I
heard the angels sing, and joined them. () it sounded
gloriously ! They said unto me, *' In nine days you
will be with us."

On the evening of that very day, he was se' •
with his last illness. On the ninth day he saw the ..
arise, thanked God for having brought him so
through life; and spent the day in prayer, and
conversation with his wife and children. In the even-
ing, when the sun went down, he was sitting at the
window, and said to his wife, '' when the sun is
(juite down, I will lay myself down also." He did
so; praying for himself and his family. They stood
around his bed : he asked for a glass of water ; —
drank it; — gave to each his hand, and his blessing.
He then exclaimed, " naked came I out of my mo-
ther's womb, and naked shall I return thither. The
Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed Is
the name of the Lord." With these words he resign-
ed his spirit.

His excellent wife survived him many years, (I
knew her personally, says our correspondent) ; and
his children prospered. The above case was com-
municated by u very credible and respectable minis-

M-- \ -^

yi'j

ter of tilt' gospei, and wlioso veracity may be ra-
iled on.

* •

< I

THE folJovviiig account, as delivered by Mr. J.
Pf-Avson, was received by him from tbe person him-
self, written in his own hand, as follows :

•*()n Thursday, the Hth of August, 179(5, I feU
a violent pain in n»y stomach; to remove wliich I
tried several things in vain. On Sunday, the Hih,
I began to swell ; and on the 18th, 1 was satisfied
that my complaint was a dropsy, from this circum-
stance, that if I pressed with my finger ujjon any
part of my body, the impression remained for a con-
siderable time. One of our friends advised nie to
use a milk diet, which I did, and continue to do.
On Sunday, the 21st, a few of our friends spent some
time in prayer with me. One of them said, " 1 found
great liberty in prayer for you and your family : ne-
vertheless, as we ought to make use of every law-
ful means for our recovery from sickness, 1 advise
you to go to Dr. Hawes', in Spittle-square, to-morrow
morning, who gives advice to poor people at eight
o'clock."

After our friends were gone, I found nuich near-
ness to God in private prayer, yet not without tiie
buffetings of Satan, who suggested to my mind " the
dropsy is incurable, and it 's downright enthusiasm
to expect the Lord to work miracles." Yet from the
consideration of the Lord's former mercies to me, to-
gether with the strong desire 1 felt to believe that
he would even grant me my request in this instance
also, I continued in prayer, or rather in a sort of silynt
waiting upon the Lord. My mind was in an heavenly
frame, and I had a clear view of the wonderful works
of God especially of his love manifested in the re-
demption of mankind.

The next morning, at eight o'clock, I went to Dr.

i f

373

Jrlavves', aiul lound lifj was just gone to the country
for three weeks. In returning home, 1 clearly saw
that all human help was entirely cut oiT, and this
blessed word, (a word which I hope I shall never for-
get,) came to my mind Hitli wonderful power, and
c'ontiiuied with me all the day, ^* Jesus Christ maketh
thee whole.'' 1 found [)ower to believe that he would,
and resoi ed to look to him alone for iielp. I ob-
served at .light that the swelliii;^ was much abated,
and about 'I'liursday it was entirely gone. Three or
four days after, 1 caught a bad cold, so that I near-
ly lost my voice, but the Lord again mercifull}'"
healed me by applying these words to my mind,
«' Who healcth all mi/ iliseascs.'' I am now, through
the mercy of God, (pute well, and able to work for
my daily bread : blessed be the name of the Lord
for his abundant goodness."

TJie Wonderful Discorery of the Robbers and Murder-
ers of Mr. Stockden, Victualler, in Grub-street, near
Cripplefjate, by a Visionary Appearance of Mr.
Stockden to one 3Irs. Greenrvood, in a dream.

in-

ON the 3rd of December, 1695, about midnight*
Mr. Stockden was murdered and robbed by
four men then unknown ; one Maynard was sus-
pected, but he got of}'. Soon after, Mr. Stockden
appeared to Mrs. Greenwood in a dream, and show-
ed her a house in Thames-street, near the Georgo,
and said that one of the murderers was there. She
was somewhat intimidated at the thing, yet she went
the next morning, and took with her one Mary
Bugges, a discreet woman, to go with her to the
house the woman had directed her to, and asked
for Maynard, but was told he was gone abroad. Mr.
Stockden appeared to her again, and then presented

\^^

374

Maynard's face before her, with a Hat mole on
the side of his nose Cwhom she had never seen;) and
more particularly informed her, that a vviredrawer
should take him, and that he should be carried to
Newgate in a coach. Upon inquiry, they found out
one of that trade, who was his great intimate, and who
for a reward of ten pounds, promised to take him •
which he both undertook and effected ; which was as
follows ; he sent for Maynard to a public house, near
Hocky in the Hole ; where he played at cards with
him till a constable was got, who apprehended him,
carried him before a magistrate, who committed him
to Newgate, and he was carried thither in a coach.

Maynard being in prison, confessed the fact, and
impeached his accomplices, who were Marsh, Bevel,
and Mercer, and said, that Marsh was the setter on,
knowing that Mr. Stockden had plenty of money
and plaie, but was not present at the murder, &c.
yet he had his share of the booty ; but Marsh having a
suspicion that Maynard had made some discovery, left
his huoitation ; but soon after this, Mr. Stockden ap-
peared again to Mrs Greenwood, and showed her a
house in old-street, (where she had not been before)
and said that Marsh lodged there. Next morning she
took Mary Bugges with her, as before, went to the
house, and inquired for Marsh, but he was not there.
But he was soon after taken at another place and secured.
Soon after this, Mrs. Greenwood dreamed again
that Mr. Stockden carried her into the Borough pri-
son-yard, and showed her Bevel, the third criminal,
(whom she had never seen before.) Thither she went,
taking with her Mrs. Footman, who was Mrs Stock-
den's kinswoman and house-keeper; they went to-
gether to the Marshalsea, and inqu'red for Bevel,
being informed that he was lately brought thither for
coining, &c. They desired to see him; and when
he came down, both declared that he was the man.
Then they applied to a peace-officer, who procured
his removal to Newgate, where he presently confessed

375

the horrid murder; and thus the three principal
criminals were tried, condemned, and hanged. This
account is testified by the Bishop of York, &c. and
also bv the curate of Cripplegate, who published
the account.

APPARITION OF LORD MOHUN.

tORD MOHUN was a fashiouable young gen-
tleman, in the days of King Charles the first.
According to the custom of that time, his sense of hon-
our led him to resent, in a serious manner, an affront,
which had produced a quarrel between him and a per-
son of the first quality, though a foreigner, in this
kingdom. By appointment they met in Chelsea-fields,
near a place called Ebery-Farm, and where Lord Mo-
hun was killed, but not without suspicions of foul play.

At t'le same time, Lord Mohun kept company with
a certain lady, whom he entertained in genteel lodg-
ings in James-street, Co vent-Garden. Lord Mohun
was murdered about 10 o'clock in the morning; and
at that very time, his mistress, being in bed, saw
him come to her bedside, draw the curtains, look up-
on her, and go away : she called after him, but receiv-
ed no answer; she then rung f^r her maid, asked her
for Lord Mohun, but the woman replied, she did not
see him, and had the key of the chamber door in her
pocket. This account was attested by the lady and
her maid, to Mr. Aubery, who relates it in his
Miscellanies.

About the same time, Mr. Brown, brother-in-law
to Lord Coningsby, discovered his being murdered to
several of his friends.

Mr. Glanvil relates, that his apparition was seen
by his sister and her maid, then dwelling in Fleet-
street, at the very hour and minute he was killed, in
Herefordshire, which happened in 1692. The cir-
cumstance was much talked of at that time.

37(5

THE APPAIUTIO.N OF 3III THOMKINS TO THE KEV,

JOHN WARREN.

MR. John Warren, minister of Hatfielcl, Broad-
oak, in Essex, a worth \^ and pious man, being
one day in his garden, reading Banyan's publican and
pharisce, was accosted by a neighbour, as he tiiought,
who entered into discourse with him upon the words
" shall man be more righteous than his Maker ?" Mr.
Warren's discourse in general ran upon the promises,
while Mr. Thomkins, his neighbour, as he imagined he
was discoursing with, chiefly upon the threateningsof
God. For a while they discoursed in this sort, till Mr.
Warren's servant came and informed him the dinner
was ready, and mistress waited for him ; common civili-
ty made him ask his neighbour Thomkins to come in
with him and eat some dinner, which the latter, with
tears now standing in his eyes, refused, saying, " my
time is come, and I must away." Mr. Warren
thought it very odd, and was proceeding to expos-
tulate with his friend Thomkins, when the servant re-
peated the message, urging that a neighbour had sent
for him to go immediatel}' upon occasion of life and
death. Mr Warren withdrawing towards the house,
still held up the discourse upon the former subject,
comforting his friend till he arrived at the door, when
entering first, he left the door open that Mr. Thom-
kins might come in ; but nobody coming in, he weiit
directly and sought him all over his garden, but
found him not, which much disturbed his mind then,
and much more soon afterwards, when he found that
his neighbi>ur and friend Thomkins had just expired,
and had not been out of his house, according to every
testimony, that day. Mr Warren's servant testified
to seeing her master in conversation with a person, in
the garden, and telling her mistress so, she wonder-
ed she had seen nobody go through the house, as
there was no other way into the earden. Mr Warren

ren, a pious and sensible divine often relates this to Mr.
Goodman, who recites it in his winter evening confe-
rences between neighbours.

LOOKING UNTO JESUS.

IJKRREVVS xii. 2.

IT was a maxim of old, (and perha[)s it might ne-
ver be applied with greater propriety than in the
pieseiit day,) Tiiat the eye is never satisfied with see-
ing, nor the ear with hearing. Novelty is the charm-
ing object that all meii naturally pursue; and we
seldom find a man wise enough to inquire before any
object engrosses his attention, " Whether it is worth
looking after?"

However men may appear in other respects with
regard to the concerns of their sonl, they seem to act
perfectly disinterestedly; for instead of pursuing
those means which may prove their eternal benefit,
we are found bending the whole of our attention to
subjects which are even incapable of bestowing any
real or substantial good.

It was the be^t curiosity that ever actuated the
mind of Zaccheus, when it made him earnestly seek
to see Jesus, Luke xix. 3, It was the most noble
desire that had intluenceil the hearts of those Greeks
who came wishing to see the Lord of life and glory
Jtdm xxii. 21.

convinced sinner! that feelest the burden of thy
guilt, as the atonement for thy transgressions.

fearful Christian ! who are doubting on account
of thy weakness, and standest in peculiar need of
persevering grace, look to Jesus, as unto one who is
not only able to snatch souls from destruction ; but is
as mighty to preserve, as he is to restore : and willing
to heli), as he is luiuhtv to save.

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O temptod soul ! who art bowed down by the sug-
gestioiis of satan, and weakened by the unbeHef of
thy own heart, look to Jesus, not merely as the man
of sorrows, and acquainted witli grief (though that
may prove thy condort,) but as the Lord God Om-
nipotent, who reigneth to quell thy foes, and deliver
thy soul.

O aged saint ! who art daily expecting (after having
gone a tedious pilgrimage below) to be called to enter
into the mansions of eternal rest, look to Jesus, and
remember, to him whom thou seest as through a glass
darkly, you shall shortly see face to face, and triumph
in his love for ever.

And O, my soul ! what shall I say to thee : thou
art but yet young in the ways of God, and art not
acquainted with many of satan's devices; perhaps
thou hast got innumerable difficulties to encounter
with before you come to })ass over Jordan — look to
Jesus ! Yes, my blessed Sa\ iour ! let me look to
thee ! for

In thy presence I can conquer,

1 can suffiir, I can die ;
Far from thee 1 faint and languish —
O my Saviour ! keep me nigh.
And when ] see thy face in the bright realms above,
I'll ever praise thee in more pure and perfect strains.

R L .

Tin; TllREi: WAUMNGS.

nf^HE tree of deepest root is found,
JL Least willing still to quit the grounaj
Twas therefore said by ancient sages.

That love of life increased with years
So much that in our latter staijres
When |)ain grows shar[) and sickness rages

The greatest love of life appear?"'.

no look to

379

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding day ;
Death call'd aside the jocund groom,
And stept into another room,
And looking grave, — " you must," says he,
" Quit your sweet bride and come with me."
" With you ! and quit my Susan's side!
With you," the hapless husband cried :
" Young as I am — 'tis monstrous hard —
Besides, in truth, I'am not prepar'd ;
My thoughts on either matters go,
This is my wedding night you know."
What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger ;
So Death at last his prisoner spared,

And left to live a little longer.
Yet called up a serious look,
The hour-glass ireml)led while he spoke,
•* Neighbour," he said, " farewell ; no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour :
And further to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three sercral iVdrnhujs you shall have
Before you are sunnnoned to the grave;
Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey.
And grant a kind reprieve,
In hopes you'll have no more to say.
But wiien I call again this way.

Well-pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

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What next tlie liero of our tale befel,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse

The willing nnise shall tell. —
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of death so near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few.
He passed his hours in peace ;
But while he viewed his wealth increase.
While thus along life's dusty road,
Thf! beaten tract content he trod.
Old Time whose health no mortal spares
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now one night in musing mood,

As all alone he sat.

The unwelcome messenger of fate.
Once more before him stood.
Half killed with anger and surprise,
" So soon returned !" old Dohson cries,
"So soon dost call it!" Death rei)lies,
" Surely, my friend, you're l)ut in jest.

Since I was here before,
*Tis six and thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore."
" So much the worse." the clown rejoined ;
" To spare the aged would be kind :
However, see your search be legal ;
And your authority — is regal :
Else you are come on a fool's errand.
With but a secretary's warrent.
Besides you promised me three warnings,
Which 1 have look'd for nights and mornings;
But for the loss of time and ease
I can recover damages."

381

" I know," cries Death, " that at the best,

I seldom am a welcome guest ;

But don't be captious, friend, at last.

I little thought you'd still be able

To stump about your farm and stable :

Your years have run to a great length,

I wish you joy of all your strength.'

"Hold says the farmer, " not so fast,

I have been lame these four years past."

" And no great wonder," Death replies,

However you still keep your eyes ;

And sure to see ones loves and friends,

For legs and arms would make amends."

" Perhaps," says Dobson, '* so it might,

^>ut I have lately lost my sight."

" This is a shocking story, faith !

But there's some comfort still," says Death :

" Each strives your sadness to remove :

I warrant you hear all the news."

" There's none," cries he, " and if they were,

I'm grown so deaf I could not hear."

*' Nay then," the spectre stern rejoined,

"Tiiese are unwarrantable yearnings,

If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

You've had your three sufficient warnings ;

So come along, no more we'll part," —

He said, and touch'd him with his dart;

And now old Dobson turning pale.

Yields to his fate, — so ends my tale.

EXTRACTS FROM MR. BAXTER'S CERTAINTY OF THE
WORLD OF SPIRITS.

THE Earl of Orrery told me, that Colonel Ven-
ables, (then going to Hispaniola, with the
soldiers that were there repulsed and took Jamaica)
had a soldier in his army that came out of Ireland,
and was under Colonel Hill. That this soldier looked

382

pale and sad, and pined away, but the cause was
unknown : at last he came to Colonel Hill with this
confession, viz. That he had been a servant in Eng.
land, to one that carried stoclvings and such like ware
about to sell, and, for his money, he had murdered
his master, and buried him in such a place; and fly.
ing into Ireland, enlisted himself his soldier, and
that for a long time, whenever he lay alone, some-
thing like a headless man stood by his bed side, say.
ing to him. Wilt thou yet confess ? And in this case
of fear he had contiiuied, till lately it appeared to
him when he had a bed-fellow, and said as before,
Wilt thou yet confess? And now seeing no hope of
concealing it any longer, he confessed. And his going
to Hispaniola was his punishment, instead of death.

ABOUT nine or ten years since, in the house of
Mrs. Hieron, of Honyton, widow, there hap-
pened this strange instance.

This widow Hieron, a person of good quality,
kept a mercer's shop. She had a maid servant^
Elizabeth Broker, who sold small wares in a stall
before her door. On Saturday (being the market-
day) a certain woman of Honyton, came to the said
Elizabeth Broker, and asked her for a pin. The
maid readily gave her one from her sleeve ; but this
did not satisfy her, for she would have one of a larger
sort, out of a p-.pev that hung up to sell. The maid
told her those pins were not hers to give, slie must
ask her mistress; and when she had orders, she
would give her one. The woman asked her again
arid again, and the maid as often refused coni plying
with her request. At length the woman went away
m a great rage, telling the maid she should hear far-
ther Irom her, and that she would ere long wish she
had given her the pin, with many other threatening
speeches. The next iky (being the Lord's day)

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while her mistress and the rest of the family were at
dinner, and the maid waiting at the table, on a sud-
den she gave a very great cry saying, she had a pin
thrust into her thigh, which few of the family believ-
ed, knowing there was no person in the room beside
herself, and her family, who all sat at meat, she only
standing to attend them. Her mistress arose from
tabic, and Mr. Samuel Hieron's wife, who was then
living. She was forced to go to bed, and they sent
for a midwife who had skill in sores and wounds.
On her arrival, she saw there had been some small
hurt in the skin, but the pin was out of sight ; and
feeling so as to understand what it was, or exactly
where, she applied a plaster of Venice turpentine all
that night, and many other things the next day, but
tlie pain was still the same. On Tuesday they ad-
vised with Mr. Salter, a skilful apothecary, whose
counsel they followed, but all in vain. On Wednes-
day, the same week, they, with great trouble and pain,
hrought her to Exeter, and lodged her at Mr. John
Hopkin's, a worthy minister of the gospel. They
sent me to see her, and to advise what to do to ease
her pain. Nothing would satisfy the maid, but
cutting it out, which was somewhat difficult, be-
cause it was hard to find the place exactly where to
make the incision : but the courage of the patient
did greatly promote the operation. I made a large
incision, according to the length of the nmscles; and
though I could find no sign of the pin upon the first
incision, yet by putting rny incision-knife obliquely,
I felt the pin, and brought it out near an inch with-
in tlie skin, on which she had great ease, and in fif-
lecp lays the sore was entirely cured. This opera-
tion *v'as performed in the presence of Mrs. Hopkin,
Mrs. Gold, Mrs. Ford, and many worthy persons of
good reputation. And the truth of that I give under
my hand, this 6th day of September, 1681.

ANTHONY SMITH, Surgeon.

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IN the town Beckington, in Somersetshire, lived
Mary Hill, a maid, of about eighteen years of
age, who, having lived very nnieh in the neglect of
her duty to (iod, was some time before Michaelmas
was twelve months taken very ill, and being seized
with violent fits, began to vomit up about two hun-
dred crooked pins. This drew a nmmerous concourse
of people to see her : to whom, when in her fits, she
constantly allirn)ed, that she saw against the wall of
the room wherein she lay, an old woman, mimed Eli-
zabeth Carrier,

About a fortnight after, she began to vomit up
nails, pieces of nails, pieces of brass, handles of
spoons, and so continued to do for the sjjace of six
months, and upwards; and in her fits, she sai I there
appecued to her an «)ld woman, named Margerv
Coombes, and one Ann Moore, who also by a war-
rant fr<.m two Justices of the [)eace, were ai)[)re-
hended and brought to tiie sessions held at JJrewton.
The persons bound over to give evidence, were Su-
sannah Belton, and Ann Holland, who upon their
oaths, deposed, that they hooked out of the navel of
the said Mary Hill, as she lay in a dead fit, crooked
pins, small nails, and small pieces of brass, which
were produced in court before the Judge, and from
him handed to the Jury to look upon them. Where-
upon Mr. Francis Jesse and Mr. Christopher Brew-
er declared, that they had seen the said Mary Hill
vomit up, at several times, crooked pins, nails, and
pieces of brass, which they also j)ro(luced in open
court; and to the end, they might be ascertained
it was no imposture, they declared' they had searched
her mouth with their fingers before she vomited.

Ui)on which the court thought fit to call for me,
who am the nnnister of the parish, to testify the
knowledge of the matter, which I did to this effect;
that I had seen her at several times, after ha\ing
given her a little small beer, vomit up crooked pins,
nails, and pieces of brass. That to prevent supposi-

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tion of a cheat, 1 had caused lier to he brought to a
window, and liaving looked into her mouth, I searched
it witli my finger, as I did the beer before slie drank
it. This I did, tiiat I mighi not be wanting in cir-
;.unistantial answers, to what my Lord and the court
niight propose. ^ , i

I well remenibei a gentleman on a Saturday came
to my house (iuco()nito) to know of me the truth of
tiie country report about this maid, having seen some
of tiie nails, kc. that she had vomited up. 1 told
hitn it was very true, and if he would stay in town
till the morning, he might see it himself, for his own
satisfaction. This he did, and early in the morning,
was called to see her. But because beer was not
given her when she wanted it, she lay in a very de-
plorable condition, till i)ast two in the afternoon;
when with much diihculity she brought up a piece
of brass, which the said gentleman took away with
him. Though before the said piece of brass came up,
he told me he was satisfied of the truth of the thing,
because it was impossible for any mortal to counterfeit
her miserable condition. She sometimes lying in a
dead fit, with her tongue swelled out of her head, and
then reviving, she would fall to vomiting, but nothing
came up till about two o'clock in the afternoon. Nay,
so curious was he to anticipate any cheat, that he
searched her mouth himself, gave her the beer, held
her up in his hand, and likewise the bason into which
she vomited, and continued with her all this time
without eating and drinking, which was about eight
hours, that he might be an eye-witness of the truth
of it. Nay. farther, he found the maid living only
with a brother and three poor sisters, all young per-
sons, and very honest, and the maid kept at the charge
of the parish, were sufficient testimonies they were
ijicapable of making a cheat of it. The gentlemaii I
now mentioned, was (as I afterwards learnt) Squire
Player, of Castle Cary.

After the assizes, she was turned home, but she
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grew worse tlian ever, by vomiting of nails, pieces
of glass, &c. So that one day, she being taken des-
perately ill, I was sent for to pray with her, and com'-
passionating the deplorableness of her condition, I
at last resolved to take her into my own house, where
in a short time the vomitij;g ceased; though for
some apace her distorting fits followed her. But
blessed be God, she is now, and has been for a con^
siderable time in very good health, and fit for
service.

MAY HILL, Minister of
Beckmgton, in the County of Somerset
ApriUth, 1694.

FROM THE DUKE OF LAUDERDALE.

ABOUT thirty years ago, when I was a boy at
school, there was a poor woman who lived near
the town of Duns in the Hers; and Mr John
Weems, then minister of the place, was persuaded
she was posF. f^ I. I have heard him many time:
speak with mv ' - ^ aboKt it, and both of them
concluded it a .eal possession. Mr. Weens visited
her often, and being convinced of the truth of the
thing, he, with some xther ministers, applie( to the
king's privy council for a warrant to keep days of
humiliation for her. But the bishops being tl^en in
power, would not allow any fusts to be kept. 1 will
not trouble you with many circumstances: I shall
only mention one, which I think will evince a real
possession. Th~ report being spread in t.ie country,
a knight of the name of Forbes, who lived in the
north of Scotland, being come to Edinburgh, meet-
ing there with a minister of tlie north, and both of
them being desirous to see the woman, the minister
jtiTii^u iixv iviii^iu, iL» my iumers house (which is
within ten or twelve miles of Duns) from whence they

387

went to see the woman. They found her a poor
ignorant creature ; and seeing nothing extraordinary,
the minister said to the knight, Nondum audiviinus
spiritum loquentem; presently a voice came out of
the woman's mouth, Audis loquentem ^ audis loquen."
tm : this put the minister into some amazement. He
took off his hat, and said, Misereater Deus pecca-
toris : the voice presently out of the woman's mouth
said, Die peccatricisy die peccatricis ; whereupon they
both came out of the house fully satisfied, took horse
immediately, and returned to my father's house,
where they related the affair. Many more particu-
lars might be ascertained, but the above Latin criti-
cism in a most illiterate, ignorant woman, where
there was no pretence to dispossessing, is evidence
enough.

As to houses being disturbed by noises, I can in-
stance one that was troubled therewith, since I was
a married man.

Within four miles of Edinburgh, there lived an
aged minister: his son is now Pastor of the same
place. Their house was troubled with noises in a
very extraordinary manner, which the family, and
many neighbours (who for several weeks used to
watch with them) did ordinarily hear. It troubled
them most on the Saturday night, and the night be-
fore their weekly lecture-day. Sometimes they heard
as if all the locks in the house, and doors and chests
flew open; yea, their cloths which were at night
looked up in trunks and chests, they found hanging
about the walls in the morning. Once they found
their best linen taken out, the table covered with it,
napkins as if they had been used, yea and liquor in
the cups, as if Uie company had been at meat. The
rumbling was extraordinary. The good old man
commonly called his family to prayer when it was
most troublesome ; and immediately it was converted
into gentle knocking, like the modest knocking of
^ finger : hut as soon as prayer was done, they heard

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388

such excessive knocking, as if a beam had been hea-
ved against the floor. There was never either voice
heard or apparition seen : but one thing is remark-
able : it is veiy common in Sccnland to have a half
cannon bullet in the chinuiey-corner, on which they
break their great coals. A servant-maid in the house
being accustomed to the rumblings, said, That if
the devil troubled them that night, she would braia
him; so she took the half cannon bullet into bed-
the noise did not fail to awake her, nor did she fail
in her design, but took up the great bullet, and with
a threatening, threw it as she thought, on the floor,
but the bullet was never seen any more. All these
particulars I have had from the"^ minister. I was
not in the country myself, at the time this happened,
but it was confirmed to me by many other witnesses •
arid my father's steward lived "^then in a house of mine
within a mile of the place, and sent his servants con-
stantly thither; his son now serves me, who also
knows it.

THE REV. iMR. DAVIS'S ACCOUNT OF CORPSE-CANDLES,

IN WALES.

THESE in our language, we call Canhywllau
Cyrth, Corpse-candles. We call them can-
dles, bectiuse that light doth much resemble a ma-
terial candle-light: saving, that when one comes
near them, they vanish ; but presently appear again.
If it be a light candle, pale or bluish, then follows
the corpse either of an abortive, or some infant; if
a big one, then the corpse of some one come of age;
if there be seen two or tln-ee or more, some big, some
small together, then so many, and such corpses toge-
ther. If two candles come from diverse places,
and be seen to meet, the corpses will do the like;
if any of these candles be seen to turn sometimes a
little out of the way that ieadeth unto the church.

the following corpse
very place, for the avoK

'389

will be found to turn in that
ling of some dirty lane. &c.

When I was about fifteen years of age, dwelling at
Lenylar, late at night, some iieighboiirs saw one of
these candles hovering up and down along the bank
of the river, until they were weary in belioldmg ; at
last they left it so, and went to bed. A few weeks
after, a damsel from Montgonicryshire, came to see
her friends, who dwelt on the other side of the river
Istwyth, and thought to ford it at the place where the
light was seen ; but being dissuaded by some lookers
on, (by reason of a flood) she walked up and down
along the bank, where the aforesaid candle did, wait-
ing for the falling of the water: which at last she
took ; and was drowned therein.

Of late, my Sexton's wife, an aged, understand-
ing woman, saw from her bed, a little bluish candle
upon her table-end : within two or three days after,
comes a fellow in, inquiring for her husband, and
taking something from under his cloak, clapt it down
directly upon the table-end, where she had seen the
candle, and what was it, but a dead-born child!
Another time, the same woman saw such another
candle upon the other end of the same table, within
a few days after, a weak child, by myself newly
christened, was brought into the sexton's house,
where it presently died ; and when the sexton's wife
who was then abroad, came home, she found the
woman shrouding the child, on that other end of the
table, where she had seen the candle. On a time,
myself and a kinsman coming from our school in
England, and being three or four hours benighted,
ere we could reach home, saw such a light, which
coming from a house we well knew, held its course
(btit not directly) in the highwa\ to chiwch ; shortly
after, the eldest son in that house died, and steered
the same cour.se. Myself, and ni} wife one e\ening
saw such a light, coming to the church, from her
midwife's house, and within a month, she herself did

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follow : at which time, my wife told me a story of
her own mother, Mrs. Catharine Wyat, an eminent
woman in the town of Tenby, that one evening, be-
ing in her bed chamber, she saw two lights just upon
her belly, which she essayed to strike off with her
hand, but could not ; whithin a while they vanished
of themselves. Not long after she was delivered of
two dead-born children : long since, there happened
the like in my own house, to a neighbour's wife.
And not long since, a neighbour's wife of mine
being great with child, and coming in at her own
door, met two candles, a little and a big one; and
a little after, falling in labour, she and her child both
died.

About thirty-four, or thirty -five years since, one
Jane Wyat, my wife's sister, being nurse to Baronet
Rudd's three oldest childre. , and (the Lady being
deceased) the lady controller of that house, going
late into a chamber where the maid servants lay
saw there no less than five of these lights together!
It happened awhile after, the chamber being newly
plastered, and a great grate of coal fire therein
kindled to hasten the drying up of the plastering,
that five of the maid servants went there to bed, as
they were wont; but in the morning, ;hey were all
dead, being surtocated in their sleep with tne steam of
the newly tempered lime and coal. This was at
Langathen in Carmaerthenshire.

h-:imi

ABOUT thirty-three or thirty-four years since,
returning home (on a Tuesday) from Cardigan,
being as light as noon, there seemed twice or thrice
from behind me, on my right side between my
shoulder and my hat, to fly a little whitish thing
about the bigness of a walnut, and that once in
seventy or eighty paces. At first I took no notice
of It. By degrees it waxed redish, and as the night

3#1

came on, appeared like pure fire both for light and
colour. I turned about to see from whence it came,
and whether it would flash in my face, but I could
see nothing; yet wlien I turned homewards it flashed
as before, till I came to a village called Lanrislid,
where as yet I did not intend to lodge. In passing
by a house the fire flashed upon or very near the
threshold, and there I think it lodged, for I saw it
no more. I still thought of going home ; but on re-
flecting that hereby I might tempt God, I returned
to the farthest lodging in the town ; and after a little
rest, I told my host of the vision. The next day he
communicated the same to some persons who were
going to the sessions, by which means the judge be-
came acquainted with it. At which sessions one John
William Loyd, gentleman, who lived near Glasterig
fell sick, and in going home was taken with such a
violent paroxysm, that he could ride no farther than
the house where I left the fiie, and he died about four
days after. Some candles have been seen to come to
my church, within these three weeks, and the corpse
not long after.

J. D.

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ABOUT the year 1678, I knew a young woman
who was niece to Alderman Arundel, in Dublin.

In her said uncle's house she was pursued with
very terrible noises ; as by voilent strokes on the
wainscots and chests, in the chambers she frequented.

The blows were heard throughout the house, and
were so troublesome, as to occasion the removal of
the young woman to a house near Smithfield, in
Dublin, not without hopes that the disturbance
might thereby cease : but the noise pursued her
thither, and was no more heard in her former dwel-
lins:.

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Here she continued as long as the owner of that
house would bear the resort of people, and terror of
those sudiieii and frequent claps.

From this phice she was removed to a house in
Patrick-street. Here slie met with the same exercise
and the noise was generally about two o'clock in tiie
morning greater than at any other times.

Several nights were spent in prayer with her by Mr.
Cox, Dr. Roles, Mr. Chambers. Mr. Keys, &c. who
with many others, assured me, they heard the said
blows in the room where they prayed, sometimes on a
great chest, sometimes on the wall, &c.

Mr. Cliambers and Mr. Keys were employed there
the night before I had promised to be with her.

The riext night, Mr. Cox, having often heard the
said noises; and often prayed with the woman, was
desirous to acconipany me. There were many people,
as usual, sat up with us ; I preached from Heb. ii. 18.'
and contrived to be at prayer at the time when the
noise used to be greatest.

When I was at prayer, the woman kneeling by me
catched hold of my arm, and afterwards told us she
saw a terrible sight: but it pleased God there was no
noise at all. And from that time, God graciously
freed her from all that disturbance.

These noises lasted about three months, and she
was much enfeebled in body, and almost distracted
thereby ; but soon recovere(i U[)on the removal thereof.

DANIEL WILLIAMS.

LORD bacon's apparition TO LORD MIDDLETON,

As related by Mr. Aubrey.

SIR William Dugrlale informed several gentlemen
that Major-general Middleton, afterwards crea-
ted Lord, went into the Highlands of Scotland, to

endeavour to mnkp a nnrtu {'of K'ir.o- r'Uo.-l.

1 1-' I ill

)vvner of. that
and terror of

a house in
ime exercise,
clock in tile

h her by Mr.

ys, &c. wlio
ard tlie said
netirnes on a

ployed tliere
1 her.

en heard tlie
voman, was
lany people,
Heb. ii. 18.
lie when the

eling by me

1 told us she

here was no

graciously

IS, and she
t distracted
3val thereof.

ILLIAMS.

►DLETON,

gentlemen
vards crea-
Jotland, to

ICC J., rxn

old gentleman that was second sighted, met him
and told liim, that his attempt, though laudable,
would not be successful ; and that besides, they would
put the king to death: and that several other at-
tempts would be made, but all in vain, but that his
son would come in, although it would be long first,
and should at last be restored.— This nobleman had
a great friendship with the Laird Bocconi, and they
ma^de an agreement, that the first of them that died
should appear to the other in extremity. It happened
that the Lord Middleton was taken prisoner at the
battle of Worcestor, and sent up to London : while
he was confined in the Tower, under three locks.
One dav in the morning, lying pensive in his bed,
Bocconi appeared to him. My Lord Middleton asked
if he were dead or alive? He replied, that he was
dead, and had been so many years, but that he was
come to revive his hopes, for that in a very short time,
within three days, he should escape: this fell out
as it was foretold, and he did so in his wife's clothes.
When he had performed his message, he lightly tript
about the room like a vapour, then gathered up and
vanished.

This account Sir William Dugdale had from the
Bishop of Edinburgh, who had inserted it in his Mis-
cellanies, which is now deposited, with other books
in the Museum at Oxford.

An account of the Melancholy Death of one Joseph
M ge, of the Parish of S y, near Wolver-
hampton, Siaffonkhire, some years ogo.

HE lived estranged from God, in a course of open
rebellion and actual transgression against him ;
violating his law, trampling upon his authority, and
adding iniquity unto iniquity ; walking in the ways
of his evil heart, and in the sight of his^eyes; not
considering "that for ail these things God would
13 3e

■

'■'i

! i

bringhim into judgement;" and that he was"trea
su ring up for h msel wrath against the day of wra^h "
featan having bhnded his eyes and hardened his hear't
I may be necessary to observe here, that amZst

"ct^ofToXfe"'"' '"""^"' " ''' ""''' P--
When he was near thirty or forty years of aee it
pleased God to afflict him with a violent fever, whe"
there was 1, tie hope of his recovery. He now b?
gan to be alarmed; his conscience, which tHl th

pan7/oftllZrn'''"^j'''^' y^'' "'^ """"^^abl
Sv If ^ • ^ ^°''' T •""' • ''"'' *e keenest sen-

sranTd P 'J^'^'P'"*''."' *'"™«' punishment, eon-
stramed him to cry out in the bitterest anguish- not
so much for the pardon of his sins, as to hf ve hi; li"
spared; for the thought of dwelling with everastin,
burnings (which was all he dreadid) was what Se
could not endure. "Oh. (said he) that God would

mno";h; "%'°"^"'-^ "^""^^ would"!

newLn-" M "'Y'';-" •" '"■"• ""'l become a
new man ! Afany such things as these he uttered

when he thought death was approaching near him
and us terrors took hold of hisMlind; thfn he mad^
the most solemn vows and protesta-ions to forsakThis
wicked pmetices and cleave unto the Lord v^Hh fu
purpose of heart, upon condition that he would raise
mm up again; promising to part with all his fij-htin-r
cocks and never to be guilty of any of those .iA
he had formerly committed.

It pleased God to grant him a respite, and restore
him m a great measure to his former health ; when
his VICIOUS inclinations returnc.l again, and Ws
words proved like water spilt upon the gro^d,o
like the morning clouds, and early dew ; for he

feTand ,1 '"'' '"'' "" 'T "^ '!>« ''orrors he had

lelt and the engagements he hai! entered into. The

lirst time he went abroad after his recovery was to

•" nv.g.juOiiihuuU where he had a hatch

395

of chickens, to appoint where they should be trained
for the purpose of fighting : but God met him in the
way, and he was seized with a relapse of his disorder :
His guilty horrors returned with redoubled violence,
80 that the last state of this miserable man was worse
than the first : he had not the least glimmering of
hope, but languishing in the most fearful torments,
as though the flames of hell were already kindled up-
on him : he constantly cried out, " Hell fire for ever !
hell fire for ever!" until he expired in the sharpest
agonies. Thus he died with no other prospect than
that of a certain fearful looking for of wrath and fiery
indignation, to be showered upon him throughout the
ages of eternity.

Will's Spiritual Register, Vol. iii. 1795.

ON SEEING A YOUNG MAN FAR GONE IN A DECLINE.

liiVxREWELL, ye sweet and flowery scenes,
JT 1 take my last long leave of you ;
Ye purling rills, and fertile plains.
With all that's gay, adieu ! adieu !

The bloommg tree, the leafy bower,
May charm the man of health possest ;

But none of these have got the power
To cheer the soul with sickness press*d.

My short-lived pleasure fades each day !

To me, can earth give comfort more.
When healtli and hope of life's away.

And death stands knocking at my door ?

The lone church yard doth suit me best.
Where the long grass luxuriant grows ;

There shortly I shall sleep at rest,
And there my weary eyes shall close.

396

O come, dear Jesus, with thy joys.
And cheer my pensive drooping mind;

MaKe me forget departed toys,

And all my bleeding wounds upbind.

Paint fair the bliss beyond the skies,
Show death of his dread sting bereaved •

Show me, that though I fall— I'll rise, '
And though once lost, yet now am saved.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE, AFFLICTION, TJIRRORS, AND
AWFUL DEATH, OF A REMARKABLE APOSTATE.

(Concluded from paije 358.;

THE day following I saw him again. This was
a pamfid visit. His language and visage were
of the most dreadful kind. Some of his expressions
were so diabolical, that I dare not repeat them. I
said to him, « William, your pain is inexpressible."
He groaned, and then with a loud voice cried out,
H^termty will explain my torments ; I will tell you
again, I am damned :— I will not have salvation."
we desired that he would pray for mercy : but he ex-
claimed :— - Nothing for me but hell :— come eter-
nal torments ! You will soon see I eJiall drop into the
flames of the pit." I said, " Do ask the Lord to be
merciful unto you." Upon which he called me to him
as it to speak to me ; but as soon as I came within
his reach, he struck me on the head with all his njidit,
and gnashing his teeth, cried out, "God will not hear
your prayer."

While we were on our knees praying for him,
he shouted aloud, God will confomul you that you
cannot piay, O God hear them not; for 1 will
not be saved :" His words were accompanied with
the strongest marks of rage and inveterate mpline.
and he cried out, " I hate every thing that God has

397

inadc! ; only 1 have no hatred to the devil ; 1 wish to
be with him !" He seemed to he in his element while
speaking of the devil as the sovereign lord, who might
shortly reign supreme ! These things greatly distres-
sed us, and we were afraid that he was given up to a
reprobate mind. D. B.

On the 21st, having returned from the country,
I went again to see William P. I found him in the
most deplorable condition. He charged me with
telling him a lie, in my last visit, by saying, that I
believed there was salvation for him. I replied,
that I had not told him a lie, but verily believed
there was salvation if he would accept of it. He
was now in a tempest of rage and despair : his looks,
his agonies, ai 1 dreadful words, are not to be ex-
pressed. Speaking to him of mercy, or a Saviour,
seemed to increase the horrors of his mind. When
I mentioned the power of the Almighty to save, —
*' God, he said, is almighty to damn me ! He hath
already sealed my damnation ! and I long to be in
hell." While two or three of us were praying for
him, he threw at us any thing on v/hich he could
lay his hands. I observed to-day, that his state was
an awful confirmation of the truth, and justice, and
being of God : — Of an immortal soul in man ; — and
of the evil of sin. Who but a righteous God could
inflict such punishments? What but sin desevres
them? What but an intelligent immortal soul could
bear them.

Towards the evening of this day, I. T. a pious young
man, went to see him, and gave me the following
account: "When I entered the room, he seemed
to me the most terrible sip-ht I had ever seen. I asked
him how he did? he answered, 'Full of hell fire.'
I entreated him to trust in the Lord, and he would
have mercy upon him. But he desired me to hold
my tongue or leave the room. That night, I, and
three other friends, sat ur> with him. We nraved
most of the night; but he told us, he had sinned

■M

I'll

ii- » ;

p. if

'Kill I

3d8

away his day of grace. Next morning I got a minis-
ter of the church to visit him. He told the minister
It was too late, for his day of grace was past. The
minister prayed with him : And afterwards upon a
friend asking, if he was any better ? He made no an-
swer, but spit in his face." Next day, when I called
to see William P. I found the dreadful tempest
of dehance and rage had ceased: he now appeared
full ol timidity and fear,— in perpetual dread of the
powers of darkness; apprehensive of their coming
to drag him away to the regions of misery. But no
marks of penitent contrition appeared about him
He said he was full of blasphemy ; he often laid his
hand upon his mouth, lest it should force its way out
He complained that it had come out, and that more
would force its way.

"In the afternoon of the 24th," says Mr. Bar-
rowclough, " I called upon William P. For some
time he would not speak to me, but after repeatedly
asking him, how he felt his mind? He replied
*13ad, bad.' I said, 'God can make it better.'-^
What! make me better!— I tell you no. I have
done the horrible deed, and it cannot be undone
again— I feel I must declare to you, what it is, for
whicii 1 am suffering the pains I feel. The Holy
and Just one! I have crucified the Son of God
afresh, and counted the blood of the covenant an
unholy thing! O that wicked and horrible deed of
blasphemy against the Holy Ghost, which I knoiv
1 have committed !— It is for this I am suffering the
torture and horrors of guilt, and a sense of the wrath
of God.

He then suddenly looked up towards the chamber
floor, and started back; he trembled, gnashing his
teeth, and cried out, *Do you not see? Do you
not see him ? He is coming to me ! The devil will
fetch me! I know he will. Come, O devil, and
take me !' At this time bmtlipr F:«tr,vir «o^^ ;.,♦-
the room, to whom William said, 'George, I am lost

399

got a minis-
tlie minister
i past. The
irds upon a
made no an-
hen I called
ful tempest
w appeared
read of the
leir coming
y. But no
about him.
ten laid his
Its way out.
i that more

s Mr. Bar-

For some
repeatedly
le replied,
t better.'—
o. I have
be undone
at it is, for
The Holy,
>n of God
)venant an
le deed of
h I know
ffering the
the wrath

le chamber
ashing his
Do you
! devil will
levil, and
came mio
I am lost

I am damned!' Brother Eskrick replied, * Do
not say so, but pray earnestly to God to give you
true repentance. And who cu^ tell but the Lord
may deliver you this day from the power of sin and
Saum.' He answered, ♦ I cannot pray : No : No :
I will not pray. Do not I tell you there is no salva-
tion for me? I want nothing but hell.' Some time
after he had said, * Undone for ever ! Doomed to
eternal pain! To the burning flame!' When all
on a sudden he sprung up from his seat and cried
out, 'Your prayers will avail nothing: God will
not hear you.' However brother Eskrick prayed
with him. During the time of prayer, when any
petition was asked for him, he suddeidy said, ' I will
not have any favour at his hands.' Many other
dreadful expressions he made use of, which are not
proper to be repeated.

On the 25th, I called to see William P. and asked
him how he was? * Very bad,' he answered, 'both
in body and soul, there is nothing good about me.'
I said to him. ' William, if God is willing to save
you for Christ's sake, and if you knew that he was
so, would you not be willing to be saved ?' * No •*
he answered, ' I have no willingness, nor any desire
to be saved. You will not believe me when I tell
you, it is all over. If I had a million of worlds, I
would give them all to undo what I have done.' I
told him I was glad to hear that confession from him,
and hoped that through the violence of his terrors he
had mistaken his case, and imagined against him-
self what was not true. * I tell you,' he replied,
* I know hell burns within me now : and the moment
my soul quits the body, I shall be in such torments
as none can conceive ! I have denied the Saviour !
I have blasphemed the Most High ! and have said,
Oh that T were stronger than God !' He was quiet
unwilling that I should attempt to pray for him. I
visited hiUi the next morning, when he appeared to
be hardeaed beyond all feeling of remorse or fear.

■ i ,

i!! !|

•

400

His violent agitations, droad and horror, [lad ceased
their rage. His infidel principles returned upon
him, and he gave full place to them, and gloried'in
them.

On my next visit, after a little conversation, he
spoke with the greatest contempt of the Lord Jesus
Christ; and derided his merits, and the virtue of his
atoning hlood. The words he used are too delesta-
ble and abominable to be repeated. The day fol-
lowing he appeared too much in the same state of
mind, full of a diabolical spirit. Hell and damna-
tion were his principle theme, and apparently without
terror."

The following is a short account of what passed
in two or three visits which the young man mention-
ed before, made. "May the 1st, I again visited
William P. when I asked him Iiow he did P he said,
'No better. I have denied the Lord Jesus Cinist|
and the word of God. This is my hell !' He then
took hold of his tongue, and said, ' Oh this damned
tongue of mine !' Soon after he smote upon his breast,
and said, * Oh this danmed hypocritical heart. My
pain is all within ; if this were removed I should be
better. Oh what a terrible thing it is ! Once I might,
and would not ; now I would and must not !' He sat
a little while, and then cast his eyes upon me with
the most affecting look I ever saw, and shook his
head. At this sight I could not refrain from tears.
At another time he said, ' I attempted to prav, but
when I had said a word or two, I was so confounded,
I could say no more.' At this time one of his old
companions in sin came to see him : William said to
him, * I desire you will go away ; for I have ruined
myself with being too much in such company as
yours.' The man was unwilling to depart, but Wil-
liam insisted on his going."

'* Some time after, I sat up with him affain, with
some other friends. We would have prayed with
him in the night, but he would npt suffer us : he

urter us: he

401

aaid, it (Hd liim hurt, and added, *Iam best con-
tent when I am cursing ; I curse frequently to my-
self, and it gives me ease. God has made a public
example of me for a warning to others; and if
they will not take it, everlasting misery will be their

portion!' ,

Mav 19ih. I have visited him several tmies smce
the last mentioned. In all my visits I have found
him perfectly averse to prayer, and to every thing
that is good.*^ Not the least mark of conviction, nor
the most distant desire for salvation. When I at-
tempted to pray at one time, he said, * Do not pray
to Jesus Christ for me : he can do me no good ; nor
is there any being that can.' When 1 began to pray,
he blasphemed in a most horrible manner, and dared
the Almighty to do his worst to him, and send him to

On the 24th, his state was not to be described.
His eyes darted hate and distraction. He grinned
at me, and told me how he despised and hated my
prayers : at the same time he exclaimed.—* Curses on

you all.'

On the 26th, I visited him for the last tmie, I saw
his dissolution was at hand. My soul pitied him.
My painful feelings on his account cannot be ex-
pressed. I spoke to him with tenderness and plain-
ness about the state of his soul and of another world ;
but he answered me with an high degree of displea-
sure : his countenance at the same time was horrible
bevond expression: and with great vehemence he
commanded me to cease speaking to him. I then
told him, it would be the last time that I ever should
see him in this world ; and asked him if he were wil-
ling for me to put up another prayer for him? He
then, with great strength, considering his weakness,
cried out, 'No.' This was the last word which I
heard him speak; I left him, and he died in the
evening.

I had the opportunity of seeing W. P. many times

1$ \ 3 F

i i

402

during his dreadful affliction, and cannot help observ-
ing, that he always clearly understood an argument
when proposed to him, and returned rational answers*
that if he was deranged, the delirium was of a singu-'
lar kind: he was cut off by a slow consumption
which did not seem accompanied with a high degree
of fever. His pain, as he expressed himself, was all
withm ; and that he was made an example of, as a
warning to others.

THE MURDERER DETECTED.

A CERTAIN man who was brought to the bar
of justice, on suspicion of murder, which how^
ever, he knew it was not in the power of human
knowledge to detect ; when he came to hohl up his
hand at the bar, he pleaded not guilty ; and the court
began to be at a loss for proof, nothing but suspicion
and circumstances appearing ; however, such witiies-
ses as they had, they examined as usual ; the witness
standing up, as is customary, upon a little step, to be
visible to the court.

When the court thought they had no more witnes-
ses to examine, and the man in a few moments would
have been acquitted ; but recovering his courage a
little, he stretches out his arm towards the place where
the witnesses usually stood to give evidence upon
trials and pointing with liis hand. My lord, (says he,
aloud) that is not lair, 'tis not according to law, he's
not a legal witness.

The court was surprised, and could not understand
what the man meant; but the judge a man of more
penetration, took tiie hint, and checking some of the
court that olieied to speak, and which would have
perhaps brought the man back again to himself;
Hold, says the judge, the man sees something more
than we do, I begin to understand him ; and then,
speaking to the prisoner :

4()a

Why, says he, is not he a legal witness? I believe
the court will allow his evidence to be good when he
comes to speak.

No, my lord, it cannot be just, it cannot be allow-
ed, says the prisoner (with a confused eagerness in
his countenance, that shewed he had a bold heart but
a guilty conscience.)

Why not, friend, what reason do you give for it?
says tlie judge.

My lord, says he, no man can be allowed to be
witness in his own case ; he is a party, my lord, he
cannot be a witness.

But you mistake, says the judge, for you are in-
dicted at the suit of the king, and the man may be
a witness for the king, as in cases of robbery on the
highway we always allow that the person robbed is a
good witness; and without this the highway-man
could not be convicted : but we shall hear what ha
says, when he is examined.

This the judge spoke with so much gravity, and so
easy and natural, that the criminal at the bar answered,
nay, if you will allow him to be a good witness, then
I am a dead man ; the last words he said with a low-
er voice than the rest, but withal called for a chair to
sit down.

The court ordered him a chair, which if he had not
had, it was thought he would have sunk down at the
bar; as he sat down he was observed to be in a great
consternation, and lifted up his hands several times,
repeating the words, a dead man, a dead man, several
times over.

The judge, however, was at some loss how to act,
and the whole court appeared to be in a strange con-
sternation, though nobody saw any thing but the man
at tiie bar: at length the judge said to him, look you,
Mr. — , calling him by his name, you have but one
way left that I know of, and I'll read it to you out of
the scripture ; and so calling for a bible, he turns to
the book of Joshua, and reads the text, Josh, vii, 19.

i -

'*! I

I ■^-l:M-^

t ii

it ■;

404

"And Joshua said unto Achan, my son, give, i prav
the glory to the Lord God of Israel, and make confes^
sion unto him, and tell me now what thou hast done
hide it not from me." '

Here the judge exhorted him to confess his crime
for he saw, no doubt, an evidence ready to convict
him, and to discover the whole matter against him-
and if he did not confess, heaven would, no doubt'
send witnesses to detect him. '

^ Upon this the self-condemned murderer burst out
mto tears and sad lamentations for his own miserable
condition, md made a full confession of his crime-
and when he had done, gave the following account of
his case, as to the reasons of his being under such a
surprise, viz. that he saw the murdered person stand-
ing upon the step as a witness, ready to be examined
against him, and ready to shew his throat, which was
cut by the prisoner; and who, as he said, stood star-
ing full upon him, with a frightful countenance: and
this confounded him, as well it might, for it was seen
by no one but himself.

THE DIFFERENT DEGREES OF HEAVENLY GLORY.

(Concluded /ram page 370.)

HE urges them also to great degrees of liberalitv
from the same motive ; 2 Cor. ix. (5. " This
I say, he that soweth sparingly, shall reap also spar-
ingly; and he which soweth bountifully, shall also
reap bountifully." Which words may reasonablv be
construed to signify the blessings of the life to come,
as well as the blessings of the present life; for this
apostle, speaking of the same duty of liberality ex-
presses the same encouragement under the same meta-
phors ; Gal. vi. 6-^9. " Let him that is taught in the
word, communicate to him that teacheth in all good

405

things. Be not deceived, God is not mocked; for
whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap ; for
he that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap cor-
ruption ; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the
spirit reap life everlasting. And let us not be weary
in well doing ; for in due season we shall reap if we
faint not." When God distributes the riches of his
glory among the saints in heaven, he pours them out
in a large and bountiful manner, upon those who have
distributed the good things of this life bountifully to
the poor; but he rewards the narrow-souled Christian
with a more sparing hand.

With the same design does the apostle encourage
Christians, to great watchfulness against sin, as well
as ministers to a solicitous care o* their doctrine and

preaching; 1 Cor. iii. 12 15. "If any man

build gold, silver, or pecious stones, upon the true
foundation, Jesus Christ," and raise a glorious su-
perstructure of truth and holiness, " he shall re-
ceive a reward" answerable to his skill and care in
building, *' for his work shall stand, when it is
"tried by the fire of the judgement day." But if he
"build wood, hay, and stubble upon it," evil in-
ferences, and corrupt practices, or trifles, fruitless
controversies, idle speculations, and vain ceremonies,
"his work shall be burnt and he shall sutler lo^s,"
shall obtain a far less recompence of his labour:
Yet, since he has " laid Christ for the foundation,"
and has taught and practised the fundamental doc-
tnnes and duties of Christianity, though mingled with
nuich folly and weakness, he himself shall be saved ;"
yet in so hazardous a manner as a man that is saved
by fire, who loses all his goods, and just escapes with
his life.

^ hen you hear Paul, or John, speaking of the
last judgment, they give hints of the same distinction
of rewards, 2 Cor. v. 10. " For we must all appear
before the judgement seat of Christ; that every one
may receive the things done in his body, according

"■I

i«

) ■

1 ■

■t

406

to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad."
Eph. vi. 8. Whatsoever good thing any man doeth
the same shall he receive of the Lord, whether he be
bond or free. Rev. xxii. 12. "Behold; I come
quickly ; and my reward is with me, to give every
man according as his work shall be." Though the
highest and holiest saint in heaven can claim no-
thing there by way of merit (for it is our Lord Jesus
Christ alone, who has purchased all these unknown
blessings) yet he will distribute them according to
the different characters and degrees of holiness vviiich
his saints possessed on earth ; and those larger de-
grees of holiness were also the free gift of God our
Saviour.

I have often represented it to my own thoughts
under this comparison. Here is a race appointed;
here are a thousand different prizes, purchased by
some Prince to be bestowed on the racers: And
the Prince himself gives them food and wine, ac-
cording to what i)ro[)ortion he pleases, to strengthen
them and animate them for the race. Each has a
particular stage appointed for him ; some of shorter,
and some of longer distance. When every racer
comes to his own goal, he receives a prize in most
exact proportion to his speed, diliigence and length
of the race: And the grace and the justice of the
Prince shine gloriously in such a distribution. Not
the foremost of tlie racers can pretent to have merit-
ed the prize: for the prizes were all paid for by the
Prince himself: and it was he that appointed the
race, and gave them spirit and strengtii to run : And
yet there is a most equitable proportion observed in
the reward, according to the labours of the race.
Now tliis similitude represents the matter so agree-
ably the Apostle's way of speaking, when he com-
pares the Christian life to a race, Heb. xii. 1, that f
think it may be culled almost a scriptural description
ot the present subject.

The reason of man entirely concurs with scripture

•od or bad."
' man doeth,
hether he be
Id; I come
) give every
Though the
1 claim no-
Lord Jesus
ise unknown
according to
iness which
; larger de-
of God our

^n thoughts
appointed;
irchased by
cers : And
I wine, ac-
) strengthen
Each has a
of shorter,
every racer
ize in most
and length
tice of the
ition. Not
lave merit-
for by the
)ointed the
i"un : And
•bserved in
the race.
■ so agree-
1 he com-
i. 1, that I
description

407

in this point. The glory of heaven is prepared fof
those who are prepared for it in a state of grace, Rom.
ix. 23. It is God wdio makes each of us meet for our
own inheritance among the saints in light, Col. i. 12.
And then he bestows on us that inheritance. As
grace fits the soul for glory, so a larger degree of grace
advances and widens the capacity of the soul, and
prepares it to receive a larger degree of glory. The
work of grace is but the means, the reward of glory
is the end : Now the wisdom of God always fits and
adjusts the means in a due proportion to answer the
end he designs ; and the same wisdom ever makes the
end answerable to the means he uses ; and therefore
he infuses more and higher glories into vessels more
enlarged and better prepared.

The worship of heaven and the joy that attends it,
may be exceedingly different in degrees, according to
the different capacity of spirits ; and yet all may be
perfect and free from sinful defects. Does not the
sparrow r raise the Lord its maker upon the ridge of a
cottage, cnirping in its native perfection ? And yet
the lark advances in her flight and her song as far
above the sparrow, as the clouds are above the house
top. Surely superior joys and glories must belong to
superior powers and services.

Can we think that Abraham and Moses, who were
trained up in converse with God face to face, as a
man converses with his friend, and who followed
him through the wilderness and unknown countries,
in a glorious exercise of faith, were not prepared for
a greater intimacy with God, and nearer views of
his glory in heaven, than Sampson and Jepthah,
those rude heroes, who spent their days in bloody
work, in hewing down the Philistines and the Am-
monites? For we read little of their acquaintance
with God, or converse with him, beside a petition
now and then, or a vow for victory and for slaughter ;
and we should hardly have charity enough to believe
lliey were saved, if St. Paul had not placed them

i I

I it»

jf-rj^

i' '

fi:^f ll'li

iii

^y;

■• * 1
■' »1

408

among the examples of faith, in his eleventh eh. to the
Hebrews. Can we believe that the thief upon the
oross, who made a single though sincere profession
of the name of Jesus just in his dying hour, was pre-
pared for the same high station and enjoyment in pa-
radise so near the right hand of Christ, as the great
Apostle Paul, whose prayers and sermons, whose mi-
racles of labour and suffering, filled up and finished a
long life, and honoured his Lord and Saviour more
than all the twelve apostles besides ? Can we imagine
that the child that is just born into this world, and
weeps, and dies, and is taken to heaven, is fit to be pos-
sessor of the same glories, or raised to the same degree
there, as the laborious and the zealous Christian, that
has lived about fourscore years on earth, and spent the
greatest part of his life in the studies of religion, the
exercises of piety, and the zealous and painful ser-
vices of God and his county ? Surely, if all these
which I have named must have equal knowledge and
joy in the future world, it is hard to find how such
an exact equity should be displayed in the distribu-
tion of final rewards as the word of God so frequently
describes.

Object. " But in the parable of the labourers hired
to work in the vineyard, Matt. xx. 9, does not every
man receive his penny," they who weie called at the
first and third hour, and they wiio were called at the
lastP Were not their rewards all equal, those who
had " wrought but one hour," and those " who had
borne the burden and heat of the day ?"

Answ. It is not the design of this parable to re-
present the final reward of the saints at the day of
judgement, but to shew that the nation of the Jews,
who had been called to be the people of God above
1000 years before, and had "borne the burden and
heat of the day," i. e. the toil and bondage of many
ceremonies, should have no preference in the esteem
of God above the Gentiles, who were called at the
last hour, or at the end of the Jewish dispensation ;

409

ith ch. to the
ef upon the
e profession
ir, was pre-
ment in pa-
as the great
3, whose mi-
id finished a
Javiour more
I we imagine
i world, and
fittobepos-
same degree
ristian, that
id spent the
eligion, the
painful ser-
if all these
wledge and
i how such
lie distribu-
) frequently

ourers hired
3 not every
tiled at the
ailed at the
those who
" who had

rable to re-
the day of
the Jews,
God above
lurden and
e of many
the esteem
led at the
ipensation ;

for it is said, '* the last shall be first, and the first
last," i. e. the Gentiles who waited long ere the gos-
pel was preached to them, sliall be the first in re-
ceiving it; and the Jews, to whom it was first of-
fered, from inward pride will reject it, or receive it
but slowly : And Christ adds this confirmation of it,
" for many be called, but few chosen," though mul-
titudes of Jews were called to believe in Christ, yet
few accepted the call.

There is another reason why this parable cannot re-
fer to the final rewards of heaven ; bxicause, ver. 11,
it is said, " Some of them murmured against the good
man of the house." Now there shall be no envy a-
gainst the saints, nor murmuring against God in the
heavenly state. But the Jews, and even the Jewish
converts to Christianity, were often ready to murmur
that the Gospel should be preached to the Gentile
world, and that the Heathens should be brought into
privileges equal with themselves.

Thus it sufficiently appears from the frequent decla-
rations of Scripture, as well as from the reason and
equity of things, that the rewards of the future world
shall be greatly distinguished, ac^'ording to the differ-
ent degrees of holiness and service for God, even
though every spirit there shall be perfect ; nor is there
any just and reasonable objection against it.

It is certain then, that heaven has various degrees
of happiness in ? , and shall my spirit rest contented
with the meanest place there, and the least and the
lowest measure? Hast thou no sacred ambition in
thee, O my soul, to sit down with Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob ? Or dost thou not aspire at least to the
middle ranks of glorified saints, though perhaps thou
mayest despair of those most exalted stations which
are prepared for the spirits of chief renown, for
Abraham and Moses, of ancient time, and for the
martyrs and the apostles of the Lamb ? Wilt thou
not stir up all the vigour of nature and grace within
thee, to do great service for thy God and thy Saviour
14 3 G

410

on earth, that thy reward in heaven may not be small?
Wilt thou not run with zeal and patience the race that
is set before thee, looking to the brightest cloud of
witnesses, and reaching at some of the richer prizes?
Remember, that Jesus thy Judge is coming apace:
He has rewards with him of every size, and the lustre
and weight of thy crown shall exactly correspond to
the sweat and labour.

Watts's Death and Heaven.

AN ACCOUNT OF MR. BOOTY ;

Extracted from Captain Spink's Journal, and from the
records of the Court ofKimfs Bench.

a^UESDAY, May 12th, we anchored in Mansat-
-t Road, with Capt. Barnaby, Capt. Bristow,
and Capt. Brewer. About six o'clock we all four
weighed anchor, and sailed for the Island of Lusara.
Friday 1 5th, about two o'clock, we saw the Island,
and about seven came to an anchor in twelve fathom
water. Saturday 16th, we (the Captains) with Mr.
Ball, merchant of Wentworth, went on shore, in order
to shoot curlews, on mount Strembolo. Half an hour
and fourteen minutes after three, we called our men
to us, when all, to our great surprise, saw two men
running with amazing swiftness, and Capt. Barnaby
cried out, "Lord bless me! the foremost man is
Mr. Booty, my next neigiibour in London." He
was in grey clothes with cloth buttons. He that ran
after him was in black. They both ran straight into
the burning mountain, and at the instant was such a
noise as made us all tremble. Capt. Barnaby said,
"1 do not doubt but it is old Booty running into
hell :" and as soon as we came on board, he desired
us to mark the time, and write it down in our Jour-
nals, which we did.

We returned to Gravesend October 0th. Capt,

Barnaby then went for tlie rest, to

congratulate them

411

on their safe arrival. After some discourse, Capt.
Barnaby's wife said, " I can tell you some news :
old Booty is dead." He answered, "That we all
know ; for we saw him lun into hell." Mrs. Barnaby
related this to an acquaintance in London : and she
informed Mrs. Booty of it. On this, Mrs. Booty ar-
rested Capt. Barnaby in an action of a thousand
pounds. It came to a trial in the Court of King's
Bench. The four Captains, Mr. Ball, and all the men
made oath, that they saw him run very swiftly and
leap into the burning mountain : that he had on a grey
coat with cloth buttons, (which was brought into the
court, and exactly answered the description.) And
that they all set it down just then in their journals,
which were also produced in court, and answered the
time wl> ui he died to two minutes, as apioeared from
the sexton of the parish, and several others who were
with him at his death. In summing up the evidence,
the Lord Chief Justice said, "Two or three may be
mistaken ; but we cannot suppose above thirty were."
So the cause was given for the defendent.

; i: f

AN ACCOUNT OF THE FIRST DUKE OF QUEENSBURY,

Taken from a hook J called, the " Scots Worthiest

A YOUNG man perfectly well acquainted with
the Duke (probably one of those he had for-
merly banished,) being now a sailor and in foreign
countries, while the ship was upon the coast of Naples
or Sicily, near one of the burning mountains, one
day they espied a coach and six, all in black, going
towards the mountain with great velocity ; when it
came past them, they were so near that they could
perceive the dimensions and features of one that sat
in it. The young man said to the rest, " If I could
believe my own eyes, or if I ever saw one like ano-
ther, I would say, that is the Duke." In an instant

I,;

4N1

'I' -I it'

412

they heard an audible voice echo from the mouth,
"Open to tlic Duke of Quee.shury ;" upon wliich the
coach, ijovv near the mount vanished. The young
man took pen and paper, and marked {h)vvn the
nionth, day, and liour of the apparition; and upon
his return, found it exactly answer the day and hour
the Duke died.

EXTRAORDINARY NARRATIVE.

Extracted from the Rev. D. Simpson's Works.

THE following extraordinary narrative was related
by the person who is tiie chief subject of it j as
also by his two comrades in the vessel, whose veracity
appeared unquestionable.

Two brothei-, (of the name of Clarke) who had
the command of a small trading vessel in the Isle of
Man were lying at anchor, some distance from the
harbour, waiting for a fair wind, a sailor on board
wishing to go on shore, which they were unwilling to
allow, was much offended ; as they were Methodists,
he had a great enmity against them, and therefore, after
some personal abuse, swore that he would not be hin-
dered by them. He therefore went down into the
boat, which was lying at the side of the ship, and as
he took the oar in order to send himself to shore, it
fell out of his hand, and he lay with his head hanging
over the gunnel. For some time they apprehended
he was going to sleep, but not seeing him move, one
of the brothers got into the boat, and shaking him
by the shoulders, he did not awake ; then looking
upon his face, and finding him pale and motionless,
Clarke cried out to his brother, " The man is dead."
They then fastened ropes about his body, and drew
him up into the vessel, and after stripping him, they
thew pails of water upon his face and* different parts

41S

him. tlipv

of his body, in hopes this might be a means of rouz-
ing bini, if lie was in a trance or fit. Finding this
iuefR'ctuul tliey laid liini on liis belly, across a piece
cf timber, and one lioldinjjj liiin by tlie hea<l, and the
jtlier by tlie feet, tliey pulled him alternately, think-
ing tliat the friction miglit be of service, but as no
signs of life appeared, they left him upon the deck,
and fetched some of the crew of another vessel to see
that there were no marks of violence upon his body.
After this was done, various efforts were used to re-
store him to life ^ at lengt'i he was heard to groan,
and shortly after opened his eyes. They then put
him to bed in the cabin, where he lay for some time
without speaking, being exceedingly weak. As
Thomas Clarke was standing at the bed side, he said
to him, — " Oh Tom, Tom, I have been a wicked
wretch ; I have used you and your brother very ill ;
can you forgive me?" Clarke replied, "Indeed I
can, and do, with all my heart, and 1 hope God will
forgive you." When he had regained a little
strength, he addressed Clarke in the following man-
ner:

" I have been out of the body, and have seen won-
derful things. As soon as I jumped into the boat my
spirit departed, and 1 found myself in the custody of
t'vo devils, in the shape of black bears, who dragged
me to a lime-kiln, out of which I saw flames of fire
ascending. I shrieked horridly, and just as they were
going to throw me in, an angel dressed in white robes,
whose face resembled Mr. Mason's, the Methodist
preacher, suddenly appeared and said to the devils,
* He is not yours, let him go ;' upon which they im-
mediately Vanished. The angel took me by the arm,
and led me from the lime-kiln, and when we had gone
a little way, I observed a man with a black mantle
over his shoulders ; on coming near to him, I knew
him to be a companion of mine, and it was impressed

nn mv minH tVint wp linrl nPO"lpntpd to nav a vowr
- J 7 •• - — o "" i v -- • - •-

which we once made to God. We were both some

Milil!

]■■■

•w ■-<'

Ii !i

1 1' II

m ^

|i|i|

'^M

ilffill

414

time ago in a small fishing boat, and a great storm
coming on, we expected nothing but death : therefore
seeing ourselves in such danger, we prayed to God to
deliver us, and promised, upon our knees, that if he
would bring us safe to shore, we would each rnve a
shilling to the poor; but when we got to land, we ne
ver more thought about our vow. And, now, Tom
Clarke, as I do not think I shall live long, finding
myself so very weak, I beseech you to charge my wife
to give a shilling to the poor for me, or I shall never
be happy On Clarke assuring him he would he
contmued his discourse. " The angel after this,' led
me to a beautiful river, at the other side of which in
/ ^^^^""y "'^^^^«^- I saw a great number of people
(chiefly Methodists) and among the rest you and the
predestmarian who was arguing with you yesterday.
At the time of your dispute, you may remember, that
hequoted tins text of Scripture, The Lord hath made
all things /or hmsdf : yea, even the wicked for the day
ojevd. At this thinking I was one of the reprobated
that would be damned, I said within myself, surelv
from my past debauched life, I must expect it, and
thei-efore it is vain for me to look for salvation. I mav
continue still in my wicked courses, and make myself
as happy as I can while 1 live, since I must go to hell
at last Indeed I now believe that this was only a
temptation oi the devil, for as I saw you on the bank
of the river with the bible in your hand opened n
that veiy place where the text was, the angel said un-
tome, lorn Clarke is right, the other man is wrol;
my grace is free for all, therefo e free for you. And
now, to convince you I am telling the truth, as you

thTBibl''""'^'!n7T\'^"''^'''^^^' ^^ y^^ i««k into
the Bible you will find that text in the 16th chapter

ofProyerbs, and that the first letter of the chaptel is

I A' 'J^!'\ ^^"' 9^'^^ examined his bible, and

Ws sis;! ''"'' ^'' ^''"'^^ '^'^ ^^^ ^^ so on with

*• Well, said he, after receiving some comfort from

great storm
h •• therefore
Hi to God to
«, that if he
i each give a
land, we ne-

• ^ow, Tom
"ig, finding
rge my wife

sliall never
i would, lie
'ter this, led
)f which, in

* of people,
on and the
I yesterday,
ember, that
( hath made
for the day
J reprobates
'Self, surely
>ect it, and
on. I may
lake myself
t go to hell
was only a
n the bank

opened in
jel said un-

is wrong;
y^ou. And
th, as you

look into

th chapter

chapter is

bible, and

50 on with

tnfort from

415

what the angel said, I saw a large gate, at the end of
the field, which was studded all over with diamonds,
and out of the key-hole the rays of the sun shone
so bright, that my eyes were quiet dazzled ; and as
I was admiring the sigl a white dove came through
the key-hole, and fly v straight across the river,
struck me with force ui jn the breast, and while it
was fluttering with its wings I found my life returning
by degrees."

He then told Tom Clarke, that if God would but
spare him, he would become a new man, and that
both he and his wife (whom before he had grossly a-
bused for going to hear the Methodists) would join
them, which they did soon after. He had been a-
niong them two years when this account was given,
and was then walking in the fear of God, and happy
in the light of his countenance : and though he was
advanced in years, he had taught himself to read, that
he might be able to search the scriptures, and learn
from thence the truth as it is in Jesus.

PROVIDENTIAL ESCAPE FROM POISON.

ON the first sabbath day, in the year 1749, Mr.
Thomas Lilly, the son of a farmer in the parish
of Ki'lso, in Roxhurgshiie, a promising young man,
in the church of Scotland, and who then had studied
a considerable time at school, happend to be at home,
keeping the house, with only a shepherd's boy, all
the rest of the family, (excepting a maid servant,)
being at sermon : the young student and the boy be-
ing seated by the fire, whilst the girl was gone to the
well for some water, a venerable old gentleman, clad
in an antique garb, presented himself; and, after
some little ceremony, desired the student to open the
bible which lay upon the table before him, and turn

>t-\

t ±

yiiiM-if

416

over to a certain chapter and verse in the second book
ol Kings. The student did so, and read, ^^ There n
death in the pot:' ^ntreis

On this, the old man with much apparent agitation
pomted to the great family pot boiling on the fire de
clarmg that the maid had cast a great quantity of arse
nic mto It, with intent to poison the whole familv to
the end she might rob the house of the hundred gui
neas which she knew her master had taken for sheen
and gram which he had sold. Just as he was so say?
ing, the maid came to the door, announcing her an-
pi-oach by the noise of the nails in her shoe heels
Ihe old gentleman said to the student, "Remember
my warning, and save the lives of the family " and
that instant disappeared.

The maid entered with a smiling countenance, em-
ptied her pail, and returned to the well for a fresh
supply. Meanvyhile, young Lilly put some oatmeal
into a wooden dish, skimmed the pot of fat, and mix-
ed It like what IS called broze or croudy ; and, when
the maid returned, he, with the boy, appeared busily
empxojad in eating the mixture. "Come Peff^ry"
said the studerit, " here is enough left for you: me
you not fond o croudy?" She smiled, took up the
dish, and reaching a spoon, withdrew to the back
room. The shepherd's dog followed her, unseen by
the boy, and the poor animal, on the croudy being
put down by the maid, fell a victim to his voracious
appetite; for, before the return of the family from
church. It was enormously swelled, and expired in
great agony. *■

^ The student enjoined the boy to remain quite pas-
sive for the present; meantime he attempted to shew
his ingenuity in resolving the cause of the canine
catastrophe into insanity, in order to keep the eirl in
countenance, till a fit opportunity of discovering the
plot should present itself. ^

Soon after, his father, mother, brothers, o.nd sis-
ters, with the other servants, returned from church,

417

iecond book
I, " There is

^nt agitation
the fire, de-
'tity of arse-
3 family, to
Jiidred gui.
11 for sheep
was so say-
ng her ap-
shoe heels.
' Remember
imily," and

nance, em-
for a fresh
ne oatmeal
t, and mix-
and, when
xred busily
le Peggy,"
r you : are
ok up the
> the back
unseen by
)udy being
voracious
imily fiom
expired in

quite pas-
i to shew
he canine
the girl in
^^ering the

all hungering after the word, and eager to sit round
the rustic board.

The table was instantly replenished with wooden
bowls and trenchers, and a heap of barley bannocks
graced the top. The kail or broth, infused with leeks
or winter cabbages, was poured forth in plenty ; and
Peggy, with a prodigal hand, filled all the dishes with
the homely dainties of Tiviotdale. The master said
grace, and all hats and bonnets were instantly off.
"0 Lord," prayed the farmer, " we have been hearing
thy word from the mouth of thy aged servant, Mr.
Rain8( V ; we have been alarmed bv the awful famine
in Samaria, and of death being in the pot !" Here the
young scholar interrupted his father, by exclaiming ;
" Yes, sir, there is death in the pot now here, as well
as there was once in Israel. Touch not ! taste not !
See the dog dead by the poisoned pot!"

'' What !" cried the farmer, " have you been raising
the devil by your conjuration? Is this the effect of
your study, sir?" "No, father," said the student, "I
preten 1 to no such arts of magic or necromancy ; but
this (lay, as the boy can testify, I had a solemn warn-
ing from one, whom I take to be no demon, but a
good angel. To him we all owe our lives. As to
Peggy% according to his intimation, she has put poi-
son into the pot, for the purpose of destroying the
family root and branch !" Here the girl fell into a
fit, from which being with some trouble recovered,
she confessed the whole of her deadly design, and was
suffered to vvithdraw from the familv, and her native
country. She was soon after executed at Newcastle-
upon-Tyne, for the murder of her bastard child, again
making ample confession of the above diabolical
design.

' ^.f

, and sis-
n church,

'» i

II H

■

418

ASSIGNATION TO APPEAR AFTER DEATH,

T'HE Story of the marquis de Rambouillet's appear-
X ing after his death to Iiis cousin, the Marquis
de Precy, is well known. These two nob^eren
talking one day concerning the affairs of the next
world, in a manner which shewed they did not he
leve much about it, entered into an agreement, that

the other ^^ '^ "'"'''' ^""^ give intelligence to

Soon after, the Marquis de Rambouillet set out for
glanders, which was then the seat of war, and the
Marquis de Precy remained in Paris, beini? ill of a
violent lever About six weeks after, early one morn-
ing he heard some one draw the curtains of his bed
and, turning to see who it was, discovered the Mar^
quis de Rambouillet in a buff coat and boots. He in-
stantly got out of bed, and attempted to shake hands
with his friend ; but Rambouillet drew back, and told
him he was only come to perform the promise he had
former y made; that nothing was more certain than
what they had been told concerning another life: that
he advised him earnestly to alter his way of life, for
that the first action he should be engaged in, he would
certainly fall.

Precy made a fresh attempt to touch his friend, but
he immediately withdrew. He lay wondering on his
bed upon the strangeness of the circumstance for some
time, when he saw the same appearance re-enter his
apartment; upon which, Rambouillet, finding that he
still disbelieved what was told, shewed him the wound
in his rems, of which he died, and from which the
blood still seemed to flow.

Soon after this Precy received a confirmation of the
Marquis de Rambouillet's death ; and was killed him-
self according to the prediction, in the civil wars, at
the battle of the Fauxbourg, St. Antoine.

It may naturally be asked here, whence it hap-
pens that so many other persons, who have made the

3ATH.

let's appear-
the Marquis
> noblemen
of the next
did not be-
enient, that
telligence to

set out for
!•» and the
ig ill of a
' one morn-
3f his bed,
I the Mar-
ts. He in-
lake hands
Ic, and told
[lise he had
Brtain than
1" life ; that

of life, for
I, he would

friend, but
ing on his
;e for some
center his
ng that he
the wound
which the

tion of the
illed him-
1 wars, at

e it hap-
inadc the

419

same promise to come again after their death, have
not done it? Seneca mention a stoic philosopher,
named Canius Julus, who being condemned to death
by Calugula, told his friends, that whereas they were
enquiring whethe" the soul was immortal or not, he
was going to a pi «ce where he should soon know:
but we are no where told that he ever returned to clear
up the point.

La Motte Vayer, in his book on the immortality
of the soul, relates how he made an agreement with
a friend of his, that the first of the two that died
should return and inform the other of his condition.
It happened that his friend died first, but he never re-
turned to keep his promise.

Mr. Montague's agreement with the Earl of Ro-
chester ended in the same manner, as the story is
related in Mrs. Rovve's letters ; but it is wrong to
conclude, that because the deceased sometimes return,
that they always can ; and it is equally absurd to de-
ny their coming again, because some, that have pro-
mised to do so, have not been able to keep their
word.

To justify these positions, we must suppose it to
be in their own power to appear when and how they
please; but it seems evident, on the contrary, that
this does not depend upon them, and that it is by the
particular permission of Almighty God that they ever
appear at all.

AN ACCOUNT OF AN APPARITION, IN THE NORTH OF

ENGLAND.

Newcastle, Dec. 2dth, 1758.

LAST Monday, I took down the following particu-
lars from John and Ann Lambert, of Winlington.
The truth of which they are ready to confirm on
oath.

420

-! •*

Henry Cooke, of Winlington, (a Roman Catho-
lie) departed this life, in the year 1752, and John
and Ann Lambert took the house he died in. A few
days alter their removal to the house, Ann was great-
iy surprised with a noise in an inner room; the door
shook very much, and the latch was lifted up several
times. About a week after this, John and Ann
heard a knocking over the bed, (in which they lav)
which seemed to be between the roof and the plaster-
ing. Ann heard the same noise three nights after
About a fortnight after this (and one year and a half
after the death of Henry Cooke) Ann Lambert, at
one o clock in the day, saw in an innei- room an ap-
pearance resembling a man dressed in his grave clothes
which frightened her so that she swooned away, and
was lifeless for some time ; upon which, they imme-
diately left that house, and removed to another about
300 yards from it. A month after their removing to
this house, Ann was suddenly surprised, as she lay
m bed, by a stroke given to the bed side. About a
week alter this, as she lay awake in bed with her hus-
band at midnight, she saw at the further end of tiie
room a square light, and in the middle of it, the ap-
pearance of a man's head as white as chalk. She
awoke her husband, who saw it likewise. Four days
alter, she heard, at one o'clock in the morning a
noise like the report of a large gun behind her; upon
which she got up and stirred the fire, but could see
nothing: she then returned to her bed, but had
scarcely laid down, when, to her surprise, she saw
standing by the bed side an appearance, dressed in a
surplice and white wig. 8he said, -in the name of
Uod the lather, &c., why do you trouble me^" He
answered, '' meet me at one o'clock, and 1 will tell
you what I want;" and then vanished away. No
more noise was heard that night, but the next morn-
ing there were two heavy stiokes given behind the
bed ; soon after, her husband got up and went to his
work. He had not been gone long, when she felt

1 i

iian Catho-
I, and John

in. A few
I was great-
i; the door
I up several
i and Ann
h they lay)
the plaster-
lights after,
and a half
-iambert, at
om an ap-
rave clothes
away, and
they inime-
•ther about
moving to
as she lay
About a
th her hus-
md of the
it, the ap-
lalk. She
Four days
norning, a
lier; upon

could see
but had
, she saw
?ssed in a
I name of
ne?" He
will tell
ivay. No
ixt niorn-
lehind the
mi to his
1 she felt

421

a heavy pressure, which was accompanied with a
loud noise like the report of a large cannon ; after
this, all was hushed for some minutes, and then there
was a shaking in the room, like the wind shaking a
tree ; the apparition then appeared at the bed's foot,
like a man in his working dress, and passing on slo\y-
ly disappeared. Some days after this, as she lay in
bed with her husband and children, (for they all lay
together) about eleven o'clock at night, there was a
great noise like a cannon, followed with a heavy pres-
sure, then one of the children (a girl five years old,)
was taken out of the bed, and carried to the middle
of the room, and laid on the floor. The mother cried
out, and her husband got up and brought the child
into bed again. In *he morning the child complained
of a soreness under the thigh : it being examined, no-
thing could be discovered but the mark of a pinch in
the tlesh, which increased every day more and more,
and grew worse and worse, till the child was obliged
to take her bed, and remained five weeks under the
doctor's hands. The next night the noise was as
usual. The youngest child lying in the mother's bo-
som, was snatched from her, and carried out of bed ;
the mother immediately followed, and found the child
laid on the ground unhurt. The night following the
noise was repeated, and the eldest child was paitly
dragged out of the bed ; but upon the child's shriek-
ing, the parents awoke and pulled her in again : the
bed shook very much at these times. Being thus ter-
ribly frightened, and much fatigued for want of natural
rest, they resolved once more to change their habita-
tion, to see if this would put an end to these uncom-
mon visits. Accordingly they removed their little all
into a house at the other end of the town.— The third
night alter their removal, they were much disturbed by
an uncommon scratching, or scraping at the room
door, and a great light at the same time ap; eared at
the foot of the bed. The same week the pressure and
noise were repeated ; a few nights alter, her husband

1 1

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422

hfrtl^gMLetd' '^ *°"^''' ""'"" "-« P--d

About tliree weeks after, at night tlierp ,.,.
great ru.„bling in the nex't room Then An„ Z;
•In the name of God wim art thou •^" but h!"

a week: no noise was heard nor a TthTne sm, b [
on Sunday night the noise began again ^ and tb.

then heads , then the sash window shook verv mnT
so that they thought all the glass had been brX,:
but upon exam ning it in the morning, thlTe was bu
one pane wluchwa^ cracked at the four corn^s and
broke ui the middle in the sliape of a diimond M
thing remarkable happened from July HM the .^'"
when the window wif broke, till D^e'cembe'r a,^^':
contmual noise in the house, and a large eat ki led in
an uncommonon manner. Dec 2 as Ann...! i
ing her bed at night, she saw a^m'^iatTforCed
beast run along the bolster, and disappear Two or
tliree mghts after, she saw the apparitiU. fn the like
ness of a brown and white rnlf- it „..^ •" "'e iiKe-
bigger till it was the tTjH'^!^ fef ^^^
. leapt znto the bed and struck her thrfe timei bu^
she received no hurt. Dec. 6, at micl^i. 7 Jolm
bemg awake in bed, saw Henry Cooke d esse. In
his working clothes, come into the loonT win
walked to the fire side, and stood there a coTs clerrb le
toe : but he was so overcome that he couirnot ineaT
and the apparition vanished away. Dec 20 at'
midnight, Ann felt the hands of a man on her Ic'e as
cold as ice, which kept teazine her ill iT ,

her hnsbinH n.,,! .1, *li ™'''"6 "« tiU she awoke
iier nusoand, and then they were removed Dec 99
about two nVlnnU ip (],/_--,. ""*eu. uec. ^^
■ •'" '° "'== "'orning, she saw, as it

423

were, a pewter dish the colour of blood, with blood
sprinkled round the edges of it. This was the last
time she saw it, which was the morning I took down
this account.

J. G. M.

A curious notefouvd among the papers of M. De la
Harpe, Imported by Dulaw.

IT appears to me as if it were but yesterday ; and
it was, nevertheless, in the beginning of the year
1788, we were at the table of a brother Academician,
who was of the highest rank, and a man of talents.
The company was numerous, and of all kinds : cour-
tiers, advocates, literary men, academicians, &c. We
had been, as usual, luxuriously entertained ; and at
the desert, the wines Malvoisie and the Cape,
added to the natural gaiety of good company that
kind of social freedom which some times stretches be-
yond the rigid decorum of it. In short, we were in
a state to allow of any thing that would produce
mirth. Chamlort had been reading some of his im-
pious and libertine tales, and the fine ladies had
heard them, without once making use of their fans.
A deluge of pleasantries on religion then succeeded ;
one gave a quotation from the Pucelle d'Orleans;
another recollected and applauded the philosophical
distich of Diderot,

Et des Boyai t du dernier Pretre,

8errez le Cou du dernier Roi.
And of the last Priest's entrails from the string,
Around the neck of the last King.

A third rises, and with a bumper in his hand,
"Yes, gentlemen," (he exclaims) "I am as sure that
there is no God, as I am certain that Homer is a fool."

V,.

■

r;!.^, a

4S4

The conversation afterwards took a more serious lum
and the most ar.lent a.h.iratio,, was expressed of 7'
revolution which Vohaire had pro-hiced"^ and tW ^
agreed that u forn,ed the hri^luest ra^ of hi l,' '
He has g.ve>, tlie ton to his age, an-i'Las corSrf

loon . One o tlie company mentioned, and almost
burst witli laughter at the circumstance, hat hi T,i
dresser had sa,d, while he was powderi.lg him "Look
you, hn-, though I am nothing but a poor ouniev

ma It was conclude.1 that the revolution would

soon be consumated, and that it was absolutely Tee
say for supersUtion and fanaticism to give nh e t
philosophy. The probability of this epoch was thl
calculated, an.l which of thLomp. .y'^^Lnt wo dS
■ve to see the reigu of reason. The elde ■ nar of ih-^m
an,ented that they coul.l not flatter Infselves w Uh
the hope of enjoying such a pleasure : wlSe 1 e youf

szd-the ^:-^c^:^^ ±2:!

There was only one of the fruestR whr^ h^ i
shared in the delights of this conSorr.''hef d Z
even ventured in a quiet wnv tn '," V ? ,""'
.antries on our noble ^nlsl'^;. '"it'I^/^lPt
an amiable man, of an original turn of mind bul
unfortunately infatuated with the reveries orthc illu
nimati. He renewed the conversation in a ery e
nous tone, and in the followinn- manner "r^.i
n,en," said he "be satisfied, you wiirail see to
grand and sublime revolution. You know .L, r
something of a prophet, and I ^eat thVy /w'SI

to foretell that."-" Agreed f but,' pe'rhf n?!t %"^yZ
necessary to be something more, respecting wha^'t am

425

serious turn,
essed of ihe
and theyull
of his glory,
as contrived
the (h-awing
and almost
lat his hair-
hirn, " Look
or journey-
lan another
ition would
utely neces-
le place to
ii was then
3sent would
)art of them
selves with
e the youn-
hey should
for having
same time,
riiiciple of

had not
he had not

1 (ew plea-
a Cazotte,
mind, but
f the iUu-
a very se-

" Gentle-
1 see this
ihat I am

you will
[imon ex-
■ conjurer
it may be
i^hat I am

now going to tell you. Have you any idea of what
will resnlt from this revolution P What will happen
to yourselves, to every one now present : what will be
the immediate [)rogress of it, with its certain effects
and consequences?" "Oh," said Condorcet, w^ith
his silly and saturnine laugh, " let us know all about
it; a philosopher can have no objection to meet a
prophet." "You, M. Condorcet, will expire on the
pavement of a dungeon ; you will die of the poison
whit'h you will have taken to escape from the hands
of the executioner : of poison which the happy state
of that peri( (1 will render it absolutely necessary that
you should carry about you."

At first there appeared a considerable degree of
astonishment : but it was soon recollected that Cazotte
wus in the habit of dreaming while he was awake, and
the laugh was as loud as ever. "M. Cazotte, the
tale which you have just told is not so pleasant as
your Diable Amoureux. But what devil has put this
dungeon, this poison, and these hangmen in your
head? What can these things have in common
with philosophy and the reign of reason ?" " That
is precisely what I am telling you. It will be in the
name of philosophy, of humanity, and of liberty;
it will be under the Reign of Reason, that what I
have foretold will happen to you. It will then, in-
deed, be the Reign of Reason ; for she will have tem-
ples erected to her honour. Nay, throughout France,
there will be no other places of public worship than
the temples of Reason." "In faith," said Cham-
fort, with one of his sarcastic smiles, "you will
n<'t be an officiating priest in any of these temples."
"I hope not, but you, M. Chamfort, you will be
well worthy of that distinction ; for you will cut
yourself across the veins with twenty -two stokes of
a razor, and will, nevertheless, survive the attempt
for some months." — they all looked at him and con-
tinued to laugh. — " You, M. Vicq. d'Azyr, you
will not open vour veins yourself, but vou will order

ope

kimn.

3 I

i rii

42(5 ^

them to be opened six times in on day during a pa-
roxysm of the gout, in order that you may not fail
in your purpose, and you will die during the u\aht
As for you, M. de Nicolai, you will clie on the
scaffold ; and so, M. Bailly, will you ; and so will
you, Maleserbes." "Oh heavens!" said Roueher "it
appears that his vengeance is levelled solely against
the academy; he has just made a most horrible exe-
cution of the whole of it ; now tell me my fate in
the name of mercy ?"-- You will die also upon the
scaffold. «0h," it was universally exclaimed, "he
Jias sworn to exterminate us all." "No, it is not
Y7 have sworn it." "Are we then to be subju-
gated by Turks and Tartars?" "By no means: I
have already told you, that you will then be gover-
ned by Reason and Philosophy alone. Those who
will treat you as I have described, will all of them
be Fhiosophers; will be continually uttering the
same phrases that you have been repeating for the
last hour; will deliver all your maxims, and will

^"1^1% ?^ ^""^ ^'^''^ ^o^^' I>iderot and Pucelle."
Uh ! It was whispered, " the man is out of his sen-
ses; "for during the whole of his conversation, his
countenance never underwent the least change. " Oh
no, said another, you must perceive he is laughing
at us : for he always blends the marvellous with his
pleasantries." " Yes," ans^vered Chamfort, " the mar-
vellous, with him, is never enlivened with gaiety.
He always looked as if he were going to be hanged.
But when will all this happen ?" " Six years will not
have passed away, before all which I have told you
shall be accomplished."

"Here, indeed, is plenty of miracles," (it was my-
self, says M. de la Harpe, who now spoke) "and you
set me down for nothing." " You will yourself be a
miracle as extraordinary as any which I have told.
You will then be a Christian."

_jou(! exciumaiioiis immediately follow'ed. " Ah !"
replied Chamfort, "all my fears are removed; for

luring a pa-
lay not fail
the jiight.
<lie on the
md so will
'oucher, " it
lely against
•rrible exe-
my fate in
> upon the
limed, "he
. it is not
be subju-
means ; I
be gover-
riiose who
11 of them
ttering the
iig for the
and will
Pucelle."
of his sen-
sation, his
ige. " Oh
i laughing
i with his
" the mar-
th gaiety,
e hanged,
rs will not
told you

t was niy-
" and you
rself be a
lave told.

. "Ah!"
Dved ; for

ir we were not doomed to perish till La Harpe becomes
a Christian, we shall be innnortal."

"As foi us women," said the Duchess de Gram-
mont, " it is very fortunate that we are considered as
nothing in these revolutions. Not that we are totally
discharged ffom all concern in them; but it is under-
stood tliat in such cases we are to be left to ourselves.
Our sex, — " " Your sex, ladies, will be no guarantee
to you in these times. It will make no ditlerence
whatever whether you interfere or not. You will be
treated precisely as the men ; no distinction will be
made between you." " But what does all this mean,
M. Cazotte ? You are surely preaching to us about
the end of the world." " 1 know no more of that, my
Lady Duchess, than yourself: but this I know, that
you will be conducted to the scaffold, with several
other ladies along with you in the cart of the execu-
tioner, and with your hands tied behind you." " I
hope. Sir, that in such a case, I shall be allowed, at
least, a coach hung with black." " No, madam, you
will not have that indulgence : Ladies of higher rank
than you, will be drawn in a cart as you will be, with
their hands tied as yours will be, and to the same fate
as to that which you are destined." " Ladies of higher
rank than myself ! What, princesses of the blood?"
'• Greater still."

Heie there was a very sensible emotion throughout
the company, and the countenance of the master of
the mansion wore a very grave and solemn aspect : it
was, indeed, very generally observed, that this plea-
santry was carried rather too far. Madam de Gram-
mont, in order to disperse the :loud that seemed to be
approaching, made no reply to his last answer, but
contented herself with saying, with an air of gaiety,
''You see, he will not even leave me a confessor."
" No, madam, that consolation will be denied to all
of you. The last person led to the scaffold who
will be allowed a confessor, as the greatest of favours,
will be " Here he paused for a moment.

ti. ■'

1 : .Mi

!'»

■x^^J^^'y^-

428

" And who then is that happy mortal who will be al
lowed to enjoy this prerogative ;>" ♦♦ Jt is tlie onlv

one which will be left him; it will be the Kiim

of France." °

The master of the house now rose in haste, and his
company, were all actuated bv the same impulse
He then advanced towards M. Cazotte, and said to
him, in an atlecting and impressive tone, "My dear
M. Cazotte, we have had enough of these melan-
choly conceits. You carry it too far; even to the
compromising the company with whom you are and
yourself along with them." Cazotte made no an-
swer, and was preparing to retire; when Madam de
Orammont, who wished, if possible, to do away all
serious impressions, aud to restore some kind of gaietv
among them, advanced towards him, and said, "My
good prophet, you have been so kind as to tell' us all
our fortunes, but you have not mentioned any thine
respecting your own." After a (ew moments silence
with his eyes fixed on the ground, "Madam," he re^
plied, ♦; have you read the Siege of Jerusalem, as
related by Josephus?" "To be sure I have, and
who has not? But you may suppose, if you please,
that I know nothing about it." "Then you must
know, Madam, that during the Seige of Jerusalem,
a man, for seven successive days, went round the
ramparts of that city, in the sight of the besiegers
and besieged, crying incessantly, in a loud and inau-
spicious voice,—' Woe to Jerusalem !' and on the se-
venth day he cried, 'Woe to Jerusalem, and to my-
selt! At that very moment, an enormous stone
thrown by the machines of the enemy, dashed him in
pieces.

M. Cazotte then made his bow and retired.

Thus far M. de la Harpe : those who * recollect
the melancholy exit of all the characters above men-
tioned during the Reign of Terror in France, must be
astonished at the exact fulfilment of this remarkable
prediction, so unlikely to be accomplished at the

• will be aj.
is the only
- the King

!te, and his
le impulse,
and said to

" My dear
lese nielan-
ven to the
>u are, and
ide no an-

Madam de
lo away all
id of gaiety
said, "My
' tell us all

any thing
fits silence,
ini," he re-
iisalem, as

liave, and
you please,

you must
Jerusalem,

round the
3 besiegers

and inau-
on the se-
id to my-
ous stone
led him in

) recollect
^ove men-
2, must be
•emarkable
ed at the

4tiy

time it was uttered. That M. de la Harpe was capa-
ble of impof^iii^ lalsliood on the world, in tlu' last nio-
ijje ts ol his lile, will, 1 believe, be suspected by lew,
and I have never beard the authenticity of the note
called in (question.

The conversion of M. de la Harpe, a .French Infidel

Philosopher.

EVERY person who has paid the least attention
to French Literature, knows that there was a
society of ennnent men of letters, who held regular
meetings, in order to canvass the best mode of di-
recting their attacks against Christianity. Diderot
was the patriarch of these Athiests. D. Aleinbert,
Diiclos, Condorcet, and many others, were members
of this society. But none was more conspicuous
than M. de la Harpe. He was the favourite of Vol-
taire; repeatedly visited him, and resided with him at
Ferney ; acted at his theatre, dedicated his first pluy
to him ; and, in return, Voltaire revised his produc-
tions, recommended him to otlicial patr(mage, secured
a party to his favour; and, in short, excited all his
interest to render him popular. De la Harpe, trejiding
in the footsteps of bis master, promoted the French
Revolution to his utmost. The ever-shifting go-
vernors of France, during many a turbulent scene,
were sometimes friendlv, sometimes inimical, to lite-
rature and literati. By one of these temporary [)re-
sidences M. de la Harpe was arrested, and shut up
in the luxembourgh. The greater number of those
with whom he had been particularly connected, had
already suffered on the scatibid ; and the same fate
appeared to be reserved for him. At the moment
wiien he was consigned to a prison, the opinions of
those modern philosophers with whom he had associ-
ated, were not etiaced from his mind, and, though

1 I'^'VM&^k t^R>

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1 ' ■

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I- '

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^^.'^:

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430

he abominated their effects, the principles themselves
had not altogether lost their influence. '

In this comfortless situation M. de la Harpe had
the happniess of finding a fellow prisoner whose p?,
afforded him the means of consolation, and by whom
It was recommended to employ himself in studying
the Psalms of David, which M. de la Harpe had ne?
yer looked into but as containing some poetical beau
ties ; and even of these he did not retain^ the least re"
membrance. His new friend, however, fearinTlS
he might alarm the -hilosopher by such ; proposition
urgea this employment rather as the means oi^ll
iiig his anxious mind ; and, therefore, requested him
Foduotionr'' "^ ^^"^mentary on these sublime

M. de la Harpe, charmed with an occupation which
was so conformable to his taste and inclinations, en-
tered a once upon the work. At the very com^^^nce-
ment o It he was convinced that the Psalms contained
poetical beauties of a superior character; and, as he
proceeded, this opinion was proportionably heighten-
ed. The perusal of other pious works strengthened the
growing disposition ; and he, at length, discovered the
real source of those consolations, and that help to
which the wretched never apply in vain. This com-
mentary, which was at first undertaken with the
warmth of gratitude, and continued with the zeal of
piety, became the preliminary discourse of the transla-
tion ol the Psalter, the first work in which the author
announced his conversion.

This conversion was attended with all the marks of
a sincere conviction. The manuscript notes of M
cte la Harpe, afford an additional proof of it "T
was m prison," says he, "all alone, in a 'small
chamber, and m a state of profound sorrow; but
many days did not pass before I found that the study

In f^ ,' '"'^, ^^r ^""'^^'^ ^'^^ Pf^^l"ced a
s rong, though gradual, effect in my mind. I was

already numbered among the faithful. I beheld a

431

s themselves

Harpe had
whose piety
tid by wliom
in studying
trpe had ne-
•etieal beau-
he least re-
fearing lest
proposition,
^ns of arnus-
luested him
ese sublime

ation which
latioiis, en-
com^ence-
is contained

and, as he
Y heighten-
?thened the
covered the
lat help to

This com-
i with the
he zeal of
he transla-

the author

e marks of
tes of M.
of it. "I
n a small
row ; but
the study
rod need a
d. I was
beheld a

new light, but it alarmed and terrified me, by dis-
covering the abyss, — an abyss of forty years of error.
I beheld all the evil, but could not" discern the re-
medy.— There was no one to afford me aido On
one hand, my life appeared before me, represented to
me by a light which beamed from the torch of celes-
tial truth. On t' e other, T looked on death, that
death which I daily expected. And as it was then
inflicted. The priest no longer appeared on the
scaffold to console the dying victim : he ascended it
rather to die hi^ jself there. Oppressed by these deso-
lating ideas, my heart sunk within me; and addres-
sing myself in a smothered voice to the God whom I
had scarcely known. What ought I to do? and I, —
What will be my lot ? Upon the table lay Thomas a
Kempis. I had been already assured of the excellence
of his work, of the comfort I should derive from it,
and of the power it possessed to sooth my desponding
thoughts. I therefore opened the book, as accident
directed, and my eyes fell at once upon these words,
Behold, I am here my son ; I come to you, because you
have called upon me. I read no more. The instanta-
neous impression which I experienced is beyond all
expression ; and I am as unable to describe as to for-
get it. I fell with my face on the earth, and bathed
in tears ; while my words and my cries were but half
uttered from the violence of my sobbings. At the
same time, I found my heart expanding and relieved :
but at the very same moment, as if it were ready to
split. Indeed, I remember very little of this situation,
but that I wept long, and that beyond all compa-
rison ; my heart never experienced such violent and
delicious emotions, and that these words. Behold, I
am here, my son, did not cease to resound, as it
were, through my soul, and to arouse all the faculties
of it."

M. de la Harpe considered it as a duty to proclaim
in public those truths which he had formerly been so
unfortunate as to oppose ; and it was with this view

wm\

1''

if . ;*(

»!i- "' >iS

432

that he resumed the chair of the Lvceum. The effect
produced by him at the first sitting will never be for
gotton. The orator, in a speech full of eiieigv and
l)athos, ^rjive a picture of the national manners%()i„
ted out the causes, aud inspired the crowded audience
with those sentnnents of indignation and regret which
he himself felt.

The noble nnd pathetic deliverv of M. de la Harpe
gave gieat weioht to the principles which he maiutaL
ed; and it was remarked with truth, that his eloquence
became more perfect when it was altogether consecra-
ted to the support of such a cause. It was to be ex-
pected that his zeal would attract, as in effect it after-
wards did, the spirit of {)ersecution : and he was twice
proscnbed. An order was issued to get possession of
hnn ahve or dead : but he contiiuied to pursue his la
bwurs with undisturbed tranquility. His " Defence of
Religion" then occupied his mind. Without consul-
ting the authors who had treated on the same subject
he confined himself to the meditation of the sacred
writings, and drew from that only source the aro-u-
ments which he opposed to the philosophers. He
possessed an advantage unknown to his predecessors
Connected as he had long been with the infidel writers
he was well acquainted with the strong and the weak
parts ol their doctrine; and, to use his'own expression
he had passed almost the whole of his life in the camp
oj the enemy. ^

All the activity of his mind was exerted in the sa-
cred cause to which he had devoted himself; nor did
the continual danger to which he was exposed inter-
rupt the tranquility of his mind. He has often said
that this period of proscription was the happiest of
his life. His intimate friends had frequentlv seen
him, when he thought himself unobserved by them
piostiate on the earth, as it were before God and
disi)laying signs of the most lively and sincere repen-
tance. His health, however, was materially arlected
by his confinement; and, after his return to public

433

The effect

ever be for-

energy and

Hiers, poii).

ed audience
•egret which

e la Harpe,
le niaiiitain-
is eloquence
r coiisecra-
as to be ex-
pect it after-
e was twice
ossession of
rsne his la-

Defence of
^ut consul-
lie subject,

the sacred
e the argii-
[)hers. He
■edecessors.
del writers,

the weak
expression,
11 the camp

in the sa-
If ; nor did
3sed inter-
often said
lappiest of
;iitly seen
by them,
God, and
ere repen-
ly arlected
to public

notice, ha gradually sunk under a complication of dis-
orders. He preserved his presence of mind to the last ;
and when his enfeebled eyes could not bear the light
from amidst the curtains which were drawn around
him, from the gloom of this anticipated tomb, he con-
tinued to converse with his friends on the comforts
he experienced from religion, on the errors of his
life, and on the mercy of his God. He died Feb. 11,
1803, aged 64.

AN EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM A GENTLEMAN IN
BARUADOES TO A FRIEND.

AVERY great friendship existed between Tho-
mas Ostrahan, and Robert Straker, two youths
of this island, which was contracted at school in Eng-
land, and continued after their arrival here. Ostra-
han died lately; Straker attended his funeral, and
expressed lively marks of sorrow at the death of his
friend. On his return at night to rest, in his cham-
ber, he there ruminated on Ostrahan's death, and
consoled himself for his loss, in a hope that his friend
would enjoy a degree of happiness in the invisible
world that he could not have expected here. Whilst
he was thus employed, he on a sudden saw a glim-
mering light at a distance from him, which seemed
to approach near him, and directly there appeared
to his sight, a form that made every nerve ix? him
tremble with fear and so wrought on him, that he
sunk speechless in his bed. After some little time he
recovered from his swoon, and saw the same form sit-
ting in a chair by the side of his bed ; and notwith-
standing the terrific appearance of it, he soon recog-
nised the features of his late departed friend, Ostra-
han, who thus saluted him : " Do not be terrified,
my dear friend, at my appearance : be of good cou-
rage: do not be surprised." At these words he
reeoliecied his faulteriug spirits, and offered to take

^'"mw

i
1

1 i:

I V

rw.

^} ilU iUatlJ ■

■|:il

liim by the Imn.l. '• No, my ,lear Bob," said the sni
. , I am not to be to„che.l by morta hands Z
I have received a comman.l from the Ahnic^hty t^ wa „
you o an impending danger tl,at hangs o?er your t"
the s head, of which he is ignorant. Tell yo ,r fothe

a two infmate friends and companions of you b „
wf.ir? ^''°'%,^f "c'^ I'i™ to the most abandoned
tvickedness ; and that unless he uses some nrecauZ
to prevent it, your brother will inevitably be Tost
know you love him, and would not willingly ee liim
undone, therefore fail not to acquaint your fat ™
You yom.elf will shortly die, at Ihat hour Ik ow
not and another of our frien<ls will shortly follow^
Ac this he departed from his oight. ^

1 his made a deep impression on him, which his
notl^r took notice of, and asked him the reason o

he came to have such a thought; and in answer to
her quesuon he told her of his friend OstraharT'san
pearanee to him, at which she laughed, and told lim
n was a dream. At night he retired to rest wihi^
bro her as usual; but being kept awake sonTe i e
by uneasy reflections on what the spirit had told iZ

blight hght illuminating the whole chamber which

tei itied him. At the same instant he jumped out of

and saw his hieiid arraye<l in celestial glory standi,..

n efwi.l -r' '' ■'''f " " '°"S ''^"^ '-""^C' that
. uiied with It an an- of inexpressible grandeur- his

checks appeared ad.lornod with a rosy colom-ed'hue
that surpassed the beauty of the blooming rose A
glorious illumination .sparkled around bin Stra-
th'i ^ I'e t! o ^'" "'"'-*'•■ ■'"'•^' "I'tui-ous ecsta y,
•"""nation ol his earlhly friend. At length tln.s

said the spi-
Iiaiids. But
rhty to warn
^-er joiirhro-
I your father
of your bro-
; abandoned
i precaution
^ be lost. I
igly see him
^our father.
5ur I know
•tly follow."

, which his
i reason of
- asked how

answer to
rahan's ap-
d told him
3st with liis
some time
1 told him
aw a very
ber, which
•leased and
3ed out of
ing a flut-
the place,
y standing
I form so
robe, that
uleur; his
3ured hue,

rose. A
m. Stra-
s ecstacy,
dulge the
igth this

you ;
Most

High

13:")

celestial inhabitant broke silence, and said, "M
dear friend, once more I come to visit
in a place of happiness, and sent by the
to repeat the former command respecting that youll
who now lies sleeping in the bed : why di(i you
delay communicating it to your father?" Straker
replied, " I designed to acquaint my father of it, but
my mother ridiculing it as a dream, prevented me.
Will you permit me to awake my brother? Your
warning him of danger will have strong weight."
" No, it is not permitted," repeated the spirit, " should
you awake him he might see me, because I am at
present visible to human eyes; but it would also
oblige me to depart instantly. You will yourself
bid adieu to this world in a few days ! Be resigned,
and expect the stroke." " I am not afraid of death,"
replied Straker, " I think I am prepared to obey
the summons of the Most High." "Three hours
before your death," said the other, "I shall appear
to you : be mindful of the injunction laid on you."
He then walked very leisurely towards the open
window; Straker had resolution enough to follow
him, and trod upon the skirt of the white robe, but it
did not seem to feel like a common substance. At this
the shining seraph turned round, and most benignly
smiled upon hiin ; and then appeared to soar up to
the heavens.

Straker a few hours after, penned every particular
of this visitation, and directed it in a letter to his
father.

He was soon after seized with a dangerous disor-
der. After being seated in a chair, he presently
raised his drooping head, and cried, "I come, I
come, my dear friend, I will soon follow. His friends
around him, being surprised, asked him the reason of
his exclamation; "I have just seen." said he, "my
dear friend, Thomas Ostrahan; I shall expire in
three hours." On being told that the young lady he
courted was in the house, he desired his friends to

i '

Mil

4. ■.■hi

1 I

iir-l| '

130

introduce hrv into his chamber. He then embraced
her with great tenderness, and kissing her, moimifuHv

exclamied. " larewell, my dear M , may heaven

love you, as I have done ! Farewell, my dear friends '"
Alter this he prostrated himself on his face ; and, after
iymg some time in that posture, he expired with a
gentle sigh. ^ *

DR. PORDAGE'S ACCOUNT OF SEVERAL APPARITIONS
MADE ONE NIGHT TO Illfll IN HIS HED CHAMIJEr/

Extracted from Lord Chief Justice H(de's Collections

of Matters of Fact.

T JUDGE that God calls me to make a free and open
J- discovery of those wonderful apparitions which
were seen in my family about four years since. And
it all that read this can but receive and judge of it
by that rule and principle from which I write, the-
will be so far from judging me, that they cannot but
bless God for his mercy to me ; and the more ad-
mire his wonderful works, and the greatness of his
power.

In August, 1649, there appeared in my bed cham-
ber, about the middle of the night, a spirit in the
shape of Everard, with his weaiing apparel, band,
culls, hat, &c., who, after drawing the curtain,
walked through the chamber very easily, and dis-
appeared. *^

Tliat night there was another appearance of one in
the form of a giant, with a great sword in his hand.
Without a scabbard, which he flourished against me-
having the figuralive similitude of a green tree Ivine
by him. *^ ^

After this had 'Continued for the space of half an
hour, It vanished, and there succeeded a third ap-
pearance, which was very terrible, being in the
sliape of a great dragon, which seemed to take up

437

most part of a large room, appearing with great teeth
and '->pen jaws, whence he often ejected fire against
me, which came with such a magical influence, that
it almost struck tlie I eath out of my body, making
me fall to the ground.

These three dreadful apparitions were very terrible
to nature, and might have hurt me much, had I not
ueen su[)ported in an extraordinary manner ; the last
of which continued till the day began to dawn, and
then dissapiJcared.

VIRTUOUS FRIENDSHIP RENEWED IN HEAVEN.

IF, when the spirit quits her clay built cell,
Ascends to heaven with spirits pure to dwell ;
The friendships form'd on earth, their force retain,
And with encreasing ardour still remain ;
What raptures must possess the virtuous mind,
(Virtue alone those joys can hope to find,)
To meet in worlds of never ending bliss,
All whom we loved, esteem'd, rever'd in this !
The long lost child shall glad the parent's siglit,
Deck'd in refulgent robes of spotless light :
Children with grateful smiles their parents greet,
Who fled before them to the blissful seat.
They, whom th' untimely stroke of death disjoin'd,
The faithful pair, by sacred vows combin'd ;
Meet in the realms of happiness, shall prove
The true delights of pure celestial love.
And when two hearts whom tender friendship sways.
On virtue founded, in their earliest days :
Who ne'er could wish one pleasure to conceal.
Nor knew one grief but Friendship's balm could heal,
Sincerely anxious for each other's good.
By mutual counsel, sweet reproof, they stood :
When two such spirits wing their airy way.
And reach the Drig * abodes of endless day ;
EnraDtur'd. each tue dear lov'd friend shall view,
And ardently their former love review :

■

438

They part no more, nor change their glorious stale
Completely blest beyond the power of fate,
Let us, then, form such friendships here below
As only can survive death's certain blow;
Smce Vice, tho' leagu'd, her trust will soon betrav
As J^ oily s airy vows fly swift away ; '

While virtuous Friendship scorns the attack of time
Secure to flourish in a nobler clime; '

Of never fading happiness possest,
In heavenly mansions of eternal rest.

A REMARKABLE ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF TWO

SISTERS.

mmS extraordinary account was taken out of an

"Agnes Payne, daughter of Edward Payne, was
buried the first day of Feb. 1560. Johan Payne was
buried the first day of Feb. 1560."

Then follows the under-written remark in the hand
vrr^tmg oi the vicar, and attested by the churchwar-
dens.

^ " In the death of these two sisters last mentioned
18 one thing worthy recording, and deligently to be
noted. The eldest sister called Agnes, beii4 verv
sick unto death, speechless, and was thoiurht past
hope of speaking, after she had lain 24 hours with-
out speech, at last, upon a sudden cried out to her
sister to make herself ready and come with her Her
sister Johan, being abroad about other business, was
called for; who, being come to her sick sister, and
demandmg how she did, she very loudly and earnestly
bade her sister make herself ready, seeing she stayed
for her, and could not go without her. Within half
an hour after, Johan was taken very sick, which
inceasing all the night upon her, her other sister still

ious stale,

te,

below

on betray,

ck of time,

fl OF TWO

I out of an

Essex, by

Payne, was
Payne was

n tbe liand
churcbwai-

mentioned,
ently to be
being very
ougbt past
lours with-
out to her
ber. Her
Jiness, was
sister, and
J earnestly
she stayed
^^ithin half
ck, which
sister still

43y

ciilling ber to come away, in tbe morning they both
departed this wretched world together."

Then follows, in tbe same handwriting, this just
observation. " Oh the unsearchable wisdom of God !
how deep are bis judgments, and bis ways past find-
ing out !"

Testified by
HENRY HOME WOOD,) ^, ,
JOHN PUPP I Churchwardens.

JEDEDIAH Buxton's predictioxN.

TEDEDIAH BUXTON, a poor man of Elmton,
fj in Derbyshire, well known to several eminent,
and many curious men, for his uncommon talents for
numbers, and extraordinary natural powers of arith-
metical calculation, died about six years since ; who
was as famous for the exact prediction of the time
of his death, as for bis curious enumeration of every
incident in bis life while living. This man was
firmly persuaded that bis death would happen on a
certain day, which it precisely did. From this con-
viction, he took a formal leave of all his friends and
acquaintances, who all equally joined in the laugh at
his infatuation.

He first waited on the Duke of P , who bad

been kind to bim, and esteemed him as an honest and
singular man. He told the butler, that he must then
see his Grace, or he should never see him again ; tbe
Duke being informed of his request, ordered him in-
to the parlour, and desired to know the cause of his
earnest desire to see bim. His reply was to this ef-
fect : " I am come to thank your Grace for all the
favours you have bestowed on me ; for I shall never
see your Grace any more." On the Duke's enquiry
into the reason of that declaration, be answerod.

'■'■ s

■ u •

'i:

|! i i' 1 « ^ I

440

" I must never sec you again : I must come here no
more." " Why Jeddy ?" replied the Duke. He said
"Because I shall die on Thursday next." The Duke
endeavoured to persuade him that he was only vapour,
ish, and that there was not the least intimation of his
death ; and withal charged his servants not to give
him nmch beer; adding, "for the old man's brain
grows weak." In the kitchen, the laugh circular
freely concerning the old man's prediction. However
he stiffly maintained the certainty of its accomplisli-
ment ] the intervening days were spent in taking leave
of his friends : none of whom believed him either in
earnest, or in his right mind.

The predicted day ai'riving, the old man was still
equally assured of his death on that day :— and after
having dined, sat himself down in his easy chair and
expired; to the astonishment of all who had ridiculed
his testimony.

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL,

THE proofs of the immortality of the soul are diawn,
Firsty From the nature of the soul itself, and par-
ticularly its immateriality; which though not absolute-
ly necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I
think, been evinced to almost a demonstration.

Secondly, From its passions and sentiments, as par-
ticularly from its love of existence, its horror of anni-
hilation, and its hopes of immortality, with that sweet
satisfaction which it finds in the practice of virtue, and
that uneasiness vvhich follows in it upon the commis-
sion of vice.

Thirdly, From the nature of the Supreme Being,
whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all
concerned in this point.

But among these other excellent arguments for
the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from

!onie here no
e. He said,
The Duke
only vapouN
latiou of his
not to give
man's brain
:h circulated
1. However
acconiplish-
taking leave
im cither in

an was still
: — and after
>y chair and
ad ridiculed

il are di-awn,
;lf, and par-
lot absolute-
ion, has, I
tion.

iJiits, as par-
ror of anni-
1 that sweet
f virtue, and
lie coiumis-

sme Being,
-city, are all

uments for
Irawn from

411

flie perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection,
without a possibility of ever arriving at it ; which is
a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened
and improved by others who have written on this
subject, though it seems to me to carry a great weight
with it. How can it enter into the thoughts of man,
that the soul, which is capable of such immense per-
fections, and of receiving new improvements to all
eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon
as it is created? Are such abilities made for no
purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection
that he can never pass ; in a few years he has all the
endowments he is capable of; and were he to live
ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is
at present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in
her accomplishnients, were her faculties to be full
grown, and to be incapable of farther enlargements,
1 could imagine it might fall away insensibly, and
drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can
we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual
progress of improvement, and travelling on from per-
fection to perfection, after having just looked abroad
into the works of its great Creator, and made a few
discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and pow-
er, must perish at her first setting out, and in the very
beginning of her enquiries ?

A man considered in his present state, seems only
sent into the world to propogate his kind. He pro-
vides himself with a successor, and immediately quits
his post to make room for him.

Hccrcs

Hdiredem alterius, vdut unda bupcrvenit undam,

Hor. Ep. 2. 1. 2. v. 175.
Heir crouds on heir, as in a rolling flood

wave urges wave.

' ■■

442

> -

fill

j,i

He does not seem hcun to enjoy life, hut to deliver
it down to others. Tliis is not surprising to consi-
der in animals, which are formed for our use, and
can finish their business in a short life. The silk-
worm, after having spun her task, lays lier eggs, and
dies. But a man can never have taken in his fuH
measure of knowledge, has no time to subdue his
passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up
to the perfection of his nature, before he is hurried
ort" the stage. Would an infinitely wise being make
such glorious beings for so mean a purpose ? Can
he delight in the production of such abortive intelli-
gencies. and shortlived reasonable beings P Would
he give us talents that are not to be exerted ? Capa-
cities th- t are never to be gratified? How cnn we
find tli d wisdom that shines through all his works, in
the information of man, without looking on this
world as only a nursery for the next, and believing
that the several generations of rational creatures,
which rise up and dissappear in such quick succes-
sions, are only to receive the first rudiments of exis-
tence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into
a more friendly climate, wiiere thev may spread and
nourish to all eternity.

There is not a more pleasing and triumphant consi-
deration in religion than this of the [)erpttual pi'ogress
which the soul makes towards the perfection of naUire
without ever arriving at a period in it. To look upoii
the soul as going on from strength to strength ; to
consider that she is to sl;ine for ever with new acces-
sions of glory, and brighten to all eternity : that she
wdl be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to
knowledge; carries in it something wonderfully agree-
able to that ambition which is natural to the mind of
man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God
himself, to see his creation for ever beautifying in his
eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees
of resemblance.

Methinks this single consideration, of the progress

443

iu . finite spirit to perfection, will be siuiicieiit to
fxtinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all con-
tempt in superior. That cherubim that now ap})ears
as a God to a human soul, knows that the period
will come, when the human soul shall be as perfect
as he himself now is; nay, when she shall look
down upon that degree of perfection as much as she
now falls short of it. It is true the nature still ad-
vances higher, and preserves its distance, and su-
periority in the scale of being ; but he knows that
how high soever the station is, of which he stands pre-
possessed at ])iesent, the inferior nature will at length
mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree of
glory.

With what astonishment and veneration may we
look into our souls, where there are such hidden stores
of virtue and knowledge^ such inexhausted sourses
of perfection ? we know not yet what we shall be,
nor will it ever enter into the heart of man to conceive
the glory which will be always in reserve for him.
The soul considered with its Creator, is like one of
those mathematical lines that may draw near to ano-
ther to all eternity, without a possibility of touching
it. And can there be a thought so transporting, as to
consider ourselves in these perpetual approaches to
him, who is not only the standard of perfection, but
of happiness.

A REMARKAKLK CONVERSION.

SAMUEL W. was so abandoned for many years
that he cast off the fear of God, and gave up
himself to almost all kinds of wickedness. Being
destitute of all employment, he engaged with another
like himself, as trumpeter to a set of strolling players.
One morning his companion told him, that he was
violently tempted by the devil to destro; himself.

'i^

■'

^ .1

1 1i

f !

414

i3 "i

■1^

f: I

Samuel laughed at him for his weakness in regaidinrr
such thoughts. However, in a few davs, the deluded
wretch perj)etrated tlie horrihle deed. Very soon after,
Samuel was violently tempted to comm'Jt the same
crime. His mind was continually in a tempest. He
thought satan urged him to destroy himself directly,
as his comrade had done; telling him that he had
sinned heyond reach of mei'cy, and the longer he
hved, the greater would be his condemnatiom He
was harassed thus for more than a year, although he
applied to a physician, and also sought the advice of
two clergymen, without any benefit. In this distres-
sing situation, he saw in a dream, a minister, who
said to him, " I know your troubles, and am come to
show you the way t(^ peace vvith God : Follow me."
Presently, he thought, that he was conducted into a
beautiful garden, where every thing he saw was trans-
porting to his mind. In a few weeks after this dream,
in the streets of Truor, he saw the Rev. Mr. Walker,'
Curate of the town. He instantly cried out, " That is
the veiy man who appeared to me in my dream ; I
must go and lell him what my sufferings are." Ac-
cordingly he did so : and Mr. Walker after representing
the sinfulness of sin, and the necessity cf repentance,
preached Christ to him. The poor criminal almost
famted away, and said, " I cannot believe what you
say, unless you now take a solemn oath that it is true ;
and tell me that you yourself have no other hope, but
Christ dying on the cross to save you." Mr. Walker
was so struck \^ith the poor man*s"simplicitv and sin-
cerity, that he did then, in the most solernn manner
possible, swear, "He had no other hope." In tliat
very hour, Samuel was set free from the bondage of
sin and Satan ;— he forsook all his wicked companions,
got mto another employment, and led a new life: a
life becoming a folbwer of Jesus Christ.

1 regarding
the deluded
/ soon after,
t the same
n[)eHt He
3lf' directly,
iiat he had

longer he
latioii. He
Ithoiigh he
J advice of
his distres-
nister. who
im come to
'ollow me."
cted into a
/ was trans-
this dream,
Ir. Walker,
t, "That is
Y dream ; I
are." Ac-
epresenting
repentance,
nal almost

what you
t it is true ;

hope, hut
^Ir. Walker
v and sin-
111 manner
In that
•ondage of
mipanions,
ew life: a

445

A SINGULAR HISTORY OF A MURDER:

Foimd out tH'cnUj-livo years after it rvas perpetrated, in
the torvn of Chelmsford, and discovered by the late
Mr. Joseph Stnttt, Author of the Dictionary of
Engravers, ^c, ^c. ;Sr«'.

SOxME years since, having occasion to be at Chelms-
ford, a very strange adventure happened to me.
I arrived late in the evening, on my journey from
Colchester, and after having inquired for the best inn,
was recommended to the White Horse, which was at
the other end of the town, facing the market, and
adjoining the church yard. In the morning I was
desirous to see the church, a long, large, and stately
edifice, and then just finished : after I had surveyed
the building, I walked among the tombs in the church
yard, and the sexton was then digging a grave for a
burial, which was to be made of a townsman that
evening : I stood awhile to observe the man, who,
without the least compunction or reflection, cast out
from the earth, the remains of his fellow mortals, and
whistled with indifference.

Amongst a variety of bones thrown out of the pit,
was a skull, which appeared whiter than ordinary;
this induced me to take it up, and turning it about, I
heard something ratde within it; upon examination,
I found a large nail, covered with rust, full four in-
ches long : it surprised me to find a nail in such a
situation, and on turning the skull about, 1 found on
the forehead a perforation, encrusted with the rust of
the iron, and in which a part of the nail yet remained ;
this led me to suspect, that the owner of that skull
had been murdered, but without mentioning any sus-
picion to my grave companion, I inquired, if he knew
to whom the bones, which he was now throwing out
of tile earth, belonged ? " Yes, Sir," said he, " and
well too ; he was as hearty a cock as ever broke bread,
and was the master of the White Horse, two and

lii'

446

ii < \

!(!

f;* <!

twenty years ago." ''How came lie by liis death?"
"O very suddenly! alas! my worthy master, we
are here to-day and tliere to-morrow ; death when he
comes will not be said nav. Would you believe it
I drank with him the night before, and he seemed as
well in health as I, but in the morning he was dead
and I buried him with my own hands in this- grave.''

say

"He was dead, I
" Was any cause as-

"He died suddenly, you

tell you the next morniL„. , . .. _ , ,_,, ,,,

signed.^' -He died in a in." "And do you think
this was his skull ?" " I'd not deceive you, Sir, I am
sure of it." See, then," said 1, " the cause of his
dying sutldenly," showing him the nail rusted in the
skull, and the remainder corroded and loose in tlie
cavity. He seemed astonished. " Had he no family ?"
*' No, he left a widow, the woman who at present
keeps the inn, and before two months were past, from
the death of her husband, she married the hostler— he
is at present the master."

Without further questioning the Sexton, I inquired
for the residence of the Justice, and taking the skull
in my hand, I wrapped the end of my mantle about
It, and went to him : I was readily admitted ; and
after apologizing for my intrusion, told him the
causa of my coming, and then showed him the skull;
he was struck in the same manner as I had been, that
the owner of this skull had been murdexed, and sent
for the Sexton, who confirmed what he said to me,
and declared he was ready to make oath to the idch'
tity of the skull. The magistrate then sent for the
woman, by a mere verbal message, that no alarm
might be given ; she instantly attended. She seenitd
surprised at seeing me there. I smiled, and bid her
good morrow, said I had rested well, and had walk-
ed out for amusement; wlieij, after some little extra-
neous conversation, the magistrate gave it a ditierent
turn, and without any more of previous introduction,
began to question her concerning her first husband.
She then affected to weep, and praised him for a

Ilis death?"
master, we
1 when he
believe it,
seemed as
was dead,
lii^' grave."
as dead, I
cause as-
yoii think
Sir, I am
use of his
ted ill tl)e
>se in tlie
family?"
at present
past, from
ostler — he

f inquired

the skull
ntle about
:ted ; and

him the
he skull;
)een, that

and sent
d lo Uie,
the ideh
t for the
no alarm
e seemed

bid her
id wulk-
le extra-

difterent
)d notion,
husband.
m for a

<£

447

paragon of kindness and virtue. " But still, 1 hope,
you have no reason to complain of your i)resent good
man." " Certainly not, your worship, said she, not
upon the whole; but he has not the learning and
breeding of my dear, dear Gregory !" " You married
him, I understand, very soon after your dear Gre-
gory's death?" "Why, la! your worship, what
could a poor woman do, left alone, as you may say,
in a large inn, and all men-folk about her ! indeed,
I wept for Gregory, but I was obliged to think for
myself." " He died suddenly, I heard ?" " Ah, your
worship, I was as liap})y as the days were long, in
the evening ; and in the morning, your honour, I was
a poor miserable lone woman ! indeed, it is true, your
honour !" Did you know the cause of his death ?"
*'0h, he was taken in a fit of apoplex\% and fell
back in his chair, and spoke no more ! we put him
to bed, chafted and rubbed him, but all to no pur-
pose." "What help did you call in, did you not
send for the doctor?" Oh, your worship, it was to
no purpose, he was stone dead." " But bleeding in
such cases is sometimes etlicacious. Tnen you did
not call in the doctor?" "No, youv honour, I was
too mucli frightened to tliink o'nt." " You said, we
put him to bed; who was it that assi'^i^d you?"
"ilobert, the hostler, for I could not 11^* him by
nTyself: but I'orsooth, your \"^orship -ve called in
die gossips, they saw my deav hrisi'and's corpse,
and helped to lay it out too ; therefore there was no
need of the coroner's inquest, and be was buried,
your honour, as a mun (8t. Michael bless him)
should be buried, and holy mass said over him, or
i had been much to blame, vom honour." "No
doubt; but prithee, did he ne\er complain previous-
ly of the headach ?" ' Y' ^ nw honour ; after he
had been mellow with his cufM<»mers, for your ho-
nour must know, Gregory was :. "ire ha.^.d to make
iiis '^ustomers drink." — " Yes, but immediately before
hi jath," said the Jii.stice, "did he not complain

llF'

W' Pl

448

of the headaeh?" "Not in the least, your honour
he had just drank a cup of ale." "Well," said'
the magistiate, abruptly, "he complained not of
the headach."— -" Not in the least." "Why," said
he, fixing his eyes full on her, "that is 'strano-e •
indeed! I think a nail of half the length, woutd
have made me complain."— " Nail ! your honour"
said she, trembling, "nail! oh, that is false! there
was no nail!" She then hesitated, and soon after
recollecting herself, rejoined, "Forsooth, I do not
know what your worship means by a nail !" " Why
I'll tell you, good woman," said he, producing the
skull, and the part of the nail found in it : " had such
a nail as this been driven into my skull, it would also
have prevented me from complaining." The moment
she saw the skuh and the nail, she exclaimed, " Mur-
der will out! Yes, Robert mp- die;" and instantly
fainted away.

The Justice caused her to ..* ' .moved into an in-
ner room, and sent for her husband, who was at home,
but excused himself on account of his wife being
absent, and customers being in the house: but the
constable told him the business was of consequence :
he put on his hat, and went with him. When he
entered, the .Justice said, "Pray, Mr. Robert, ex-
cuse my sending for you in so peremptory a manner,
but there is a question between this gentleman aiul
me, which you can readily answer." "Your wor-
ship knows you may command any thing which is
in my power." replied Robeit. " Well then, tell mc
without disguise, how long can a man live after a
long nad has becji driven into his skull ?"--0n the
sudden statement of this question, his courao-e for-
sook him, his knees knocked each other, and his
teeth chattered in his head, and he exclaimed, " Why
_why~why your wor— ship how should

w.~f "„^''~V^-" "What is the matter

with thee, Robert?" says the Justice, "What is if
that fnglitens theeP Surely it is not the ghost of

■MC !» ;WH- I

:>nr honour,
^ell," said
ned not of
'Vhy," said

is strange •

gth, would

ir honour,"

false! there

soon after

I do not

!" "Why

ducing the

"had such

would also

le moment

led, "Mur-

id instantly

nto an in-
is at home,
wife being
e: but the
isequence :
When he
obert, ex-
a manner,
flernan aiKl
if our wor-
j which is
n, tell mc,
ve after a
"'—On the
urage for-
', and his
^d, "Why
3w should
the matter
/Vhat is it
'■ ghost of

449

of Gregory, thy master, which has occasioned this
astonishment!" "Oh, then," cried he out, "f see
that my she-devil has betrayed me ! but it was all her
doing." "What," cried the Justice, "what was her
doing?" "Aye," cried he, a little recollecting him-
self, " 1 want to know why your worship asks such
stiange questions ? I am s\ire as how I do not know
how to answer them , but your honour must know
I have got some horses from Thaxted fair, coming
home this morning, and, I dare say, they are home
by now. I hope your honour will excuse me at pre-
sent. If your worship is in this merry mood in the
afternoon, I'll come and answer any of your honour's
questions, with all my heart." "\Stop^ my friend,"
says the Justice, " ,ve cannot part at present quite so
easily; shut the door there; and for the horses, your
hostler, good master Robert, must look after them.
But you must know, tliat you stand charged with
murder : your wife has confessed the same, and it ap-
pears, I'nmi her confession, you ai'e the murderer."
«'I__[_yonr honour!" "Yes, of your master.'*
" Did she confess ?" " I tell you she did, and accuses
you of doing the leed." — "Oh, 'tis false! she wants
to get rid of me as she did of Gregory ; she persuaded
me, but I never did any such thing!" "Look here,
Robert," said the magistrate, " see this skull, it was
thy master's — yes 'tis Gregory's skull ! see this nail
found within it, corroded by age ; see where the head
remains still in the bone, and recollect at once your
hundv work."

The sudden exposure of the skull, and the address,
so worketl upon the mind of the unfortunate culprit,
that, aided by the terrors of a guilty conscience, it
led him to a full confession ; he and his wife were
consequently committed to the prison ; I was obliged
to appear as an evidence at the yearly assizes, held
for tlie county, where various circumstances were ad-
duced in proof of the murder, and they, being justly
condenmed, suffered the condign punishment.
15 3 m

il i

■

^ 'ij

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■H'?

s,tfl

460

THE RAKr: REFORMED IN THE HOUSE OF MOrRNi^y.

PLORINO was young and idle ; he gave himself
A up to all the diversions of the town, and roved
wild among the pleasures of sense; nor did he confine
ninself within the limits of virtue, or withold his
heart from any forbidden joy. Often hath he been
heard to ridicule marriage, and affirm that no man
can mourn heartily for a dead wife, for then he liatii
leave by the law to choose a new companion, to riot
in all the gayer scenes of a new courtship, and ner-
liaps to advance his fortune too.

When he heard of the death of Serena: '' Well "
said he «I will visit my friend Lucius, and rally
him a httle on this occasion." He went the next day
in all the wantonness of his heart to fulfil his desiJ
111 luman and barbarous as it was, and to spoit ^v1tli
solemn sorrow. But when Lucius appeared, the man
of gaiety was strangely surprised, he saw such a sin-
cere and inimitable distress sitting on his countenance,
and discovering itself in every air and action, that lie
dropt his cruel purpose, his soul began to melt and
he assumed the comforter.

Florino's methods of consolation were all drawn
Irom two topics : some from fate and necessity, advi-
sing and heroic indolence about unavoidable events
which are past, and cannot be reversed ; and some
were derived from the various amusements of life
vvhich call the soul abroad, and divide and scatter the
thoughts, and sutler not the mind to attend to its in-
ward angmsh "Come, Lucius," said ho, ''come
smooth your brows a little, anc. brightci, up for an
hour or two: come along with me to a concert this
evening, where you shall hear some of the best pieces
ot music that ever were composed, and performed by
some of the best hands that ever touchkl an instrii-
ment To-morrow I will wait on you to the plav,
or, if you please, to the new opera, where the scenes
are so surprising and gay, tiiat they would almost

MOrRNlNy,

ave liimself
and roved
I lie confine
withold his
th lie been
at no man
Bii lie hatii
on, to viot
>, and per-

" Well,"
I and rally
le next day
his design,
spoit witli
t\, the man
uch a sin-
►untenance,
'11, that lie
melt and

all drawn
sity, advi-
ble events

and some
Its of life
scatter the

to its in-

.0,

come

lip for an
)iicert this
-)est pieces
brmed by
an iiistru-
tlie play,
the scenes
lid almost

451

lenipt an old hermit from his beloved cell, and call
ixick his years to three and twenty. Come my friend,
what have the living to do with the dead? Do but
forget your grievances as little, and they will die too :
come, shake off the spleen, divert your heart with the
entertainment of wit and melody, and call away your
lancy from these gloomy and useless contemplations."
Thus lie ran on in his own way of talking and opened
to his mourning friend the best springs of comfort that
lie was acquainted with.

Lucius endured this prattle as long as he was able
to endure it, but it had no manner of influence to
stiuuich the bh^eding wound, or to abate his smarting
sorrows. His pain waxed more intense by such sort
of applications, and the grief soon grew too unruly
to coutiiin jtself.

Ijncius then asked leave to retire a little; Florino
followed him softly at a distance to the door of his
closet where indeed he observed not any of the rules
of civility or just decency, but placed himself near
enough to listen how the passion took its vent : and
there he heard the distressed Lucius mourning over
Serena's death in such language as this : —

What did Florino talk about ? Necessity and fate ?
Alas, this is my misery, that so painful an event can-
not be reserved, that the divine will has made it fate,
and there is a necessity of my enduring it.

Plays, and music, and operas ! What poor trifles
are these to give ease to a wounded heart ; To a heart
that has lost its choicest half! A heart that lies
bleeding in deep anguish under such a keen parting
stroke, and the long, long absence of my Serena!
She is gone. The desire of my eyes, and the delight
of my soul is gone. — The fir^t of earthly comforts
and the best of mortal blessings. — She is gone, and
she has taken with lier all that was pleasant, all that
could brighten the gloomy hours of life, that could
soften the cares, and relieve the burdens of it. She
is gone, and the best prtion and joy of my life is

iil

ft M

4^2

departed. Will she never return, never come back
and bless my eyes again P No; never, never.-She
will no more come back to visit this wretched world
and dry these weeping eyes. That best portion of rnv
hie, that dearest blessmg is gone, and will return no
more. .Sorrows m long succession await me while I
live; all my future days are marked out lor iriief and
darkness. ^ ^

Let the man, who feels no inward pain at the loss
of such a partner, dress his dwelling in black shades
and dismal formalities ; let him draw the curtains of
darkness around him, and teach his chambers a hu
slnonable mourning ; but real anguish of heart needs
none ol these modish and dissembled sorrows. Mv
soul is hung round with dark iiiiages in all her apart-
ments, and every scene is sincere lamentation and

I thought once I had some pretences to the courage
of a man : but this is a season of untried distress- I
now shudder at a thought, I start at shadows, my
spirits are sunk, and hoiror has taken hold of me 1
eel passions in me that were unknown before- love
has Its own proper grief, and its peculiar anguish.
Mourning love has those agonies and those sinkings
of spirit which are known only to bereaved and vir-
tuous lovers.

I stalk about like a ghost in musing silence till

buists out into weak and unmanly wailings. Ntran^je
and overwhehning stroke indeed! It lias n.lSl
all the man witlnn me down to softness : my nature
IS gone back to childhood again: I would mainti
t^ie dignity ol my age and my sex, but these eyes re-
bel and betray me ; the eyelids are full, thev over-
flow; the drops o love and grief trickle doVn my
time and plow the furrows of age there before their

Th!^Zi,f 1? '" ^ '^^^ T/^^'*^ '^'''"''' «P^««d afresh?
J he sight ol every iriend that knew her, calls up my

come back
uover.—She
died world
•rtion of my
1 return no
me wliile I
!• giief and

iit tlje loss
iick shades
curtains of
ibers a du
leart needs
rows. My
her apart-
itation and

lie courage
distress : I
idovvs, my
of me. 1
ilbre; love
r anguish,
e sinkings
I and vir-

ilence, till
lieart and
Stiange
IS melted
tiiy iuiture
maintain
a eyes re-
he v over-
down my
?rore their

(d afresh ?
s up my

453

weakness and betrays my frailty. 1 am quite ashamed
of myself. What shall I do 1* Is there nothing of
manhood left about my heart ? I will resist the pas-
sion, I will struggle with nature, I will grow indolent
and forbid my tears. Alas ! poor feeble wretch tiiat
lam! in vain I struggle, in vain 1 resist; the assu-
med indolence vanislies, the real passion works with-
in, it swell and l)ears down all before it ; the torrent
rises and prevails hourly, and nature will have its
way. Even the Son of God, when he became man
was lound weeping at the tomb of a darling friend.
Lazarus died, and Jesus wept.

my soul, what shall I do to relieve this heartach ?
How shall I cure this painful sensibility ! Is there
no opiate will reach it ? Whither shall I go to leave
my sorrows behind me ? I w^ander from one room
to another, and wherever I go I still seem to seek
her, but 1 miss her still. My imagination flatters
me with her lovely image, and tempts me to doubt,
is she dead indeed? My fond imagination would
fain forget her death-bed, and impose upon my hope
that I sliall find her somewhere. I visit her apart-
ment, I steal into her closet : in days past when I
have missed her in the parlour, how often have I
found the dear creature in that beloved corner of the
house, that sweet ]ilace of divine retirement and con-
verse with heaven ? But even that closet is empty
now. 1 go thither, and I retire in dissapointment
and confusion.

Methinks J should meet her in some of her walks,
ill some of her family cares or innocent amusements :
I should see' her face, methinks, I should hear her
voice and ex*:'hange a tender word or two — Ah, foolish
I'ovings of a distressed and disquieted fancy ! E very-
room is empty and silent; closets, parlours, chambers,
all empty, all silent ; and that very silence and empti-
ness proclaims my sorrows : even emptiness and deep
silence join to confei^s the painful loss.

Shall I try then to put her quite out of my thought,

45 J

III

le will coine no more wiiiim iiie reaeii ol mv
Sliall I loosen the fair picture and ciron I

since

senses i

(iom my heart, since the liurcr original is for eve
gone? Go, then, fair picture, go from my bosom
and appear to my soul no more. Hard wold ' R ,'
irt I "r'-^'"' 'N«.tthoB dearest form'; thoi,
most lovely of images, go from my heart: thy pre-
tence IS now too painful in that tender part of me
O unhappy word Thy presence painfull A dismal'
c'^uange indeed ! When thou wcrt wont to arise and
shew thysc t there, graces and joys were w,3nt to arise
m shew themselves : graces and joys went always

1 l'.?rt '-''^'i ',"-•' ""'■'«'•■'-->•'=' »P"--ar without them
til that darlv and bitter day that spread the veil™
death-overher: buther image ilrest in that gloomy

eil ha 1. lost all the atten.laiit joys and graces. r7t
her pictnie vanish Iron, my soul tlien, sin?e it lias lo
those endearing atten.lants ; let it vanish away into
forgetlulness, lor death has robbed it of ever/gra o
and every joy. ^'.j b''"-t-

Vet stay a little there, tempting image, let me
oi.ee more survey thee: stay a little Inomeiit and
me Uike one last glance. One solemn farewell. Is
there not something in the lesemblance of her too
lovely still to have it quite banished from my heart '^
t-aii 1 set my soul at work to try to forget her ^ Can
f deal so unkindly with one who would never Invc
lor^^otten me !> Can my soul live without to iina c

cflVced. ""' '"""''' """■" ""^ ^'^'^P "■<='■ *« '^^

Methinks I feel all my heartstrings wrapt around

hei, and grow so last to that <lcar picture in my

.;'"7;, '.''7 ■7'" to •;'-' woted there. To be divided

lom It IS to die. Why should I then pursue so vain

CL fr 'f %?""."»"■ ^^''-''t! forget myself?
oiget ray lile,' No; it cannot be: nor°can 1 bear

n,., '! f " " I'"''" ""•' ""^■' featment of an

uage somueh deserving and so mueh belove.1. Nei-

tlier passion nor reason permits me to forget her, nor

465

is it within my power. 81ie is prosoiii almost to ail
my tlioiights : she is vvitli me in all my motions ; grief
has arrows with her name upon them, they stick as
fast and as deep as those of lo\e; they cleave to my
vitals wheresoever I go, bit with a quicker sensation
and a keener pain. Alas it is love and grief together
that have shot all their arrows into my heart, and filled
every vein with acute anguisli and long distress.

Whither then shall I fly to find solace and ease? I
cannot depart from myself: I cannot abandon these
U'jjder and smarting sensations. Shall 1 quit the
iiouse and all the appartments of it which renew her
dear memory? Shall I rove in these open fields
which lie near my dwelling, and spread wide their
pleasing verdure? Shall I give my soul a loose to
all nature that smiles around me, or shall I confine
my daily walk to this shady and delightful garden ?
Oh, no ! neither of these will relieve my anguish.
Serena has too often blessed me with her company
both in this garden and in these fields. Her very
name seems written on every tree : I shall think of
her and fancy 1 see her in every step I take. Here
she prest the grass with her feet, her she gathered
violets and roses and refreshing herbs, and gave the
lovely collection of sweetness into my hand. But
alas, the sweetest violet and the fairest rose is fallen,
is withered, and is no more. Farew^ell then, ye fields
and gardens, with all y(nn' varieties of green and flow-
L'lyjoys! Ye are ail a desert, a barren wilderness,
since Serena has for ever left you and will be seen
there no more.

But can friends do nothiiig to comfort a mourner?
Come, my wise friends, surround me and divert my
cares with your agreeable conversation. Can books
afibrd to relief? Come, my books, ye volumes of
knowledge, ye labours of the learned dead; come,
fill up my hours with some soothing amusement. I
call my better friends about me, I fly to the heroes
and the philosophers of ancient ages to employ my

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456

soul among them. But alas ! neither learning nor
books anuise, nor green and smiling prospects of
nature delight me, nor conversation with my wisest
and hest friends can entertaii^ me in these dark and
melancholy hours. 8oliiude, solitude in some unseen
corner, some lonely grotto, overgrown with shades :
this is n)y dearest choice ; let me dwell in my beloved
solitude, where none shall come near me ; midnight
and solitur'e are the most pleasing things to a man
who is weary of daylight and of all the scenes of this
visible and busy world. I would eat and drink and
dwell alone, though this lonesome humour sooths
and gratifies the painful passion, and gives me up to
the tyranny of my shar[)est sorrows. Strange mix-
ture that 1 am made of i 1 mourn and giieve even to
death, and yet I seem fond of nothing but grid and
mourning.

Woe is me ! Is there nothing on earth can divert
nothing relieve me ? 'J'hen let my thoughts ascend to
paradise and heaven, there I shall find her better part,
and grief must not enter there. From this hour take
a new turn, O my soul, and never think of Serena but
as shining and rejoicing among the spirits of the blest,
and in the presence of her God. Rise often in liolv
meditation to the celestial world, and betake thyself
to more intense piety. Devotion has wings that will
bear thee high above the tunudts and passions of lower
life : devotion will direct and speed thy flight to a
country of brighter scenes.

Shake oil this earthliness of mind, tins dust of
mortality that hangs about thee : rise ui)ward often
in an hour, and dwell much in those regions wliitlier
thy devout partner is gone : thy better iialf is safely
arrived there, and that world knows nothing but joy
and love.

She is gone ; the prophets nnd the apostles and
the best of departed souls have marked out her way
to heaven : bear witness ye apostles and holy pro-
phets, the best of departed souls bear witness, that

arning nor
I'ospects of
I my wisest
'' flark and
-)me unseen
til shades :
my beloved
; midnight

to a man
nes of this

drink and
iOiir sooths

me up to
'ange mix-
?ve even to
; gritt and

can divert
s ascend to
better part,

hour take
Serena but
)f the blest,
'u in holy
ike thvself
■i that will
ns of lower
flight to a

lis (lust of
kVurd often
ns whither
f is safely
g but joy

Gstles and

t her way

holy pro-

itness, that

457

1 am seeking to follow iier in the appointed moment.
Let the wheels of nature and time roll on apace in
the destined way. Let suns and moons arise and set
apace, and light a lonesome traveller onward to his
home. Blessefl Jesus, be thou my living leader !
Virtue, and the track of Serena's feet be mv dailv^
and delightful path. The track leads upward' to the
regions of love and joy. How can I rlare to wander
from the path of virtue lest I lose that beloved track ?
Remember, O my soul, her footsteps are found in no
other road.

If my love to virtue should ever fail me, the steps
of my Serena would mark out my way, and help to
secure me from wandering. O may the kind influen-
ces of heaven descend from above, and establish and
guard my pious resolutions ! May the divine powers
of religion be my continual strength, and the hope of
eternal things my never failing support, till I am dis-
missed from this prison of the flesh and called to as-
cend to the spirits of the just made perfect, till I bid
adieu to all that is not immortal, and go dwell with
my God and my adored Saviour j there shall T find
my lost Sereria again, and share with her unutterable
jo\ of paradise.

Here Lucius threw himself on the couch and lay
silent in profound meditation.

When Florino had heard all this mournful rhap-
sody, he retired and stole away in secret, for he was
now ashamed of his first barbarous design : he felt a
sort of strange sympathy of sorrow such as he never
knew before, and with it some sparks of virtue began
to kindle in his bosom. As he mused, the fire burnt
within, and at last it made its way to his lips and
vented itself. " Well," said he, " I have learnt two
excellent lessons to-day, and I hope I shall never
forget them. There must be some vast and unknown
pleasure in a virtuous love, beyond all the madness
of wild and transient amours ; otherwise the loss of
the object could n- er have vvrought such deep and
15 3 N

1
i

1 • ■■ ■

" ll

ih:

t5S

Si!:

unfeigned woe in a soul so firni and manly as that
of Lucius. I begin now to believe what Milton sunsi;,
though I always read the lines b-ofore as mere poesv
and fable.

'* Hail weddod love, mysteriuiis, true source

Of human offspring, sole proprietor

In paradise, of oil tilings common else ;

By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men

Among the bestial herds to range ; by thee

Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure,

Kelations dear, and all the chanties

Of father, son, and brother, first were known ;

Perpetual fountain of domestic sweets,

Here love his golden shafts employs, here lights

His constant lamii, and waves his purple wings,

Reigns here and revels ; not in the bought smile

Of harlots, loveless, joyless, unendear'd,

Casual amours, niixt dance, or wanton mask.

Or midnight ball, \c.

" Blessed poet, that could so happily unite love
and virtue, and draw so beautiful a scene of real fe-
licity, which till this day I always thought was mere-
ly romantic and visionary ! Lucius has taught me
to understand these lines, for he has felt them ; and
methinks while I repeat them now I feel a strange
new sensation. I am convinced the blind poet saw
deeper into nature and truth than I have imagined.
There is, there is such a thing as a union of virtuous
souls, where happiness is only found. I find some
glimmerings of sacred light rising upon me, some un-
known pantings within, after such a i)artner and sucli
a life.

" Nor is the other lesson which I have learnt at all
inferior to this, but in truth it is of higher and more
durable importance, I confess since 1 was nineteen
years old I never thought virtue and religion had
been good for any thing, but to tie up children from
mischief, and frighten fools : but now I find by the
conduct of my friend Lucius, that as the sweetest

459

ily as that
lilton sung,
[nore poesv

joys of life are deriveil fr6ni virtue, so the most dis-
tressing sorrows may find a just relief in religion and
sincere piety. Hear me, thou Almighty Maker of my
frame, pity and assist a returning wanderer, and O
may thy hand stamp these lessons upon my soul in
everlasting characters."

I'll

n;
milo

unite love
of real fe-
it was mere-
taught me
them ; and
3l a strancfe
id poet saw
e imagined,
of virtuous
I find some
le, some un-
iier and sucli

learnt at all
3r and more
vas nineteen
religion had
bildreu from
find bv the
\\m\ sweetest

onl: n» viL casting out another.

LATRISSA is often indisposed. Her friends at-
tend her with the most obliging visits, and some-
times give her relief in a gloomy hour. Last Friday
she was seized with her usual discomposures; two
ladies of her greatest intimacy spent the afternoon in
her chamber ; they talked of public business, and the
commotions of the world, she was all silence and un-
moved. — They brought in virtue and religion, and
tried to raise the conversation to heaven ; her soul waa
very heavy still, and her ears were listless. They
descended to common tiifles, surveyed the green fields
through the window, and blessed the fine weather and
the warm sunshine ; Latrissa was all cloudy within,
and received the talk very coldly.

When they found all these attempts were in vain,
they ran to the charming topic of dress and fashion,
gay colours and new habits ; they traversed the park,
ancl rehearsed the biith-dav ; but even this would
awaken no pleasing airs, nor introduce one smile, nor
scarce provoke an answer.

At last one of the visitants happened to mention
a name or two, for which Latrissa had a known aver-
sion, and began to expose tlieir conduct and their
ciiaracter. Latrissa soon felt the wicked pleasure;
the luscius poison wrought powerfully within, her
voice echoed to every accusation, and confirmed all
the infamy. A discourse so agreeable scattered the
inward gloom, and awakened her gall and her tongue

i*l'l!:

4C>0

at once. After a few sentences past she assumed the
chair, and engrossed the whole conversation herself.
She railed on triumphantly for an hour together with-
out intermission and without weariness, though when
her friends first came in to see her she could hardly
speak for fainting.

Thus have I seen an old lap-dog lie sullen or lazy
before the fire, though pretty miss hath tried a hun-
dred ways to awaken the creature to activity and play :
but a stranger happening to enter the room, the little
cur hath called up all his natural envy and rage, nor
hath he ceased barking till the stranger dissappeared.
When the sullen animal would not play, he let us
hear that he could bark.

But I reprove myself. This vice is too big to be
chastised by ridicule, for it is a most hateful breach of
the rules of the gospel. What a dismal spectacle is it
to see this engine of scandal set on work so successful-
ly among Christians, to drive out the deaf and dumb
spirit ! to see Satan employed to cast out Satan, and
one evil spirit dispossessed by another !

O the shameful gust and relish that some people
find in reproach and slander ! The great apostle says,
" Speak evil of no man ;" and he excludes railers and
revilers from the kingdom of heaven : yet Latrissa
performs the duties of the church and the closet, rails
daily at some of her neighbours, and thinks [herself a
Christian of the first rank still ; nor will she see nor
believe the iniquity of her temper or the guilt of her
conversation.

THE CHIRC'H YAIU).

TXrHEN 1 enter into a church yard, 1 love to con-
V* verse with the dead. See how thick the hillocks
of mortality arise all around me, each of them a monu-
ment of death, and the covering of a son or daughter

isumed the
on herself,
ether with-
3ugh when
uld hardly

;n or lazy
ed a hun-
'■ and play :
I, the little
I rage, nor
ssappeared,
', he let us

big to be

il breach of

eetacle is it

suecessful-

and dumb

8atan, and

)me people
postle says,
railers and
et Latrissa
closet, rails
:s [herself a
he see nor
cuilt of her

»ve to con-
the hillocks
jm a monu-
)r daughter

461

of Adam. Perhaps a thousand or ten thousand pieces
of human nature, heaj)s upon heaps, lie buried in
this spot of ground ; it is the old repository of the
inhabitants of the neighbouring town; a collection
of the ruins of many ages, and the rubbish of [twenty
generations.

[ say within myself, What a multitude of human
beings, noble creatures, are here reduced to dust!
God has broken his own best workmanship to peices,
and demolished by thousands the finest earthly struc-
tures of his own building. Death has entered in, and
reigned over this town for many successive centuries :
it had its commission from God, and it has devoured
multitudes of men.

Should a stranger make the enquiry which is ex-
pressed; Deut. xxix. 24. " Wherefore hath the Lord
done 'thus to the work of his own hands? What
meaneth the heat of this great anger ?" The answer is
ready, ver, 25, &c. " Because they have sinned, they
have forsaken the covenant of the Lord God, therefore
the Lord has rooted them out of their land in anger,
and in wrath, and in great indignation, and hath cast
them into another land, even the land of corruption
and darkness, as it is at this day."

But have not other towns, cities, and villages, their
church yards too ? My thoughts take the hint, and
fly abroad through all the burying places of the na-
tions. What millions of mankind lie under the ground
in urns, or mingled with common clay ? Every an-
cient town and city in the world has burnt or buried
all its inhabitants more than thirty times over : what
wide spreading slaughter, what lamentable desolation,
has death made among the children of men ! But the
verigeance is just in all ; each of them are sinners ; and
the anger of God hath kindled against them to bring
upon them the first curse that is written in his book,
" In the day that thou sinnest thou shalt surely die."
Gen. ii. 17.

Go to the church yard then, O sinful and thought-

462

less mortal ; go learn from every tombstone and every
rising liilloek, that the wages of sin is death. Learn
in silence among the dead that lesson which infinitely
concerns all the living : nor let thy heart ever be at
rest till thou art acquainted with Jesus, who is the
resurrection and the life.

! H

' ru

C0M3I0N OCCURENCE MORALIZED.

AS Theophron one evening was sitting solitary by
the fire, which was sunk low, and glimmering in
ashes, he mused on the sorrows that surrounded hu-
man nature, and beset the spirits that dwell in flesh.
By chance he cast his eye on a worm which was
lodged on the safer end of a short fire biand ; it seem-
ed very uneasy at its warm station, writhing and
stretching itself every way for relief. He vatched
the creeping creature in all its motions. "J saw it,"
said he, when he told this incident to Philemus, "I
saw it reach forward, and there it met the living coal;
backward, and on each side, and then it touched the
burning embers : still starting from the present tor-
ment, it retreated and shrunk away from every place
where it had just before sought a refuge, and still met
with new disquietude and pain.

" At last I observed," said he, " that having turned
on all sides in vain, it lifted its head upward, and
raised its length as liigh as possible in the air, where
it found nothing to annoy it; but the chief part of the
body stid lay prone on the wood ; its lower or worse
half hung heavy on the aspiring animal, and forbade
its ascent. How happy would the worm ha\e been,
could it then have put on wings and become a flving
insect !"

" Such," said he, " is the case of every holy soul on
earth : it is out of its proper element, like the worm
lodged amongst hot embers. The uneasy spirit is

4 .M

e and every
ath. Learn
ill infinitely
ever be at
who is the

solitary by
mmering in
ounded hu-
3ll in flesh.

which was
id ; it seem-
rithing and
le vatched

" ] saw it,"
lilenius, "I
living coal;
touched the
present tor-

every place
nd still met

viiig turned
pward, and
air, where
f part oi' the
M- or worse
and forbado
have been,
lie a flying

oly soul on

the worm

sy spirit is

463

sometimes ready to stretch its powers, its desires,
and wishes, on every side, to find rest and happiness
amongst sensible goods ; but these things instead of
satisfying its nobler appetites, rather give some new
pain, variety of vexation, and everlasting dissap-
pointment. The soul finding every experiment vain,
retires and shrinks back from all mortal objects,
and being touched by dinine influence, it raises it-
self up towards heaven to seek its God : but the
flesh, tlie body, the meaner and worser half of the
man, hangs heavy, and drags it down again, that
it cannot ascend thither, where rest and ease are only
to be found.

What should such a soul do now, but pant and
long hourly for a flight to the up})er world, and breathe
after the moment of its release? What should be
more Joyful to such a spirit, than the divine and al-
mighty summons to depart from the flesh ? O blessed
voice from heaven that shall say to it, " Come up hi-
ther?" and in the same instant shall break off all its
fetters, give it the wings of an angel, and inspire it
with double zeal to ascend.

At another time, said Philemus, I happened to
be w'ith this good man when he was walking through
a grove, and we unperched a squirrel and a lark.
The squirrel leaped nimbly from bough to bough, and
ran round half the trees of the grove to secure itself;
but the lark, after it had just tried a bough or two,
took wing upward, and we saw it no more. Just
snch is the diflerence, said Theophron, between a
christian and a man of this world. When the sons
of earth are beat ofl' from one mortal hope, they run
still to others, they search round among all the crea-
tures to find relief, and dwell upon earthly comforts
still: but the soul of a christian, unperched from his
rest on earth, flies immediately towards heaven, and
takes its relief in the upper world among things that
are invisible.

When Philemus told these little occurrences of

t '

4(14

'l'lieoj)liroii, togotlior vvitli liis pious remarks upoi,
tlieni, Ridelio sat simpering with an air of ooiiteinpt
till tlie story was done, and then burst out into a ioiul
laugh. " VVhat," says he, " is tlie ohl puritanical age
returned again ? Must we spiritualize the aflliirs of
larks, and worms, and scpiirrels, and learn religion
from all the triiles in nature? At cluncli let us be
grave, and mind the business of the chureh! but let
us not fdl our chimney with lessons of godliness,
nor sadden our fireside with devotion ; let us never
be so excessively religious as to make temples of the
fields and the groves, and talk of God and heaven
there."

Philemus could hold no longer, but witli a solemn
and severe countenance, gave Ridelio a just rebuke.
Must we never think of heaven but at chuVch ? 1 fear
we shall then banish religion out of the world. Jluth
not the blessed God given us notices of himself among
all the creatures, and must we never dare to take no-
tice of him in any of them, lest we be out of the mode,
and ridiculed as unfashionable ? Perish all these fa-
shions of an ungodly world, which would thrust hea-
ven from our thoughts ! Let the llishion of our Savi-
our obtain among us, who, wiien he came down from
God and dwelt among men, from every occurrence of
life took occasion to raise the thoughts of his hearers
to things divine and heavenly. He drew tiie h^ssons
of his gospel from the fig tree and the mustard seed,
from a lost sheep and louring sky, and there was
scarce any occurrence of the meanest kind which he
did not improve to holy purpose; nor does it become
any man who wears the face of a christian, to laugh
at the practice of his Saviour, or to forbid his follow-
ers the imitation of so sacred an example.

105

( '»'■

marks upon
of oontcinpt
t into a loud
ritaiilcid age
tie iitVum of
;arii roligiou
h let us be
c'li ! l)jjt let
)1 godliness,
let us never
Dples of the
and heaven

ill a solemn
just rebuke,
icli ? 1 leur
orld. J lath
iiself among
to take no-
tjf the mode,
ill these fa-
1 tln-ust hea-
3f our 8avi-
3 down from
3eurrence of
his hearers
the lessons
ustard seed,
I there was
d vvhich he
s it become
n, to laugh
his follovv-

A SiNCillLAR CASK OF PUIl.SKNTIMKNT BY AN OFFIcrR

IN thf: ijurnsri vrmy.

ON the sth of March, 1801, tiie J3ritish army,
under the command of Sir Ualph Ai)eicrond)y,
kuMJed in Egypt, and defeated tiie French tioops, who
fied towards Alexandria. This was previous to that
memorable occasion on which the gallant commander-
in-chief received his mortal wound, which created so
powerful a sensation in the British army, as that
event occurred on the 21st. On this occasion, Lieut.
, of the regiment, lost his cloak : conse-
quently shared, during the bivouac of die followinr>-
days and nights, my cloak, as his brother lieutenant.
On the night of the lltli, orders were received for the
attack of the French troops on the following moriiin"-.
In the middle of the niglit, Lieut. O. awoke me, and
said, " Well, I know I shall fall to-morrow; but yoii
will not be hurt, thr -u will have a close shave

or two," or words t( t \ " But," he added, " I

am sure poor T. wi, t wounded." I tried

to divert his mind, an im to be still, and try

to get a little sleep, as \\<. probably 'lave sharp

enough work in the morning, and we should be the
better of a little rest. He still persisted, however, in
declaring his conviction that he would fall, and gave
me particul; r directions regarding his writing desk,
and some little property he had. His writing desk
was aboard one of the vessels ; and he particularly re-
([iiested that I would see it thrown overboard, and
sunk in the sea, without opening it. This request I
assured him should I; attended to; and though I
could not see it accomplished myself, his friend,
Lieut. T., who was carried aboard the vessel, savi^ it
carried into effect. Next morning we were pretty
early called into action. The French were completely
beaten, and poor Lieut. O. was killed by a cannon
shot, in the early part of the action. His friend T.,
who lie fortold would be badly wounded, lost an arm.

3 o

f!.

:i|

Vi:-'!Mr.'J

I myst'ir, tlioiigli I t'scapcd uniiiiit, liad my swdid
carried away l»y a sliol IVoiii llic sinnc onus l»y <»!k' of
which poor Licul. (). Iclh In this way, cviMV cir-
cumstance (hut had hccn impressed mi his iidiid on ilio
preceechiig night Jiclually look place.

';if!

r.xriJAcr ruoM riir; diary oi dh. i)()i);)iMi)(ii;.

Oh' the nu^moranda (ohserves ihe editor) it may
l)e <U'siiahh< lo speak a iillle more at huge; tiicV
are iiar!ati\es of what Dr. Doihhidge ''onsidered tiic
especial (healings of Provi(h'nce, with regard to iiim-
self and somi' persons ol" his ac(piaintance. Tiie leader
is already aware that he l>elie\e(l not only in thi> con-
stant sn[)tM-intendance ol'd'od in the course of natural
events, but also in an occasional direct inlerfcrenci' of
the divine power, in conscJiiieiice ot" [)rayer, and on
olher occasions ; ;uid he will learn IVom a perusal of
this diary, that J)r. Doddridge thought he had. reason
to suspect that this interference sometimes assumes a
supernatural character. I am perfectly aware ol the
shallr v sarcasms with which it is the fashion to meet
every idea of this nature. On ]iietaj)hysical subjects
men too often reason from theoiies as if they were
facts, and con.seq-.iently become poj^itive withoitt he-
i'v^ sure. Mental habits have much to do in these
matters : mathematicians, and other students of the
more perfect sciences, draw the magical circle of st/s-
icm according to th.eir precouceiveil ideas, and forget
that Nature has a world beyond it. iMv own atten-
tion has been i)rincipally devoted to physi(jlogical in-
quiries, where, as I find, in the animal orgatii/ation,
some of the most essential })rinciple8 inex})licable, I
am ready to admit all positive results in action un-
(piestioned. On the same grounds I am willing to
coidess, that I view the matter of supernatural agency
us depending solely upon eridcnce, and as one in which

^J« ,i*.\\l

1(^7

all wo can (U> is lo s(H-iit=nl;?e supposed facts. A Ix-licf
ill ji prclcriiiitiiral inlliicnoc IVoi., (iOd was almost
iiiii.t'isal ill lli(! liinos ol' Dr. Doddridge. Many cclo-
bialcd iiaiiios iniirj,t |,e reloned to in support of tl.js
assertion; I will only niention two or tliKje. Dr.
Walts believed that miracles had not ceascci. I have
ill my possession a very cinioiis little hook, rclatiiifr
lliieo apparently miraculons ciiics. The first is a
AiS. in the hand of Dr. Watts, who has also added
notes, conlinnin<jj the s(-coud, ':;,.; has written in the
ily-lcal ol the hook, 'iVloder. iVliracles, confirmin..-
the (iospel and the power of Christ.' It may be pro'-
])er to add, that the more recent advance of science;
alfords an cx[)lanation in these instances, which could
not he hefoH! htained ; so that the belief of Dr. A7atts
was not credulity. Bishop AVarburt-n had faith in a
modern power of prophecy. 'J'his fact is shewn by his
acute and striking observations on the circumstanllfd
predictions of Kice Mvans, at the time of the death of
Charles the J-'irst, relative to the restoration of the
uionarchy and the second revolution. Dr. Johnson's
opinion of the matter in cpicstion is well known; I
will, however, (pu^e his expressions, as given by
]3()swell. The lainily Chostof the Wesley s had betn
mentioned, when the Dr. observed . ' I am sorry John
did not take more pains io eu(piire into the evidence
for it.' ]\liss Seward, (with an incredulous smile,)
'W1iat! sir, about a ghost i" Johnson, (with solemn
vehemence,) Yes, madam ; this is a question which,
after live thousaiid years, is yet undecided , a question,'
whether in theology or philosophy, one of the most
important that can come before the human under-
standing.' Dr. Jortin, that learned author of the
'Itemarks on Ecclesiastical History,' may be also
quoted on this occasion. After speaking of magicians,
he says, ' Setting aside these sorts of divination as
extremely suspicious, there remain predictions by
dreams, and by sudden impulses upon persons who
were not of the fraternity of impostors; these were

1* I !

m'}

i WIT

iii

lili

408

allowed to be preternatural by many of the learnetl
pagans, and cannot, 1 think, be disproved, and should
not be totally rejected. If it be asked whether these
dreams and impnlses were cansed by the innnediate
inspiration of God, or by tlie mediation of good or
evil spirits, we nuist confess onr own ignorance and
incapacity to resolve the question.'"

With this ex[)lanation we shall give Dr. Doddridge's
own crpericnce, such as it was :

'* Memonihle pass(i(/i>s in Providenfial occurrences re-
latinf/ to the Wills of Pis ford, as I collected them from
their conversation and united testimony. — This day I
visited this pious, though i)oor and afflicted family ;
and I heard the following narrations, which I thought
so remarkable that I could not forbear setting them
down as circumstantially as I could recollect them.
Mary Wills was converted in an extraordinary man-
ner. Having determined to hear no more at the
meeting, and even stopped her ears agrinst the word,
an occasion liai)pened which obliged her to put her
hand into her pocket, and at that moment a word
came whi^li reached her heart, and was a blessed
means of bringing her home to God. Some time
after, a person, jealous of the regard which a young
person in the neighbourhood had for her, attempted to
poison her, by putting poison into some beer which
she was going to drink. In a moment she found the
use of her arm taken away, when she would have
lifted the beer to her head ; and having attempted in
vain to give it to the hogs, she threw it down into
the sink. Some time afterwards Mrs. Spencer told
her that the party whom she suspected had confessed
to h(u- the design of poisoning her, and that the at-
temiit was made as above. Sometime afterwards she
lived in the house of a profligate fellow, who, having
locked her in, attempted her chastity by violence.
She prayed earnestly, and had those words given iii
her mind, ' Only believe, and thou shalt see the glory
oi God !' and innnetliately the ravisher fell down witli

4(19

the Jeariietl
and should
lelhnr tliese
i iinme(hate
of good or
loruiice and

Doddi

lage's

'urrenccs re-
I them, from
-Tliis (lay I
ted family ;
h I thought
etting them
)llect them,
iinary man-
lore at the
t the word,
to put her
ent a word
s a blessed
Some time
li a young
itteinpted to
beer which
! found the
tvould have
ttenipted in

down into
peneer told
rl confessed
hat the at-^
irwards she
k'ho, having
ly vi(jlence.
Is given in
}e the glory

down with

an oatii in his mouth, and lay as dead all night. She
had extraordinary communion with God all that night
and next day : but the wretch thus struck down in
the very act of his sin continued hardened, and waxed
w^orse and worse. Being once under some doubt as to
her spiritual state, she begged that God would afflict
her with some sudden judgement as a token of his love.
Lnmediately she was seized with a violent pain, and
lost the use of one arm, in which she greatly rejoiced.
In the night she lost the use of one side, and being
brought home on horseback the next day, lay many
weeks so helpless that she could scarcely turn herself
in her bed ; and they expected that every day would
be her last. On a sudden, while her sister was stand-
ing by her, and apprehended her to be almost dying,
slie confessed the rashness of her former prayer, en-
treated the Divine favor, and begged an immediate
cure in great confidence of faith. Immediately all her
bones cracked, as if they had been put in place again ;
and she rose up cheerfully, and in two or three sab-
baths more was able to walk to Northampton, being
then cured in a moment. Her sister declared she was
present when this happened, and her mother was in
tiie house during the whole progress of the affair. The
family was once reduced so low that they had nothing
left but a crust of bread and a little flour. The two
sisters prayed for supplies ; and both of them felt a
strong persuasion that a brother of theirs, who lived
ten miles off, would that day come to their assistance ;
accordingly Mary determined to make a pudding for
him, but having nothing but flour, declared herself
persuaded that some assistance would come fur making
it. Innnediately after, a neighbour brought in milk,
and another eggs, and before the pudding was baked,
the brother came in, bringing corn and other presents,
and declared he was so uneasy about them that he
could not forbear coming that very day, although he
had heard nothing of their difliculties, and had par-
ticular business to engage liim at home. (A lamb

i-i ; ; > - ? ., ,

■

i ^H

S ■ '

! I

470

^'aiiglit in a Ihieket in answtM- to prayer; tlie evve
l)nniirlii a lamb cvtMy year after it.) A while after,
lier sister continued ill', who could thiidv of eatiiicr
nothing witli pleasure but a pigeon. She went to afl
the persons that kept dove houses in the town, hut
could get none. Returning home witli a lieavv heart,
a ijigeon ilew into the house before her, which they
took up and killed as a supply sent imnie(Uatelv bom
Jieaven. 'J'hiN botli the sisters and the mother also
attested. As lliey were coming one day from North-
amptc^n, after her sister was but just recovered from
a fit of dangerous sickness, they saw a cloud gathered
about them, a thunder shower came, and ♦licv were
in expectation of being wet to the skin, which* nii<dit
have been attended with the most fatal consequences
to Catherine, as being then in so bad a state of iiealth.
Mary earnestly prayed to God that lie would appear
ior them. A wind came and broke the cloud over
their heads, so that part went on the right and part
on the left; it rained violently all round them, hut
they, to the amazement of the neighbourhood, came
in dry. 'I'he mother assured me that she warmed
cloths for them, e\])ecting that they would be wet
through, and saw them come home perfectly dry,
when it had rained almost all around. In their late
illness, whicii happened this winter, they were as-
sisted in an extraordinary manner. AJary, \vho i. a
poor weakly creature, sat up with her sister seven
weeks, without any sleep but on the Saturday night,
and C()ntinued perlectly well; and, which is very ex-
traordiiuuy, their drink and their wheat, when' they
had but enough to last for six weeks in the winter,
lasted them six months, though they ate and (h-auk
nearly as much as usual; and the miller that ground
It, taking notice of their having so much more than
they had bought of him, strongly suspected their
dealing with some other i)erson. fn the account of
this they all agreed as positi\ely as could be, as well
as m all the rest in which there was any room for their

jr; tlie evve

vvhile alter,

k of eating

went to ail

^' town, but

Iteavy heart,

which they

iliutoly (Vom

motlior also

Voni iXorth-

>veic(l from

\ii\ gathered

♦1

U'v were

hicli mitijlit
Misequeiices
te of health.
)ul(l appear

ch)U(l over
it and part
thcni, hut
hood, came
he warmed
idd be wet
fleet Iv drv,
1 their late
y were as-
, \vho i. a
dster seven
rday night,
is \eiy ex-
wheri they
the winter,
and drank
Kit Qi'ound
more than
oeted their
account of
)e, as well
>ni for their

17 1

testimony. I confess 1 heard their stories witli tlie
utmost amazement. The })ersons by whom they were
told are all peo[)le of eminent devotion, and of a very
e.\traordiiKuy life. They live retire-, are continually
employed in i)rayer, praise, and religious converse;
and have, upon the whole, as nmch of heaveu amonf»-
diem as I ever saw in any persons whom 1 have knowiu
What shall we say to these things; or, rather, wliv
shouhl we be so much astonished, conshlering what
(K)d lias done for liis people in limes past, and that
his ptjwer is still the same P"

STORY OF THE COl XTESS OF S'l'AIU.

(From llcckiann, by Robert Chambers.)

IN a mean and narrow alley leading fi-om the head
of the J'larthen Mound to the Lawnmarket, _f]din-
burgh, is an ancient house, once iidiabited by the
dowager of the celebrated general .and statesman,
John, second Earl of Stair, who died in 1747. Her
la(!yshi[), after long exercising a sway over the //ant
ton of the Scottish capital, died here, November 21,
1751), at a very advanced age. The late iMr. Maken-
zie, author of the " Man of Feeling," informed the
author that he recollected her ladyship living in this
house. The close takes its name from her ladyship.
Some remarkable circumstances in the early life of this
lady formed the groundwork of a tale by the author
of \Va\erly, under the title of "Aunt Margeret's
Mirror." They are now related here in a more am-
l)le form. She was the youngest daughter of James,
second Earl of Loudon, and consecpiently was grand-
daughter to that stern old earl wdio acted so important
a part in the atlairs of the covenant, and who was
Lonl Chancellor of Scotland during the troublous
times of the civil war. While very young (about the
beginning of the eighteenth century,) she was mar-

472

ried to James, first Viscount Primrose, a nobleman
of extremely bad temper, and, what was worse, of
very dissolute character. Her ladyship, who had a
great deal of her grandfather in her, could have ma-
naged most men with great ease by dint of superior
intellect and force of character ; but the cruelty of
Lord Primrose was too much for her. He treated
her so barbarously, that she had even occasion to ap-
prehend that he would some day put an end to her
life. One morning, during the time she was labor-
ing under this dreadful anticipation, she was dressing
herself in her chamber, near [an open window, when
his lordship entered the room behind her with a sword
drawn in his hand. He had opened the door softly,
and although his face indicated a resolution of the
most horrible nature, he still had the presence of mind
to approach her with the utmost caution. Had she
not caught a glimpse of his face and figure in her
glass, he would in all probability have approached
her near enough to execute his bloody purpose, before
she was aware, or could have taken any measures to
save herself. Fortunately she perceived him in time
to leap out of the open window into the street. Half
dressed as she was, she immediately, by a very lau-
dable exertion of her natural good sense, went to the
house of Lord Primrose's mother, where she told her
story, and demanded protection. That protection was
at once extended ; and it being now thought vain to
attempt a reconciliation, they never afterwards lived
together. Lord Primrose soon afterwards went abroad.
During his absence, a foreign conjuror or foitune-teller
came to £dinburg!i, professing," among many other
wonderful accomplishments, to be able to inform any
person of the present condition or situation of any
other person, at whatevei- distance, in whom the ap-
plicant might be interested. Lady Primrose, who
had lost all trace of her husband, was incited by cu-
riosity to go, with a female friend, to the lodgings of
this person in the Canongate, for the purpose of in-

473

quiring respecting his motions. It was at night ; and
the two ladies went, with the tartan screens or plaids
of their servants drawn over their faces by way of
disguise. Lady Primrose having described the indi-
vidual in whose fate she was interested, and having
expressed a desire to know what he was at present
doing, the conjuror led her to a large mirror, in which
she distinctly perceived the appearance of the inside
of a church, with a marriage party arranged near the
alter. To her infinite astonishment, she recognised
in the shadowy bridegroom no other than her hus-
band. Lord Primrose. The magical scene thus so
strangely displayed was not exactly like a picture ; or
if so, it was ratlier like the live pictures of the stage,
than the dead and immovable delineations of the pen-
cil. It adchnitted of additions to the persons repre-
sented, and of a progress of action. As the lady gazed
on it, the ceremonial of the marriage seemed to pro-
ceed. The necessary arrangements had, at last, been
all made ; the priest seemed to have pronounced the
preliminary service; he was just on tlie point of bid-
ding the bride and bridegroom join hands; when sud-
denly a ger.tleman, for whom the rest seemed to have
waited a consideiable time, and in whom Lady Prim-
rose thought she recognised a brother of her own then
abroad, entered the church, and made hurriedly to-
wards the party. The aspect of this person was at
first only that oi' a friend, who had been invited to
attend the ceremony, and who had come too late ; but
as he advancetl to the party, the expression of his
countenance and figure was altered very considerably.
He stopped short ; his face assumed a wradiful ex-
pression : he drew his sword, and rushed up to the
bridegroom, who also drew his weapon. The whole
scene then became quite tumultuous and indistinct,
and almost immediately after vanished entirely away.
When Lady Prinn-ose got home, she wrote a minute
narrative of the whole transaction, to which she ap-
pended the day of the month on wliich she had seen

ilWi'

(

3 p

^.'ii-i.w.

<:ii

'■^i m

if'i *•■
i i

474

the mistei'ious vision. This narrative she sealed up
in the presence of a witness, and then deposited it in
one of her (hawers. Soon afterwards, her brother
returned from his travels, and came to visit her. She
asked if, in the course of his wanderings, he happened
to see or hear anything of Lord Primrose. The youno-
man only answered by saying, that he wished he
might never again hear the name of that detested per-
sonage mentioned. Lady Primrose, however, ques-
tioned him so closely, that he at last confessed having
met his lordship, and that under very strange cir-
cumstances. Having spent some time at one of the
Dutch cities — it was eitiier Amsterdam or Rotterdam
— he had become acquainted with a rich merchant,
who had a very beautiful daughter, Ms only child,
and the heiress of his enormous fortune. One day his
friend, the merchant, informed him that his daughter
was about to be married to a Scottish gentleman, who
had lately come to reside there. The nuptials were to
take place in the course of a few days; and as he was
a countryman of the bridegroom, he was invited to the
wedding. He went accordingly, was a little too late
for the commencement of the ceremony, but fortu-
nately, came in time to prevent the union of an ami-
able young lady to the greatest monster alive in human
shape, his own brother-in-law. Lord Primrose! Al-
though Lady Primrose had proved her willingness to
believe in the magical delineations of the mirror by
writing down an account of them, yet she was so much
surprised and confounded by discovering them to be
consistent with fact, that she almost fainted away.
Something, however, yet remained to be ascertained.
Did Lord Primrose's attempted marriage take place
exactly at the same time with her visit to the conju-
ror? To certify this, she asked her brother on what
day the circumstance which he related took place.
Having been informed, she took out her key, and re-
quested him to go to her chamber, to open a drawer
which f^he described, and bring to her a sealed packet

which he would find in that drawer. He did as he
was desired, when, the packet being opened, it was
discovered that Lady Primrose had seen the shadowy
representation of her husband's abortive nuptials on
tlie \ery evening they were transacted in reality.

Lord Primrose died in 1706, leaving a widow, who
could scarcely be expected to mourn for him. She was
still a young and beautiful woman, and might have
procured her choice among twenty better matches
Such, however, was the idea she had formed of the
married state from her first husband, that she made a
resolution never again to become a wife. She kept
her resolution for many years, and probably would
have done so till the day of her death, but for a very
singular circumstance. The celebrated Eail of Stair,
who resided in Edinburgh during the greater part of
twenty years, which he spent in retirement from all
official employments, fell deeply in love with her lady-
ship, and earnestly sued for her hand. If she could
have relented in favor of any man, it would have been
in favor of one who had acquired so much public ho-
nor, and who possessed so much private worth. But
she declared to him also her resolution of remaining
unmaried. In his desperation, he resolved upon an
expedient by which he might obviate her scruples,
but which certainly marks the age as one of little de-
licacy. By dint of bribes to her domestics, he got
himself insinuated, over night, into a small room in
her ladyship's house, where she used to say her prayers
every morning, and the window of which looked out
upon the principle street of the city. At this window,
wiien the morning was a little advanced, he showed
himself, en deshabille, to the people passing along the
street; an exhibition which threatened to have such a
fatal effect upon her ladyship's reputation, that she
saw fit to accept of him for a husband.

She was more happy as Coui^tess of Stair than she
had been as Lady Primrose. Yet her new husband
had one faiilug, which occasioned her much and fre-

i J,

416

'ii:l

quent uneasiness. Like all other gentlemen at that
period, he sometimes indulged too much in the bottle.
When elevated with liquor, his temper, contrary to
the general case, was by no means improved. Thus,
on his reaching home, after any little debauch, he ge-
nerally had a quarrel with his wife, and sometimes
even treated her person with violence. On one par-
ticular occasion, when quite transported beyond the
bounds of reason, he gave her so severe a blow upon
the upper part of the face, as to occasion the eflusion
of blood. He immediately after fell asleep, altogether
unconscious of what he had done. Ijady Stair was so
completely overwhelmed by a tumult of bitter and
poignant feeling, that she made no attempt to bind up
her wound. She sat down on a sofa near her torpid
husband, and wept and bled till morning. When his
lordship awoke, and perceived her dishevelled and
bloody figure, he was surprised to the last degree, and
eagerly enquired how she came to be in such an un-
usual condition ? She answered by detailing to him
the whole |history of his conduct on the preceding
evening, which stung him so deeply with regret —for
he was a nobleman of the most generous feelings —
that he instantly vowed to his wife never afterwards
to take any species of drink, except what was first
passed through her hands. This vow he kept most
scrupulously till the day of his death. He never after-
wards sat in any convivial company where his lady
could not attend to sanction his potations with her
permission. Whenever he gave any entertainment,
she always sat next him and filled his wine, till it was
necessary for her to retire; after which, he drank
only from a certain quantity which she had first laid
aside.

The Earl of Stair died in the year 1747, (at Queens-
berry House in the Canongate, Edinburgh,) leaving
her ladyship again a widow.

iV '

477

nen at that
n the bottle,
contrary to
^ed. Thus,
Luch, he ge-

sometimes
3n one par-
beyond the
blow upon
the effusion
>, altogether
Stair was so

bitter and
; to bind up
,r her torpid
When his
e veiled and
degree, and
iich an un-
ing to him
i preceding

regret— for
; feelings —
• afterwards
it was first

kept most
never after-
i-e his lady
IS with her
tertainment,
e, till it was
, he drank
L(l first laid

(at Queens-
jh,) leaving

EXPIATION.

MARGERET BURNSIDE was an orphan. Her
parents, who had been the poorest people in the
parish, had died when she was a mere child ; and as
they had left no near relatives, there were few or none
to care much about the desolate creature, who might
be well said to have been left friendless in the world.
True, that the feeling of charity is seldom wholly
wanting in any heart ; but is generally but a cold feel-
ing among hard-working folk, towards objects out of
the narrow circle of their own family affections, and
selfishness has a ready and strong excuse in necessity.
There seems, indeed, to be a sort of chance in the lot
of the orphan offspring of paupers. On some the eye
of Christian benevolence falls at the very first moment
of their uttermost destitution — and their worst sor-
rows, instead of beginning, terminate with the tears
shed over their parents' graves. They are taken by
the hands, as soon as their hands have been stretched
out for protection, and admitted as inmates into
households, whose doors, had their fathers and mo-
thers been alive, they would never have darkened.
The light of comfort falls upon them during the gloom
of grief, and attends them all their days. Others,
again, are overlooked at the first fall of afflictien, as
if in some unaccountable fatality; the wretchedness
with which all have become familiar, no one very ten-
derly pities ; and thus the orphan, reconciled herself
to l.ie extreme hardships of her condition, lives on
uncheered by those sympathies out of which grow
both happiness and virtue, and yielding by degrees to
the constant pressure of her lot, become poor in spirit
as in estate, and either vegetates like an almost worth-
less weed that is carelessly trodden on by every foot,
or if by nature born a flower, in time loses her lustre,
and all her days — not long — leads the life not so much
of a servant, tts of slave.
Such, till she was twelve years old, had been the

flHIffill;

. %

I m

478

fate of Margeret Biirnside. Of a slender form, and
weak constitution, she liad never been able for much
work; and thus from one discontented and harsii
master and mistress to another, she had been trans-
ferred from house to house— always the poorest— till
she came to be looked on as an encumbrance ratlier
than a help in any family, and thought hardly worth
her bread. 8ad and sickly she sat on the braes herd-
ing the kine. It was supposed that she was in a
consumption— and as the shallow of death seemed to
he on the neglected creature's face, a feeling some-
thmg like love was awakened towards her in the heart
of pity, for which she showed her gratitude by still
attending to all household tasks with an alacrity be-
yond her strength. Few doubted that she was dying
—and it was plain that she thought so herself • for
the bible, which, in her friendlessness, she had al-
ways read more than other children, who were too
happy to reflect often on the Word of that Being from
whom their happiness flowed, was now, when leisure
permitted, seldom or never out of her hands, and in
lonely places, where there was no human ear to heark-
en, did the dying girl often support her heart when
quaking in natural fears of the grave, by singing to
hersell hymns and psalms. But her hour was not yet
come— though by the inscrutable degrees of Providence
doomed to be hideous— and sad with almost inexpiable
guilt. As for herself— she was innocent as the linnet
that sang beside her in the broom, and innocent was
she to be up to the last throbbings of her reli«dous
heart. Wiien the sunshine i'dl on the leaves of her
Bible, the orphan seemed to see in the lioly words
brightening through tlie radience, assurances of for-
giveness ot all her sins-— small sins indeed— yet to her
humble and contrite heart exceeding great— and to be
pardoned only by the intercession of Him who died
for us on the tree. Often, when clouds were in the
sky, and blackness covered the Book. Hone died
away from the discoloured page— and the lonely crea-

ler form, and
>Ic for much
\ and luirsli
been trans-
poorest— till
)rance ratlier
liardly worth
i braes herd-
lie was in a
li seemed to
feeling some-
r in tlie heart
iide by still
I alacrity be-
e was dying
> herself; for
she had al-
ho were too
: Being from
when leisure
nds, and in
3ar to heark-
heart when
i singing to
was not yet
(" Providence
5t inexpiable
s the linnet
inocent was
er religious
aves of her
lioly words,
aces of for-
— yet to her
—and to be
1 who died
were in the
Hone died
lonely crea-

47l>

tine wept and sobbed over the doom denounced on all
who sni, and repent not— whether in deed or it be in
thought. And thus religion became with her an aw-

ultlnng— til, niher resignation, she feared to die.
IJut look on that [lower by the hill-side path, withered,
as It seems, beyond the power of sun and air, and
dew and ram, to restore it to the beauty of life Nexl
(lay, you happen to return to the place, its leaves are
ol a da/zlmg green, its blossoms of a da;;zling ciim-
son, ancl its joyful beauty is felt over all the wilder-
ness So was it with this orphan. Nature, as if
kmclling towards her in sudden love, not only restored
her ill a few weeks to life-but to perfect health : and
erelong she, whom few had looked at, and for whom
still fewer cared, was acknowledged to be the fairest
girl in all the i)arish— and the most beautiful of any
while she continued to sit, as she had always done
from very clnldhood, on the poor's form in the lobby
of the kirk. Such a face, such a figure, and such a
manner, in one so poorly attired, and so meanly
placed,^ attracted the eyes of the young Ladies in the
Fatron s Gallery. Margeret Burnside was taken un-
der their especial protection— sent for two years to a
superior school, where she was taught all things use-
ful lor persons in humble life-and while yet scarcely
fifteen, returning to her native parish, was appointed
teacher of a small school of her own, lo which were
sent all the female children that could be spared from
home, Irom those of parents poor as her own had been,
up to those of the farmers and small proprietors, who
knew the blessings of a good education— and that
T* AT* **' *'^^ niinister may preach in vain. And
thus Margeret Burnside grew and blossomed like the
lily of the field— and every eye blessed her— and she
drew her breath in gratitude, piety, and peace.

Ihus a few happy and useful years passed by— and
It was forgotton by all— but herself— that Margeret
13iinis.de was an orphan. But to be without one near
and dear blood. relative in all the world, must often.

v^m

^■■■^Sft'f

■ 1

480

even to the liappy heart of 'youthful uuiocence, be
more than a pensive — a pahiful tliought; and there-
fore, t'lough Margeret Burnside was always cheerful
among lier little scholars, and wore a sweet smile on
her face yet in the retirement of her own room (a
pretty parlour, with a window looking into a llovver-
garden,) and on her walks among the braes, her niein
was somewhat melancholy, and her eyes ware that
touching expression, which seems doubtfully to denote

neither joy nor sadness—but a habit of soul which,

in its tranquility, still partakes of the mournful, as if
memory dwelt often on past sorrows, and hope scarcely
ventured to indulge in dreams of future repose. That
profound orphan-feeling embued her whole character;
and sometimes when the young Ladies from the Cas-
tle smiled praises upon her, she retired in unendurable
gratitude to her chamber — and wept.

Among the friends at whose houses she visited were
the family at Moorside, the highest hill-farm in the
parish, and on which her father had been a hind. It
consisted of the master, a man whose head was grey,
his son and daughter, and a grandchild, her scholar,
whose parents were dead. Gilbert Adamson had long
been a widower— indeed his wife had never been in
the parish, but had died abroad. He had l)een a
soldier in his yonih and prime of manhood ; and when
he came to settl at Moorside, he had been looked
at with no very friendly eyes; for evil rumours of his
character had preceeded his arrival there — and in that
peaceful pastoral parish, far removed from the world's
strife, suspicions, without any good reason perhaps,
had attached themselves to the morality and religion
of a man, who had seen much foreign service, and
had passed the best years of his life in the wars. It
was long before these suspicions faded away, and with
some they still existed in an invincible feeling of dis-
like, or even aversion. But the natural fierceness and
ferocity which, as these peaceful dwellers among the
hills imagined, had at first, in spite of his efforts to

481

locence, by
and tliore-
ys cheerl'ul
t smile on
n room (a
3 a llovver-
:s, her mein
wore lliat
[y to denote
soul which,
irnl'ul, as if
ipe scarcely
pose. That
e character;
m the Cas-
Linendurable

visited were
farm in the
a hind. It
I was grey,
her scholar,
;on had long
vor been in
had been a
I ; and when
been looked
iionrs of his
-and in that
1 the world's
5on perhaps,
and religion
service, and
he wars. It
'ay, and with
eling of dis-
ierceness and

[lis efforts to

control them, often dangerously exhibited themselves
in fiery outbreaks, advancing age had gradually sub-
dued ; Gilbert Adanison had grown a hard working
and industrious man ; alFected, if he followed it not
in sincerity, even an austerely religious life ; and as he
possessed more than conmion sagacity and intelligence,
he had acquired at last, if not won, a certain ascen-
dency in the parish, even over many whose hearts
never opened nor warmed towards him — so thai he
was now an elder of the kirk — and, as the most un-
willing were obliged to acknowledge, a just steward
to the poor. His gray hairs were not honored, but
it would not be too much to say that they were re-
spected. Many who had doubted him before came
to think they had done him injustice, and sought to
wipe away their fault by regarding hirn with esteem,
and shewing themselves willing to interchange all
neighbourly kindnesses and services with all the
family at Moorside. His son, though somewhat wild
and unsteady, and too much addicted to the fascina-
ting pastimes of flood and field, often so ruinous to
the sons of labor, and rarely long pursued against
the law without vitiating the whole character, was a
fovorite with all the parish. Singularly handsome,
and with manners above his birth, Ludovic was wel-
come wherever he went, both with young and old.
No merry-making could deserve the ) ime without
him, and at all meetings for the display of feats of
strength and agility, far and wide, through more
counties than one, he was the champio... Nor had 1 :
received a mean education. All that the parish
schoolmaster could teach he knew ; and having been
the darling companion of all the gentlemen's sons in
the Manse, the faculties of his mind had kept pace
with theirs, and from them he had caught, too, uncon-
sciously, that demeanour :;o far superior to what could
have been expected from one in his humble condition,
but yxrh\r'U :vt tlip sniTie time, seemed so congenial
with his happy nature, as to be readily acknowledged
16 3 Q

i\^r^m

to be one of its original gilts. Of his sister, Alice, it
is sufficient to say, that she was the bosom-friend of
Margarite Biirnsfde, and that all who saw their friend-
ship felt that it was just. The small parentless grand-
daughter was also dear to Margaret — more than per-
haps her heart knew, because that, like herself, she
was an orphan. But the creature was also a merry
and a madcap child, and her freakish pranks, and
playful perversenesses, as she tossed her golden head
in untameable glee, and went dancing and singing,
like a bird on the boughs of a tree, all day long, by
some strange sympathies entirely won the heart of her
who, throughout all her own childhood, had been
familiar with grief, and a lonely shedder of tears.
And thus did Margaret love her, it might be said,
even with a very mother's love. She generally passed
her free Saturday afternoons at Moorside, and often
slept there all night with little Ann in her bosom. At
such times Ludovic was never from home, and many
a Sabbath he walked with her to the kiik— all the
family together— and once by ihem selves for miles
along the moor — a forenoon of perfect sunshine, which
returned upon him in his agony on his dying day.

No one said, no one thought that Ludovic and
Margaret were lovers — nor were they, though well
V. ovthy indeed of each other's love ; for the orphan's
whole heart was filled and satisfied with a sense of
duty, and all its aflections were centred in her happy
school, where all eyes blessed her, and where she hud
been placed for the good of all those innocent crea-
tures, by them who hid rescued her from the i)enury
that kills the soul, and of whose gracious bounty she
every night dreamt in her sleep. In her prayers she
beseeched God to bless them rather than the wretch
on her knees— their images, their names, were ever
before her eyes and on her ear ; and next to that peace
of mind which passeth all understanding, and comes
from the footsool of God into the humble, lowly, and
contrite heart, was to that ori)han, day and night,

Alice, it
-friend of
eir friend-
ess grand-
than per-
3rself, slie
» a merry
anks, and
Iden head
I singing,

long, by
eart of her
had been
' of tears,
t be said,
X\y passed
and often
)som. At
and many
k — all the

for miles
ine, which
ig day.
dovic and
ongh well
e orphan's
I sense of
her happy
!re she had
)cent crea-
he penury
bounty she
>rayers she
the wretch

were ever
• that peace
and comes
lowly, and
antl night,

48;^

waking or asleep, the deep bliss of her gratitude.
And thus Ludovic to her was a brother, and no more ;
a name sacred as that of sister, by which she always
called her Alice, and was so called in return. But to
Ludovic, who had a soul of fire, Margaret was dearer
far than ever sister was to the brother whom, at the
sacrifice of her own life, she might have rescued froin
death. Go where he might, a phantom was at his
iilde—a pale fair face for ever fixed its melancholy eyes
on his, as if foreboding something dismal even when
they faintly smiled ; and once he awoke at midnight,
when all the house were asleep, crying with shrieks,
" O God of mercy ! Margaret is murdered !" Myste-
rious passion of Love ! that darkens its own dreams
of delight with unimaginable horrors ! Shall we call
such (lire bewilderment the superstition of troubled
fantasy, or the inspiration of the prophetic soul !

From what seemingly insignificant sources — and by
means of what humble instruments— may this life's
best happiness be diffused over the households of in-
dustrious men! Here was the orphan daughter of
forgotten paupers, both dead ere she could speak;
herself, during all her melancholy childhood, a pau-
per even more enslaved tlian ever they had been--
one of the most neglected and unvalued of all God's
creatures — who, had she then died, would have been
buried in some nettled nook of the kirkyard, nor her
grave been watered almost by one single tear — sud-
denly brought out from the cold and cruel shade in
which she had been withering away, by the interposi-
tion of human but angelic hands, into the heaven's
most gracious sunshine where all at once her beauty
blossomed like the rose. She, who for so many years
had been even begrudgingly fed on the poorest and
scantiest fare, by Penury ungrateful for all her weak
but zealous efforts to please by doing her best, m
sickness and sorrow, at all her tasks, in or out of
doors, and in all weathers, however rough and severe
—was now raised to the rank of a moral, intellectual,

It;

484

•) fl

and religious being, and presided over, tended, and
instructed many little ones, far far happier in their
childhood than it had been her lot to be, and all
growing up beneath her now untroubled eyes, in in-
nocence, love, and joy, inspired into their hearts by
her, their young and happy benefactress. Not a hu-
man dwelling in all the parish, that had not reason to
be thankful to Margaret Burnside. She taught them
to be pleasant in their manners, neat in their persons,
rational in their minds, pure in their hearts, and
industrious in all their habits. Rudeness, coarse-
ness, sullenness, all angry fits, and all idle dispositions
— the besetting vices and sins of the children of the
poor, whose home-education is often so miserably,
and almost necessarily neglected — did this sweet
Teacher, by the divine influence of meekness never
ru^ed, and tenderness never troubled, in a few
months subdue and overcome — till her school room,
every day in the week, was, in its cheerfulness, sacred
as a Sabbath, and murmured from morn till eve with
the hum of perpetual happiness. The effects were
soon felt in every house. All floors were tidier, and
order and regularity enlivened every hearth. It was
the pride of her scholars to get their own little gardens
behind their parents' huts to bloom like that of the
Brae — and in imitation of that ii jwery porch, to train
up the pretty creepers on the wall. In the kirkyard,
a smiling group every Sabbath forenoon waited for
her at the gate — and walked, with her at their head,
into the House of God — a beautiful procession to all
their parents' eyes — one by one dropping away into
their own seats, as the band moved along the little
lobby, and the minister sitting in the pulpit all the
while, looked solemnly down upon the fair flock —
the shepherd of their souls !

It was Sabbath, but Margaret Burnside was not in
the kirk. The congregation had risen to join in pra-
yer, when the great door was thrown open, and a
woman, apparelled as for the house of worship, but

485

jnded, and
31' in their
>e, and all
^es, in in-

hearts by
Not a hu-
t reason to
ught them
ir persons,
earts, and
IS, coarse-
lispositions
ren of the
miserably,
this sweet
ness never

in a few
lool room,
less, sacred
1 eve with
flfects were
tidier, and
h. It was
tie gardens
hat of the
:h, to train
e kirkyard,
waited for
their head,
sion to all
away into
J the little
pit all the
lir flock —

was not in
)in in pra-
oen, and a
orship, but

ild and ghastly in her face and eyes as a maniac

by evil

bur

the

jiaunted

with uplifted hands, beseeched the man ol Uod to for-
give her irreverent entrance, for that foulest and most
unnatural murder had been done, and that her own eyes
had seen the corpse of Margaret Burnside lying on the
moor in a pool of blood ! The congregation gave one
groan, and then an outcry as if the roof of the kirk
had been toppling over their heads. All cheeks waxed
white, women fainted, and the firmest heart quaked
with terror and pity, as once and again the affrighted
witness, in the same words described the horrid spec-
tacle, and then rushed out into the open air, followed
by hundreds, who, for some minutes, had been palsy-
stricken ; and now the kirkyard was all in a tumult
round the body of her who lay in a swoon. In the
midst of that dreadful ferment, there were voices crying
aloud that the poor woman was mad, and that such
horror could not be beneath the sun ; for such a per-
petration on the Sabbath day, and first heard of just
as the prayers of his people were about to ascend to
the Father of all mercies, shocked belief, and doubt
struggled with despair as in the helpless shudderings
of some dream of blood. The crowd were at last pre-
vailed on by their pastor to disperse, and sit down on
the tomb-stones, and water being sprinkled over the
face of her who still lay in that mortal swoon, and the
air suffered to circulate freely around her, she again
opened her glassy eyes, and raising herself on her
elbow, stared on the multitude, all gathered there so
wan and silent, and shrieked out, " The Day of Judg-
ment ! The Day of Judgment !"

The aged minister raised her on her feet, and led
her to a grave, on which she sat down, and hid her
face on his knees. " O that I should have lived to see
the day — but dreadful are the decrees of the Most
High— and she whom we all loved has been cruelly
mur.lered ! Carry me with you, people, and I will
shew you where lies her corpse."

! M,

486

;)"

''Where — where is Ludovie Adamsoii i'" cried a
hoarse voice which none there had ever heard before ;
and all eyes were turned in one direction; but none
knew who had spoken, and all again was hush.
Then all at once a hundred voices repeated tlie same
words, " Where — where is Ludovie Adamson ?" and
there was no reply. Then, indeed, was the kirkyard
in an angry and a wrathful ferment, and men looked
far into each others eyes for confirmation of their sus-
picions. And there was whispering about things,
that, though in themselves light as air, seemed now
charged with hideous import; and then arose sacred
peals to Heaven's eternal justice, horridly mingled
with oaths and curses ; and all the crowd springing to
their feet, pronounced, " that no other but he could
be the nnnderer."

It was remembered now, that for months past, Mar-
garet Burnside had often looked melancholy — that her
visits had been less frequent to Moorside — and one
person in the crowd said, that a few weeks ago she
had come upon them suddenly in a retired place, when
Margaret was weeping bitterly, and Ludovie tossing
his arms, seemingly in wrath and distraction. All
agreed that of late he had led a disturbed and reckless
life — and that something dark and suspicious had
hung about him, wherever he went, as if he were
haunted by an evil conscience, iiut did not strange
men sometimes pass through the Moor — squalid men-
dicants, robber-like from the far-oficity — one by one,
yet seemingly belonging to the same gang — with
bludgeons in their hands — haif-naked, and often drun-
ken in their hunger, as at the doors of lonesome houses
they demanded alms, or more like foot-pads than beg-
gars, with stern gestures, rising up from the ditches
on the way-side, s^jpped the frightened women and
children going upon errands, and thanklessly received
pence from the poor? One of them niust have been
the murderer! But then, again, the whole tide of
suspicion would set in upon Ludovie — her lover — for

487

ill*" cried a
leard before ;
[i; but none
was hush,
ed the same
mson?" and
the kirkyard
men looked
of their sus-
bout things,
seemed now
arose sacred
dly mingled
springing to
)ut he could

IS past, Mar-
)ly — that her
Je — and one
eks ago she
I place, when
lovic tossing
raction. All
and reckless
spicious had
i if he were

not strange
squalid men-
-one by one,

gang — vvitii
(I often drun-
3some houses
ids than beg-
i the ditches

women and
issly received
St have been
/hole tide of
er lover — for

the darker and more dreadful the guilt, the more wel-
come is it to the fears of the imagination when its
waking dreams are floating in blood !

A tall figure came forward from the porch, and all
was silence, when the congregation beheld the Father
of tlie suspected criminal ! He stood still as a tree in
a cairn day, — trunk, limbs, moved not — and his grey
head was uncovered. He then stretched out his arm,
not in an imploring, but in a commanding attitude,
and essayed to speak ; but his white lips quivered,
and his tongue refused its office. At last, almost
fiercely, he uttered, " Who dares denounce my son ?"
and like the growling thunder, the crowd cried, " All
— all — he is the murderer '" Some said that the old
man smiled ; but it could have been but a convulsion
of tlie features — outraged nature's wrung-out and
writhing expression of disdain, to shew how a father's
love brooks the cruelty of foolish falsehood and injus-
tice.

Men, women, and children — all whom grief and
horror had not made helpless — moved away towards
the Moor — the woman who had seen the sight leading
the way' — for now her whole strength had returned to
her, aiid she was drawn and driven by an irresistible
passion to look again at what had almost destroyed
her judgment. Now they were miles from the kirk,
and over some brushwood, at the edge of a morass
some distance from the common footpath, crows were
seen diving and careering in the air, and a raven
ilapping suddenly out of the covert, sailed away with
a savage croak along a range of clifis. The whole
multitude stood stock still at that carrion-sound. The
guide said shudderingly, in a low hurried voice, " See,
see— that is her mantleV — and there indeed Margaret
lay, all in a heap, maimed, mangled, murdered, with
a hundred gashes. The corpse see?ned as if it had
been baked in frost, and was imbedded in coagulated
blood. Shreds and patches of her dress, torn away
from her l)osom, bestrewed the bushes — for many

.: wl

^Ui

Jl-

■i ps'l^l fi^

488

yards round about, there had been trampling of feet
and a long lock of hair that had been torn from her
temples, with the dews yet unmelted on it, was lying
upon a plant of broom a little way from the corpse.
The first to lift the body from the horrid bed was
Gilbert Adamson. He had been long familiar with
death in all its ghastliness, and all had now looked
to him — forgetting for the moment that he was the
father of the murderer — to perform the task from
which they recoiled in horror. Resting on one knee,
he placed the corpse on the other — and who could
have believed, that even the most violent and cruel
death could have wrought such a change on a
face once so beautiful! All was distortion — and
terrible it was to see the dim glazed eyes, fixedly
open, and the orbs insensible to the strong sun that
smote her face white as snow among the streaks as if
left by bloody fingers ! Her throat was all discolored
— and a silk handkerchief twisted into a cord, that
had manifestly been used in the murder, was of a red-
der hue than when it had veiled her breast. No one
knows what horror his eyes are able to look on, till
they are tried. A circle of stupified gazers was drawn
by a horrid fascination closer and closer and closer
round the corpse — and women stood there holding
childrea by the hands, and fainted not, but observed
the sight, and shuddered without shrieking, ant' stood
there all dumb as ghosts. But the body was now
borne along by many hands — at first none knew in
what direction, till many voices nmttered, " T(j Moor-
side — to Moorside" — and in an hour it was laid on the
bed in which Margaret Burnside had so often slept
with her beloved little Ann in her bosom.

The hand of some one had thrown a cloth over the
corpse. The room was filled with people — but all
their power and capacity of horror had been exhausted
— and the silence was now almost like that which
attends a natural death, when all the neighbours are
assembled for the funeral. Alice, with little Ann

480

ling of feet,
rn from her
t, was lying

the corpse,
rid bed was
amiliar with
now looked

he was the
3 task from
n one knee,
1 who could
it and cruel
hange on a
tortion — and
;yes, fixedly
ng sun that
streaks as if
ill discolored
a cord, that
-vas of a red-
st. No one
look on, till
rs was drawn
i' and closer
lere holding
3ut observed
ig, an(' stood
)dy was now
no knew in

" T(j Moor-
is laid on the
io often slept

oth over the
pie — but all
en exhausted
i that which
lighbours are
1 little Ann

beside lier, kneeled at the bed, nor feared to lean her
head close to the covered corpse — sobbing out sylla-
bles that shewed how passionately she prayed and

that she and her little niece — and, oh ! for that un-
happy father — were delivering themselves up into the
hands of God. That father knelt not — neither did he
sit down — nor move — nor groan — but stood at the
foot of the bed, with arms folded almost sternly — and
with his eyes fixed on the sheet, in which there seemed
to be neither ruth nor dread — but only an austere com-
posure, which, were it indeed but resignation to that
dismal decree of Providence, had been most sublime
— but who can see into the heart of a man either righ-
teous or wicked, and know what may be passing there,
breathed from the gates of heaven or of hell !

Soon as the body had been found, shepherds and
herdsmen, fleet of the foot as the deer, had set of to
scour the country far and wide, hill and glen, moun-
tain and morass, moor and wood, for the murderer.
If he be on the face of the earth, and not self-plunged
in despairing suicide into some quagmire, he will be
found, — for all the population of many districts are
now afoot, and precipices are clomb till now brushed
but by falcons. A figure like that of a man, is seen
by some of the hunters from a hill top, lying among
the stones by the side of a solitary loch. They sepe-
rate and descend upon him, and then gathering in,
they behold the man whom they seek, Ludovic
Adamson, the murderer.

His face is pale and haggard — ^yet flushed as if by
a fever centred in his heart. That is no dress fit for
the Sabbath day — soiled and savage looking — and
giving to the eyes that search, an assurance of guilt.
He starts to his feet, as they think, like some wild
beast surprised in his lair, and gathering itself up to
fight or fly. But — strange enormity — a Bible is in
his hand ! And the shepherd who first seized him,
taking the book out of his grasp, looks into the page.

MMl

dm\ reads,
10

£x Ann

Whoever shcudcth man s bb-Mid, iry man

3 R

'' i isiifil

ili#iiff

','V

490

shall liis blood be surely shed." On ii leaf is written,
in her own well known hand, " The gift of Margaret
Burnside." Not a word is said by his captors — thev
offer no needless violence — no indignities — but answer
all enquiries of surprise and astonishment (O ! can
one so young be so hardened in wickedness!) by a
stern silence, and upbraiding eyes, that like daggers
must stab his heart. At last he walks doggedly and
sullenly along, and refuses to speak — yet liis tread is
firm — there is no want of composure in his face — now
that the first passion of fear or anger has left it; and
now that thev have the murderer in their clutch, some
begin almost to pity him, and others to believe, or at
least to hope, that he may be innocent. As yet they
have not said a word of the c;'ime of which they accuse
him — but let him try to master the expression of his
voice and his e\'cs ns he may, guilt is in tliose stealthy
glances — guilt is in those reckless tones — And why
does he seek to hide his right hand in his bosom? —
And whatever he may alTect to say- —they ask him not
— most certainly that stain on his shirt collar is blood.
But now they are at Moorside.

There is still a great crowd all lound about the
house — in the garden — and at the door — and a trou-
bled cry announces that the ciiminal has been taken,
and is close at hand. His father meets him at the
gate — and, kneeling down, holds up his clasped
hands, and says, " My son, if thou art guilty, confess,
and die." The criminal angrilv waves his father aside,
and walks tow^ards the door. "Fools! fools! what
mean ye by this? What crime has been conniiitted?
And how dare ye to think me the criminal ? Am I
like a murderer ?" — " We never spoke to him of the
murder — we never spoke to him of the murder !" cried
one of the men who nov; held him by the arm ; and
all assembled then exclaimed, " Guilty, guilty — that
one word will hang him ! O, pity, pity, for his father
and poor sister — this will break their hearts !" Ap-
palled, yet firm of .'oot, the prisoner forced his way

101

' is written,
of Margaret
ptors— they
-l)nt answer
nt (O! can
ness !) by a
il<e daggers
)gge(lly and
his tread is
>j face — now
left it; and
dutch, some
elieve, or at
\s yet they
tliey accuse
ssioii of his
lose steahhy
— And why
i bosom? —
astc him not
Ikir is blood.

1 about the
and a trou-
beeii taken,

him at the
his clasped
Ity, confess,
father aside,
fools ! wliat
committed?
nal ? Am I

him of the
rder!" cried
le arm ; and
guilty — that
for his father
;arts !" Ap-
:cd his way

into the house ; and turning, in his confusion, into the
chamber on the left, there he beheld the corpse of the
murdered on the bed— for the sheet had been removed
—as yet not laid out, and disfigured and deformed
just as she had been found on the moor, in the same
misshapen heap of death ! One long insane glare-
one shriek, as if all his heartstrings at once had burst
—and then down fell the strong man on the floor like
lead. One trial was past which no human hardihood
could endure— another, and yet another, awaits him
—but these he will bear as the guilty brave have often
borne them, and the most searching eye shall not see
liiin quail at the bar or on the scaffold.

'I'hey lifted the stricken wretch from the floor, pla-
ced him in a chair, and held him upright, till he
should revive from the fit. And be soon did revive ;
for healtli flowed in all his veins, and he had the
strength of a giant. But when his senses returned,
there was none to pity him ; for the shock had given
an expression of guilty horror to all his looks, and,
like a man walking in his sleep under the temptation
of some dreadful dream, he moved with fixed eyes to-
wards the bed, and looking at the corpse, gobbled in
hideous laughter, and then wept and tore his hair I'ke
a distracted woman or child. Then he stooped down
us he would kiss the face, but staggered back, and,
co\eriiig his eyes with his hands, uttered such a groan
as is sometimes heard rending the sinner's breasi when
the avenging Furies are upoi. u:'> in his dreams. All
who heard it felt that he '.vas guilty- -and there was
a fierce cry through the room of, " Make him touch
the l)ody, and if he be the murderer, it will bleed !"
— " Fear not, Ludovie, to touch it, my boy,"— said
his father; "bleed afresh it will not, for thou art in-
nocent; and savage though now they be, who once
were proud to be thy friends, even they will believe
lliee guiltless when the corpse refuses to bear witness
against thee — and not a drop leaves its quiet heart!"
liut his son spake not a word, nor <lid he seem to know

li^ i

i 3

i.'i.,!^

'\'

ill

492

that his latlier had spoken, but he suH'ered himself to
be led passively towards the bed. One of the bystan-
ders took his hand and placed it on the naked breast,
when out of the corners of the teeth clenched mouth,
and out of the swollen nostrils, two or three blood-
drops visibly oozed — and a sort of shrieking shout de-
clared the sacred faith of all the crowd in the dreadful
ordeal. "What body is t) '.? 'tis all over blood!'*
said the prisoner, looking with an idiot vacancy on the
faces that surrounded him. But now the sheriff of
the county entered the room, along with some officers
of justice — and he was spared any further shocks from
that old saving superstition. His wrists soon after
were manacled. These were all the words he had ut-
tered since he recovered from the fit — and he seemed
now in a state of stupor.

Ludovic Adamson, after examination of witnesses
who crowded against him from many unexpected
quarters, was committed that very Sabbath night to
prison on a charge of murder. On the Tuesday fol-
lowing, the remains of Margaret Burnside were inter-
red. AH the parish was at the funeral. In Scotland
it is not customary for females to join in the last sim-
ple ceremonies of death. But in this case they did ;
and all her scholars, in the same white dresses in which
they used to walk with her at their head into the kirk
on Sabbaths, followed the bier. Alice and little Ann
were there, nearest the coflfin, and the father of him
who had wrought all this woe was one of its suppor-
ters. The head of the murdered girl rested, it might
be said, on his shoulder — but none can know the
strength which God gives to his servants — and all
present felt for him as he walked steadily under that
dismal burden, a pity, and even an affection, which
they had been unable to yield to him ere he had been
so sorely tried. The Ladies from the Castle were
among the other mourners, and stood by the open
grave. A sunnier day nau never siione jrom iieaven;
and that very grave itself partook of tie brightness,

193

liimself to
the bystan-
ked breast,
led mouth,
nee blood-
g shout de-
he dreadful
'er blood!'*
mcy on the
) sheriff of
)me ofBcers
hocks from
soon after
he had ut-
ile seemed

>f witnesses
unexpected
th night to
uesday fol-

were inter-
In Scotland
lie last sim-
se they did ;
ses in which
nto the kirk
d little Ann
ther of him

its suppor-
i6, it might
1 know the
lis — and all
' under that
jtion, which
he had been
Castle were
ly the open

J brightness,

as the coftin, with the gilt letters — " Margaret Burn-
eide — Aged 18" — was let down, and in the darkness
Mow disappeared. No flowers were sprinkled there
—nor afterwards planted on the turf — vain offerings
of unavailing sorrow ! But in that nook — beside the
bodies of her poor parents — she was left for the grass
to grow over her, as over the other humble dead — and
nothing but the very simplest headstone was placed
there, with a sentence from Scripture below the name.
There was less weeping, less sobbing, than at many
other funerals ; for as sure as mercy ruled the skies, all
believed that she was there — all knew it, just as if the
gates of heaven had opened and shewed her a white-
robed spirit at the right hand of the throne. And why
should any rueful lamentation have been wailed over
the senseless dust ! But on the way home over the
hills, and in the hush of evening beside their hearths,
and in the stillness of night on their beds — ^all — ^young
and old — all did nothing but weep !

For weeks — such was the pity, grief, and awe in-
spired by this portentous crime and lamentable calami-
ty, that all the domestic ongoings in all the houses far
and wide, were melancholy and mournful, as if the
country had been fearing a visitation of the plague.
Sin, it was felt, had brought not only sorrow on the
parish, but shame that ages would not wipe away ;
and strangers, as they travelled through the moor,
would point out the place where the foulest murder
had been committed in all the annals of crime. As
for the family at Moorside — the daughter had their
houndless compassion — though no eye had seen her
since the funeral; but people, in speaking of the
father, would still shake their heads, and put their
fingers to their lips, and say to one another in whis-
pers, that Gilbert Adamson had once been a bold,
bad man — that his religion, in spite of all his repulsive
austerity, wore not the aspect of truth — and that had
he held a stricter and a stronger hand on the errors of
liis misguided son, this foul deed had not been perpe-

.Ill _.

j,s' I-

■ Hi.,
I a.

^ HE

11!

1 '

1 1

f i^^^H

in 'f

1* !

ill

494

trated, nor tliat wretclied sinner's soul given to perdi-
tion. Yet others iiad gentler and hunianer thoughts.
They remembered him walking along God-sunported
beneath the bier — and at the mouth of the grave — and
feared to look on that head — formerly grizzled, but
now quite grey — when on tho very first Sabbath after
the murder he took his place in liie elder's seat — and
was able to stand up along with the rest of the congre-
gation, when the minister prayed for peace to his soul,
and hoped for the deliverance out of jeopardy of him
now lying in bonds. A low Amen went all round the
kirk at these words — for the most hopeless called to
mind that maxim of law, equity, and justice — that
every man under accusation of crime should be held
innocent till he is proved to be guilty. Nay, a human
tribunal might condemn him, and yet might he stand
acquitted before the tribunal of God.

There were various accounts of the behaviour of the
[)risoner. Some said that he was desperately harden-
ed — others, sunk in sullen apathy and indilrerence —
and one or two persons belonging to the parish who
had seen him, declared that he seemed to care not for
himself, but to be plunged in profound melancholy
for the fate of Margeret Burn side, whose name he
voluntarily mentioned, and then bowed his head on
his knees and wept. His guilt he neither admitted
at that interview, nor denied — but he confessed that
some circumstances bore hard against him — and that
he was prepared for the event of his trial — condemna-
tion and death. " But if you are not guilty, Ludovic,
/r//o can he the mun/erer !* Not the slightest shade of
suspicion has fallen on any other person — and did

not, alas ! the body bleed when" The unhappy

wretch sprang up from the bed, it was said, at these
words, and hurried like a madman backward and
forward along the stone floor of his cell. " Yea —
yea," at last he cried, " tiie mouth and nostrils of my
Margaret did bleed, when tliey pressed down my
hand on her cold bosom. Jt is God's truth!" —

i to perdi-
thoughts.
-supported
jravc — and
izzled, but
bbath after
seat — and
tbe congre-
to bis soul,
dy of bim
I round the
3 called to
sticc — that
Id be held
y, a human
lit he stand

iour of the
;ly harden-
liirerence —
)arisb who
ire not for
nelancholy
; name he
s bead on
r admitted
fessed that
— and that
coiidemna-
', Ludovic,
t shade of
— and did
i unhappy
], at these
kward and
. " Yea—
trils of my
down my
truth !"—

4U5

"God's (ruth?"— -Yes— God's truth. I saw one
drop, and then another, trickle towards me— and J
prayed to our Saviour to wipe them otY before other
eyes might behold tbe dreadful witnesses against me
—but at that hour Heaven was most unmerciful— for
those two small drops — as all of you saw— soon be-
came a very stream— and all her face, neck, and
breast— you saw it as well as I miserable — were at
last drenched in blood. Then I may have confessed
that I was guilty— did I, or did I not, confess it?
Tell me— for f remember iiothiui,' distinctly ;— but if
i did— the judgment of ollended "Heaven, then punish-
ing me for my sins, had made me wor.se than mad —
and so bad all your abhorrent eyes — and, uien, if 1
did confess, it was tbe cruelty of God that drove me
to it — and your cruelty — which was great — for no pity
had any one for me that day, though Margaret Burn-
side lay before me a murdered corpse — and a lioarse
whisper came to my ear urging me to confess — 1 well
believe from no human lips, but from the FaUier of
Lies, who, at that hour, was sulFered to leave the pit
to ensnare my soul." Such was said to have been the
main sense of what be uttered in tbe presence of two or
three who had formerly been among his most intimate
friends, and who knew not, on leaving his cell and
coming into tbe open air, whether to tbiid^' him inno-
cent or guilty. As long as they thought they saw his
eyes regarding them, and that they heard his voice
speaking, they believed him innocent — but when the
expression of the tone of his voice, and of the look of
his eyes — which they bad felt belonged to innocence —
died away from their memory — then arose against him
the strong, strange circumstantial evidence, which —
wisely or unwisely — lawyers and judges have said
cannot He — and then, in their hearts, one and all of
them pronounced him guilty.

But bad not bis father often visited the prisoner's
cell? Once — and once only — for in obedience to bis
son's passionate prayer, beseeching him — if there was

596

any mercy left either on earth or heaven— never more
to enter that dungeon, the miserable parent had not
again entered the prison — but he had been seen one
morning at davi^n, by one virho knew his person, walk-
ing round and round the walls, staring up at the black
building in distraction, especially at one small grated
window in the north tower — and it is most probable
that he had been pacing his rounds there during all
the night. Nobody could conjecture, however dimly,
what was the meaning of his banishment from his
son's cell. Gilbert Adamson, so stern to others, even
to his own only daughter, had been always but too
indulgent to his Ludovic — and had that lost wretch's
guilt, so exceeding great, changed his heart into
stone, and made the sight of his old father's grey hairs
hateful to his eyes ? But then the jailor, who had
heard him imploring— beseeching— commanding his
father to remain till after the trial at Moorside, said,
all the while the prisoner sobbed and wept like a child
— and that when he unlocked the door of the cell, to
let the old man out, it was a hard thing to tear away
the arms and hands of Ludovic from his knees, while
the father sat like a stone image on the bed, and kept
his tearless eyes fixed sternly upon the wall, as if not
a soul had been present, and he himself had been a
criminal condemned next day to die.

The father had obeyed, rellgiouslyy that miserable
injunction, and from religion it seemed that he had
found comfort. For Sabbath after Sabbath he was at
the kirk — he stood, as he had been wont to do for
years, at the poor's plate, and returned grave saluta-
tions to those who dropt their mite into the small sa-
cred treasury — his eyes calmly, and even critically,
regarded the pastor during prayer and sermon — and
his deep bass voice was heard, as usual, through all
the house of God, in the Psalms. On week-days, he
was seen by passers by to drive his flocks a-field, and
to overlook his sheep on the hill pastures, or in the
pinfold ; and as it was still spring, and seed time had

497

-never more
2nt had not
m seen one
erson, walk-
at the black
imall grated
)st probable
; during all
vever dimly,
nt from his
others, even
lys but too
est wretch's
; heart into
•'s grey hairs
)r, who had
nanding his
>orside, said,
t like a child

the cell, to
o tear away
knees, while
d, and kept
all, as if not

had been a

lat miserable
that he had
th he was at
it to do for
^rave saluta-
he small sa-
en critically,
sermon — and
through all
eek-days, he
s a-fiel(l, and
2S, or in the
eed time had

been late this season, he was observed holding the
plough, as of yore — nor had his skill deserted him —
for the furrows were as straight as if drawn by a rule
on paper — and soon bright and beautiful was the braid
on all the low lands of his farm. The Comforter was
with him, and, sorely as he had been tried, his heart
was not wholly broken, and it was believed that, for
years, he might out-live the blow that at first had
seemed more than a mortal man might bear and be !
Yet that his woe, though hidden, was dismal, all
erelong knew, from certain tokens that intrenched his
face — cheeks shrunk and fallen, brow not so much
furrowed as scared, eyes quenched, hair thinner and
thinner far, as if he himself had torn it away in hand-
fuls during the solitude of midnight — and now abso-
lutely as white as snow ; and over the whole man an
indescribable ancientness far beyond his years — though
they were many, and most of them had been passed
in torrid climes — all shewed how grief has its agonies
as destructive as those of guilt, and those the most
wasting when they work in the heart, and in the brain,
unrelieved by the shedding of one single tear — when
the very soul turns dry as dust, and life is imprisoned,
rather than mingled, in the decaying — the mouldering
frame !

The Day of Trial came, and all labor was suspend-
ed in the parish, as if it had been a mourning fast.
Hundreds of people from this remote district poured
into the circuit town, and besieged the court house.
Horsemen were in readiness, soon as the verdict should
be returned, to carry the intelligence — of life or death
— to all those glens. A few words will suffice to tell
the trial, the nature of the evidence, and its issue.
The prisoner, who stood at the bar, in black, appeared
— though miserably changed from a man of great
muscular power and activity, a magnificent man, into
a tall thin shadow — perfectly unappalled ; but in a
face so white, and wasted, and woe-begone, the most
profound physiognomist could read not one faintest
16 . 3 s

rV''

I' I"

'■■ -i ' '■■

49ti

symptom either of hope or fear, trembling or tmst,
guilt or innocence. He hardly seemed to belong to
this world, and stood fearfully and ghastlily conspi-
cuous between the officers of justice, above all the
crowd that devoured him with their eyes, all leaning
towards the bar to catch the first sounds of his voice,
when to the indictment he should plead " Not Guilty."
These words he did utter, in a hollow voice altogether
passionless, and then was suffered to sit down, which
he did in a manner destitute of all emotion. During
all the many long hours of his trial, he never moved
head, limbs, or body, except once, when he drank
some water, which he had not asked for, but which
was given to him by a friend. The evidence was
entirely circumstantial, and consisted of a few damning
facts, and of many of the very slightest sort, which,
taken singly, seemed to mean nothing, but which,
when considered altogether, seemed to mean some-
thing against him — how much or how little, there
were among the agitated audience many differing
opinions. But slight as they were, either singly or
together, they told fearfully against the prisoner,
when connected with the fatal few which no ingenuity
could ever explain away ; and though ingenuity did
all it could do, when wielded by eloquence of the
highest order — and as the prisoner*s counsel sat down,
there went a rustle and a buz through the court, and
a communication of looks and whispers, that seemed
to denote that there were hopes of his acquittal — yet,
if such hopes there were, they were deadened by the
calm, clear, logical address to the jury by the counsel
for the crown, and destroyed by the Judge's charge,
which amounted almost to a demonstration of guilt,
and concluded with a confession due to his oath and
conscience, that he saw not how the jury could do
their duty to their Creator, and their lellow creatures,
but by returning one verdict. They retired to consider
it ; and during a deathlike silence, all eyes were bent
on a deathlike Image.

499

ig or tiust,
3 belong to
tlily conspi-
>ove all the

all leaning
f his voice,
^ot Guilty."
!e altogether
own, which
►n. During
ever moved
n he drank

but which
ddence was
2w damning
sort, which,

but which,
nean some-
little, there
ly differing
er singly or
le prisoner,
10 ingenuity
igenuity did
ence of the
el sat down,

court, and
that seemed
juittal — yet,
med by the

the counsel
ge's charge,
jn of guilt,
is oath and
y could do
IV creatures,

to consider
? were bent

[t had appeared in evidence, that the murder had
been committed— at least all the gashes inflicted— for
there were also finger marks of strangulation— with a
bill-hook, such as foresters use in lopping trees- and
several witnesses swore that the bill-hook which was
shewn them, stained with blood, and with hair stick-
ing on the haft— belonged to Ludovic Adamson. It
was also given in evidence— though some doubts
rested on the nature of the precise words— that on that
day, in the room with the corpse, he had given a wild
and incoherent denial to the question then put to him
in the din, "What he had done with the bill-hook?"
Nobody had seen it in his possession sirce the spring
before— but it had been found, after several weeks'
search, in a hag in the moss, in the direction that he
woulu have most probably taken— had he been the
murderer— when flying from the spot to the loch where
he was seized. The shoes which he had on when ta-
ken, fitted the foot marks on the ground, not far
from the place of the murder, but not so perfectly as
another pair which were found in the house. But
that other pair, it was proved, belonged to the old
man; and therefore the correspondence between the
foot marks and tiie prisoner's shoes, though not per-
fect, was a circumstance of much suspicion. But a far
stronger fact, in this part of the evidence, was sworn
to against the prisoner. Though there was no blood
on his shoes — when apprehended his legs were bare —
though that circumstance, strange as it may seem,
had never been noticed till he was on the way to prison !
His stockings had been next day found lying on the
sward, near .the shore of the loch, manifestly after
iiaving been washed and laid out to dry in the sun.
At mention of this circumstance a cold shudder ran
through the court ; but neither that, nor indeed any
other circumstance in all the evidence — not even the
account of the appearance which the murdered body
exhibited when found on the moor, or when afterwards
laid on the bed — extorted from the prisoner one groan

n f

BBBBJ

if'''

^^^1 ■§<k'^

i i

H ^

500

— one sigh, or touched the imperturbable deathliness
of his countenance. It was proved, that when searched
— in prison — and not before — for the agitation that
reigned over all assembled in the room at Moorside
that dreadful day, had confounded even those accus-
tomed to deal with suspected criminals — there were
found in his pocket a small French gold watch, and
also a gold brooch, which the Ladies of the Castle
had given to Margaret Burnside. On these being
taken from him, he had said nothing, but looked
aghast. A piece of torn and bloody paper, which had
been picked up near the body, was sworn to be in his
handwriting ; and though the meaning of the words
yet legible was obscure, they seemed to express a
request that Margaret would meet him on the moor
on that Saturday afternoon she was UiUrdered. The
words, " Saturday" — " meet me" — " last time" — were
not indistinct, and the paper was of the same quality
and color with some found in a drawer in his bed-
room at Moorside. It was proved that he had been
drinking with some dissolute persons — pc ^hers and
the like — in a public-house in a neighbouring parish
all Saturday, till well on in the afternoon, when he
left them in a state of intoxication — and was then seen
running along the hillside, in the direction of the moor.
Where he past the night between the Saturday and
the Sabbath, he could give no account, except once
when, unasked, and as if speaking to himself, he was
overheard by the jailor to mutter, " Oh ! tliat fatal
night — that fatal night!" And then, when suddenly
interrogated, " Where were you ?" he answered,
" Asleep on the hill ;" and immediately relapsed into
a state of mental abstraction. These were the cliief
circumstances against him, which his counsel had
striven to explain away. That most eloquent person
dwelt with atiecting earnestness on the wickedness of
putting any evil construction on the distracted behavi-
our of the wretched man when brought without warn-
ing upon the sudden sight of the mangled corpse of

601

deathliness
en searched
itation that
t Moorside
liose accus-
-there were
watch, and
the Castle
these being
but looked
', which had
to be in his
■ the words
) express a
1 the moor
lered. The
ime" — were
ime quality
in his bed-
e had been
: ^hers and
iring parish
n, when he
as then seen
of the moor,
aturdav and
ixcept once
self, he was
I ! that fatal
3n suddenly
d answered,
elapsed into
re the chief
counsel had
uent person
ickedness of
.cted behavi-
ithout warn-
d corpse of

the beautiful girl, whom all allowed he had most pas-
sionately and tenderly loved ; and he strove to prove
—as he did prove to the conviction of many — that
such behaviour was incompatible with such guilt, and
almost of itself established his innocence. All that
was sworn to against him, as having passed in that
dreadful room, was in truth for him — unless all our
knowledge of the best and of the worst of human na-
ture were not, as folly, to be given to the winds. He
beseeched the jury, therefore, to look at all the other
circumstances that did indeed seem to bear hard upon
the prisoner, in the light of his innocence, and not of
his guilt, and that they would all fade into nothing.
What mattered his possession of the watch and other
trinkets? Lovers as they were, might not the un-
happy girl have given them to him for temporary-
keepsakes ? Or might he not have taken them from
her in some playful mood, or received them — (and the
brooch was cracked, and the mainspring of the watch
broken, though the glass was whole) — to get them
repaired in the town, which he often visited, and she
never ? Could human credulity for one moment be-
lieve, that such a man as the prisoner at the bar had
been sworn to be by a host of witnesses — and espe-
cially by that witness, who with such overwhelming
solemnity, had declared he loved him as his own son,
and would have been proud if heaven had given him
such a son — he who had baptized him, and known
him well ever since a child, that such a man could rob
the body of her whom he had voilated and murdered ?
If, under the instigation of the devil, he had voilated
and murdered her, and for a momtint were made the
hideous supposition, did vast hell hold that demon
whose voice would have tempted the violate and
murderer — suppose him both— yea that man at the
bar — sworn to by all the parish, if need were, as a
man of tenderest charities, and generosity unbounded,
—in the lust of lucre, consequent on the satiating of

" his victim of a few trinkets!

another lust — to

rob

503

Let loose tlie wildest imagination into the realms of
wildest wickedness, and yet they dared not as they
feared God, to credit for a moment the union of such
appalling and such paltry guil*, in that man who now
trembled not before them, but who seemed cut oil'
from all the sensibilities of this life by the scythe of
Misery that had shorn him down ! But why try to
recount, however feebly, the line of defence taken by
the speaker, who on that day seemed all but inspired.
The sea may overturn rocks, or fire consume them
till they split in pieces ; but a crisis there sometimes
is in man's destiny, which all the powers ever lodged
in the lips of man, were they touched with a coal from
heaven cannot avert, and when even he who strives
to save, feels and knows that he is striving all in vain
— aye, vain as a worm — to arrest the tread of Fate
about to trample down its victim into the dust. All
hoped — many almost believed — that the prisoner would
be acquitted — that a verdict of " Not Proved," at least,
if not of " Not Guilty," would be returned— but they
had not been sworn to do justice before man and be-
fore God — ^and, if need were, to seal up even the
fountains of mercy in their hearts — flowing, and easily
set a-fl owing, by such a spectacle as that bar presented
— a man already seeming to belong unto the dead !

In about a quarter of an hour the Jury returned to
to box — and the verdict, having been sealed witli
black wax, was handed up to the Judge, who read,
♦• We unanimously find the prisoner Guilty." Kt?
then stood up to receive sentence of death. Not a dry
eye was in the court during the Judges solenni anil
aflfecting address to the criminal — except those of the
Shadow on whom had been pronounced the doom.
" Your body will be hung in chains on the moor — on
a gibbet erected on the spot where you murdered the
victim of your unhallowed lust, and there will your
bones bleach in the sun, and rattle in the wind, after
the insects and the birds of the air have devoured

jvUi 2iv(3ii , aiiU ill an iUliilt- UlliCS, lilt; SpUl Oil WniCll

•s|. i^

503

God-forsaking and God-forsaken, you perpetrated that
double crime, at which all humanity shudders, will be
looked on from afar by the traveller passing 'through
that lonesome wild, with a sacred horror !'*— Here the
voice of the Judge faltered, and he covered his face
with his hands ; but the prisoner stood unmoved in
figure, and in face untroubled— and when all was clo-
sed, was removed from the bar, the same ghostlike
and unearthly phantom, seemingly unconscious of
what had passed, or even of his own existence.

Surely mow he will suffer his old father to visit him
in his cell ! " Once more only— only once more let
me see him before I die!" were his words to the
clergyman of the parish, whose manse he had so often
visited, when a young and happy boy ! That servant
of Christ had not forsaken him,*^ whom now all the
world had forsaken. As free from sin himself as might

be mortal and fallen man — mortal because fallen he

knew from Scripture and from nature, that in " the
lowest deep there is still a lower deep" in wickedness,
into which all of woman born may fall, unless held
back by the arm of the Almighty Being, whom they
must serve steadfastly in holiness and in truth. He
knew, too, from the same source, that man cannot
sin beyond the reach of God's mercy— if the worst of
all imaginable sinners seek, in a Bible-breathed spirit
at last, that mercy through the Atonement of the
Redeemer. Daily — and nightly— he visited that cell ;
nor did he fear to touch the hand — now wasted to the
bone — which, at the temptation of the Prince of the
Air, who is mysteriously suffered to enter in at the
gates of every human heart that is guarded not by the
flaming sword of God's own Seraphim — lately drench-
ed in the blood of the most innocent creature that
ever looked on the day. Yet a sore trial it was to his
Christianity to find the criminal so obdurate. He
would make no confession ! Yet said that it was fit —
that it was far best — he should die ! — that he deserved
death ! But ever when the deed without a name was

504

alluded to, his tongue was tied — and once in the midst
of an impassioned prayer, beseeching him to listen to
conscience and confess — he that prayed shuddered to
behold him frown, and to hear bursting out in terrible
energy, " Cease — cease ^to torment me, or you will
drive me to deny my God !"

No father came to visit him in his cell. On the day
of trial he had been missing from Moorside, and was
seen next morning — .(where he had been all night
never was known — though it was afterwards rumoured,
that one like him had been seen sitting, as the gloam-
ing darkened, on the very spot of the murder) —
wandering about the hills, hither and thither, and
round and round about, like a man stricken with
blindness, and vainly seeking to find his home.
When brought into the house, his sense^ were gone,
and he had lost the power of speech. All he could
do was to mutter some disjointed syllables, which he
did continually, without one moment's cessation, one
unintelligible and most rueful moan ! The figure of
his daughter seemed to cast no image on his eyes —
blind and dumb he sat where he had been placed,
perpetually wringing his hands, with his shaggy
eyebrows drawn high up his forehead, and the fixed
orbs — though stone-blind, at least to all real things —
beneath them flashing fire. He had borne up bravely
— almost to the last — but had some tongue syllabled
his son's doom to him in the wilderness, and at that
instant had insanity smitten his soul?

Such utter prostration of intellect had been expected
by none ; for the old man, up to the very night before
the Trial, had expressed the most confident trust of
his son's acquittal. Nothing had ever served to shake
his conviction of his innocence — though he had always
forborne speaking about the circumstances of the
murder — and had communicated to nobody any of the
grounds on which he more than hoped in a case so
boneless : and thouerh a trouble in his eves often irave
the lie to his lips, when he used to say to the silent

605

neighbours, "We shall soon see him back at Moorside."
Had his belief in his Ludovie's innocence, and his
trust in God that that innocence would be established
and set free, been so sacred, that the blow, when it
(lid come, had smitten him like a hammer, and felled
him to the ground, from which he had risen with a
brain rent and riven ? In whatever way the shock
had been given, it had been terrible ; for old Gilbert
Adamson was now a confirmed lunatic, and keepers
were in Moorside — not keepers from a mad-house —
for his daughter could not aflTord such tendance — but
two of her brother's friends who sat up with him al-
ternately, night and day, while the arms of the old
man, in his distraction, had to be bound with cords.
That dreadful moaning was at end now; but the
echoes of the hills responded to his yells and shrieks ;
and people were afraid to go near the house. It was
proposed among the neighbours to take Alice and little
Ann out of it ; and an asylum for them was in the
Manse ; but Alice would not stir at all their entreaties;
and as, in such a case, it would have been too shock-
ing to tear her away by violence, she was suffered to
remain with him who knew her not, but who often — it
was said — stared distractedl)' upon her, as if she were
some fiend sent in upon his insanity from the place of
punishment. Weeks passed on, and still she was
there — hiding herself at times from those terrified eyes ;
and from her watching corner, waiting from morn till
night, and from night till morn — for she never lay
down to sleep, and had never undressed herself since
that fatal sentence — for some moment of exhausted
horror, when she might steal out, and carry some
slight gleam of comfort, however evanescent, to the
glimmer or the gloom in which the brain of her Father
swam through a dream of blood. But there were no
lucid intervals ; and ever as she moved towards him,
like a pitying angel, did he furiously rage against
her, as if she had been a fiend. At last, she who,
though yet so young, had lived to see the murdered
17 3t

506

'■ n ?.)

. }

Kil*

corpse of her dearest friend — murdered by her own
only brother, whom, in secret, that murdered maiden
had most tenderly loved — that murderous brotiier
loaded with prison chains, and condemned to the
gibbet for inexpiable and unpardonable ciimes — her
father raving like a demon, self-murderous were his
hands but free, nor visited by one glimpse of mercy
from Him who rules the skies — after having borne
more than, as she meekly said, had ever poor girl
borne, she took to her bed quite heart-broken, and,
the night before the day of execution, died. As for
poor little Ann, she had been wiled away some weeks
before; and in the blessed thoughtlessness of child-
hood, was not without hours of happiness among her
playmates on the braes !

The Morning of that Day arose, and the Moor was
all blackened with people round the tall gibbet, that
seemed to have grown, with its horrid arms, out of
the ground, during the night. No sound of axes or of
hammers had been heard clinking during tiie dark
hours — nothing had been seen passing along the road
— for the windows of all the houses from which any
thing could have been seen, had been shut fast against
all horrid sights — and the horses' hoofs and the wheels
must have been muffled that had brought that hideous
Frame-work to the Moor ! But there it now stood —
a dreadful Tree 1 The sun moved higher and higher
up the sky, and all the eyes of that congregation were
at once turned towards the east, for a dull sound, as
of rumbling wheels and trampling feet, seemed shak-
ing the Moor hi that direction ; and lo ! surrounded
with armed men on horseback, and environed with
halberds, came on a cart, in which three persons
seemed to be sitting, he in the middle all dressed in
white — the death-clothes of the murderer, the unpity-
ing shedder of most innocent blood.

There was no bell to toll there — but at the very
moment he was ascending the scaffold, a black cloud
knelled thunder, and many hundreds of people all at

)y her own
ired maiden
)us brother
ned to the
3rime8 — her
•us were his
e of mercy
ving borne
r poor girl
roken, and,
kI. As for
some weeks
IS of child-
among her

! Moor was
gibbet, that
•ms, out of
)f axes or of
g tlie dark
ig the road

which any
fast against
I the wiieels
hat liideous
3w stood —
and higher
!gation were
i sound, as
emed shak-
surrounded
ironed with
rec nersons

dressed in
the unpity-

at the very
black cloud
eople all at

607

once fell down upon their knees. The man in white
lifted up h.s eyes and said, '' O Lord God of heaven !
and Thou his blessed Son, who died to save sinners i
accept this sacrifice !

Not one in all that immense crowd could have known
that that white apparition was Ludovic Adamson.
His hair that had been almost jet black, was now
white as his face-as his figure, dressed, as it seemed,
for the grave. Are they going to execute the mur-
derer ,n iis shroud P Stone-blind, and stone-deaf,
there he stood-yet had he without help, walked up
the steps of the scaffold. A hymn of Several voices
arose- he man of God close behind the criminal, with
he Bible m his uplifted hands-but those bloodless
hps had no motion— with him this world was not
though yet he was in life-in life and no more ! And
was this the man, who a kw months ago, flinginff
the fear of ueath from him, as a flash of sunshini
tiings aside the shades, had descended into that pit
which an hour before had been bellowing, as the foul
vapors exploded like cannons, and brought up the
bodies of them that had perished in the womb of the
earth r' Was this he who once leapt into the devour-
ing lire, and re-appeared, after all had given over for
lost the glorious boy, with an infant in his arms,
win St the flames seemed to eddy back, that they
might scathe not the head of the deliverer, while a
shower of blessings fell upon him as he laid it in its
mother's bosom, and made the heart of the widow
to sing for joy ? It is he. And now the executioner
pulls down the cord from the beam, and f-^stens it
round the-criminal's neck. His face is already cover-
ed, and that fatal handcerchief is in his hand. The
whole crowd are now kneeling, and one multitudi-
nous sob convulses the air;— when wild outcries, and
shrieks, and yells, are at that moment heard from the
distant gloom of the glen that opened ud to Moorsid^,
and three figures, one far in advance* of the other
two, come flying as on the wings of the wind, towards

li.i
ill

i'fiii

iT^l I i

ti_ >L

■'

;

i ■

imii ,

.1.

008

tlie gibbet. Hundreds started to their feet, and " 'Tic
the maniac — 'tis the lunatic !" was the cry. Precipi-
tating himself down a rocky hillside, that seemed
hardly accessible but to the goats, the maniac, the lu-
natic, at a few desperate leaps and bounds, just as
it was expected he would have been dashed in pieces,
alighted unstunned upon the level greensward ; and
now far a-head of his keepers, with incredible swift-
ness neared the scaffold — and, the dense crowd making
a lane for him in their fear and astonishment, he flew
up the ladder to the horrid platform, and, grasping
his son in his arms, howled dreadfully over him ; and
then with a loud voice cried, " Saved — saved— saved !"

So sudden had been that wild rush, that all the
oflficers of justice — the very executioner — stood aghast j
and lo ! the prisoner's neck is free from that accursed
cord — his face is once more visible without that hi-
deous shroud — and he sinks down senseless on the
scaffold. " Seize him — seize him !" and he was seized
— but no maniac — no lunatic was the father now — for
during the night, and during the dawn, and during
the morn, and on to midday— on to the Hour of
One — when all rueful preparations were to be com-
pleted — had Providence been clearing and calming
the tumult in that troubled brain, and as the clock
struck ONE, memory brightened at the chime into a
perfect knowledge of the past, and prophetic imagina-
tion saw the futue lowering upon the dismal present.
All night long, with the cunning of a madman— for
all night long he had still been mad — the miserable
old man had been disengaging his hands from the ma-
nacles, and that done, springing like a wild beast from
its cage, he flew out of the open door, nor could a
horse's speed on that fearful road have overtaken him,
before he reached the scaffold.

No need was there to hold the miserable man. He
who had been so furious in his manacles at Moorside,
seemed now to the people at a distance, calm as when
he used to sit in the elder's seat beneath the pulpit in

509

, and " 'Tic
r. Precipi-
hat seemed
dac, the lu-
ids, just as
d in pieces,
sward ; and
dible swift-
)wd making
nt, he flew
d, grasping
;r him ; and
3d — saved !"
that all the
;ood aghast j
lat accursed
)ut that hi-
iless on the
e was seized
er now — for
and during
? Hour op
to be com-
ind calming
,s the clock
lime into a
tic imagina-
Tial present,
ladman — for
le miserable
rem the ma-
d beast from
nor could a
?rtaken him,

e man. He
at Moorside,
aim as when
he pulpit in

that small kirk. But they who were on or near the
scaffold, saw something horrid in the fixedness of his
countenance. " Let go your hold of me, ve fools,"
he muttered to some of the mean wretches i the law,
who still had him in their clutch — and tc sing his
hands on high, cried with a loud voice, — " Give ear,
ye Heavens ! and hear, O earth ! I am the Violator--
I am the murderer !

The moor groaned as in earthquake— and then all
that congregation bowed their heads with a rustling
noise, like a wood smitten by the wind. Had they
heard aright the unimaginable confession ? His head
had long been grey — he had reached the term alotted
to man's mortal life here below — threescore and ten.
Morning and evening, never had the Bible been out
of his hands at the hour set apart for family worship.
And who so eloquent as he in expounding its most
dreadful mysteries ! The un regenerate heart of man,
he had ever said — in scriptural phrase — was "desper-
ately wicked." Desperately wicked indeed! And
now again he tossed his arms wrathfully-*-so the wild
motion looked — in the wrathful skies. " I ravished —
I murdered her — ye know it, ye evil spirits in the
depths of hell !" Consternation now fell on the minds
of all — and the trut!j was clear as light — and all eyes
knew at once that now indeed they looked on the
murderer. The dreadful delusion under which all
their understandings had been brought by the power
of circumstances, was by that voice destroyed — the
obduracy of him who had been about to die, waa
now seen to have been the most heroic virtue — the
self-sacrifice of a son to save a father from ignominy
and death !

" O monster, beyond the reach of redemption ! and
the very day after the murder, while the corpse was
lyin^' in blood on the moor, he was with us in the
House of God ; Tear him in pieces — rend him limb
from limb — tear him into a thousand pieces !" — '* The
Evil one had power given him to prevail against me.

f i

1 i

'J- \*

^H^H'li

ii {.«

410

and I fell under the temptation. It was so written in
the Book of Predestination, and the deed lies at the
door of God !"— " Tear the blasphemer into pieces !
Let the seafibld drink his blood !" — " So let it be, if it
be so written, good people ! Satan never left me since
the murder till this day— he sat by my side in kirk—
when I was ploughing in the field — there — ever as I
came back from the other end of the furrows-— he
stood on the head-rig— in the shape of a black shadow.
But now I see him not— he has returned to his den in
the pit. I cannot imagine what I have been doing,
or what has been done to me, all the time between the
day of trial and this of execution. Was 1 mad ? No
matter. But you shall not hang Ludovic, he, poor
boy, is innocent; — here, look at him — here— I tell
you again — is the Violator and the Murderer !"

But shall the men in authority dare to stay the ex-
ecution at a maniac's words ? If they dare not — that
multitude will, now all rising together like the waves
of the sea. "Cut the cords asunder that bind our
Ludovic's amis" — a thousand voices cried — and the
murderer, unclasping, a knife, that, all unknown to
his keepers, he had worn in his breast when a maniac,
sheaied them asunder as the sickle shears the corn.
But his son stirred not — and on being lifted up by his
father, gave not so much as a groan. His heart had
burst — and he was dead ! No one touched the grey-
headed murderer, Avho knelt down — not to pray — but
to look into his son's eyes — and to examine his lips—
and to feel his left breast— and to search out all the
symptoms of a fainting-fit, or to assure himself,— and
many a corpse had the plunderer handled on the field
after hush of the noise of battle,— that this was death.
He rose ; and standing forward on the edge of the
scaffold, said, with a voice that shook not, deep,
strong, hollow, and hoarse — "Good people! I am
likewise now the murderer of my daughter and of my
son! and of myself!" Next moment, the knife was
in his heart — and he fell down a corpse on the corpse

10 written in
lies at the
nto pieces!
3t it be, if it
eft me since
le in kirk—
I — ever as I
arrows — he
ick shadow.
) his den in
>een doing,
between the
mad ? No
3, he, poor
lere — I tell
er !"

itay the ex-
! not — that
the waves
t bind our
1 — and the
[iknown to
1 a maniac,
the corn.
I up by his
heart had
the grey-
pray — but
I his lips —
•ut all the
iself, — and
n the field
ivas death.
Ige of the
lot, deep,
de ! I am
nd of my
knife was
the corpse

511

of his Ludovic. All round the sultry horizon the
black clouds had for hours been gathering— and now
came the thunder and the lightening— and the storm
Agam the whole multitude prostrated themselves on
the moor— and the Pastor, bending over the bodies
said, "This IS Expiation!" '

AN EXTRACT FROM THE RECORDS OF THE LIFE OF THE
LATE JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ., AUTHOR OF

MONSIEUR TONSON.

»»

OUR selection is related of a Mr. Donaldson, a lite-
rary man with whom Mr. Taylor was intimate in
his younger days.

" In order to attend the House of Commons he had
taken apartments in St. Anne*s churchyard, West-
minster. On the evening when he took possession,
he was struck with something that appeared to him
mysterious in the manner of the maid-servant, who
looked like a man disguised ; and he felt a very un-
pleasant emotion. This feeling was strengthened by
a similar deportment in the mistress of the house, who
soon after entered his room, and asked him 'if he
wanted any thing before he retired to rest : disliking
her manner, he soon dismissed her, and went to bed,
but the disagreeable impression made on his mind by
the maid and mistress, kept him long awake : at
length, however, he fell asleep. During his sleep
he dreamed that the corpse of a gentleman, who had
been murdered, was deposited in the cellar of the
house. This dream co-operating with the unfavor-
able, or rather repulsive countenances and demeanour
of the two women, precluded all hopes v ^ renewed
sleep ; and it being the summer season, he rose about
five o'clock in the morning, took his hat, and resolved
to quit a house of such alarm and terror. To his sur-
prise, as he was leaving it, he met the mistress in
the entry, dressed, as if she had never gone to bed.

■ii, X

1:'

i ■ ■

sT^TTlTii

•1 .-
1

^^■■KIJHdJ

• ■ ii

1 . t

^ §!■

? -

612

She seemed to be much agitated, and enquired his
reason for wishing to go out so early in the morning.
He hesitated a moment with increased alarm, and
then told her that he expected a friend, who was to
arrive by a stage in Bishopsgate Street, and that he
was going to meet him. He was suffered to go c
of the house, and when revived by the open air, he
felt, as he afterwards declared, as if relieved from
impending destruction. He stated, that in a few
hours after he returned with a friend, to whom he
had told his dream, and the impression made on him
by the maid and the mistress : he, however, only
laughed at him for his superstitious terrors ; but, on
entering the house, they found that it was deserted,
and calling in a gentleman who was accidentally pas-
sing, they all descended to the cellar, and actually
found the corpse in the state which the gentleman's
dream had represented. Before I make any observa-
tions on the subject, f shall introduce a recital of a
similar description, and care not if sceptic sneer, or
ridicule deride, satisfied that I heard it from one on
whose veracity I could most confidently depend. I
will, however, now take leave of Mr. Donaldson,
though I could with rapture dwell much longer on
the memory of so valuable a friend. The other ex-
traordinary story to which I have alluded, I heard
from what I consider unimpeachable authority. Mrs.
Brooke, whom I have already mentioned, tolc' me
that she was drinking tea one evening in Fleet Street,
where a medical gentleman was expected, but did not
arrive till late. Apologising for his delay, he said he
had attended a lady who suffered under a contracted
throat, which occasioned her great difficulty in swal-
lowing. She said that she traced the cause to the
following circumstance. When she was a young
woman, and in bed with her mother, she dreamed
that she was on a roof of a church struggling with a
man who attempted to throw her over. He appeared
in a carman's frock, and had red hair. Her mother

513

inquired his
le morning,
alarm, and
i^ho was to
md that he
1 to go c
pen air, he
lieved from
^t in a few
) whom he
ide on him
wever, only
rs; but, on
as deserted,
entally pas-
nd actually
gentleman's
ny observa-
recital of a
ic sneer, or
from one on
depend. I
Donaldson,
longer on
e other ex-
ed, I heard
)rity. Mrs.
d, tolc' me
h'leet Street,
but did not
he said he
contracted
ty in swal-
luse to the
s a young
lie dreamed
ing with a
[e appeared
Ser mother

ridiculed her terrors, and bade her compose herself to
sleep again ; but the impression of her dream was so
strong, that she could not comply. In the evening
of the following day, she had appointed to meet her
lover at a bowling-green, from which he was to con-
duct her home when the amusement ended. She had
passed over one field in hopes of meeting the gentle-
man, and sung as she tripped along, when she entered
the second field, and accidentally turning her head
slie beheld, in the corner of the field, just such a man'
as her dream represented, dressed in a carman's frock*
with red hair, and apparently approaching towards
her. Her agitation was so great, that she ran with
all her speed to the stile of the third field, and with
difficulty got over it. Fatigued, however, with run-
ning, she sat on the stile to recover herself, and re-
flecting thnt the man might be harmless, she was
afraid that her flight, on seeing him, might put evil
and vindictive thoughts into his head. While in this
meditation, the man had reached the stile, and seizing
her by the neck, he dragged her over the stile, and
she remembered no more. It appeared that he had
pulled off' all her clothes, and thrown her into an ad-
joining ditch. Fortunately, a gentleman came to the
spot, and observing a body above the water, he hailed
others who were approaching, and it was immediately
raised. It was evidently not dead, and some of the
party remarking that the robber could not be far oft',
went in pursuit of him, leaving others to guard and
endeavour to revive the body. The pursuers went
different ways, and some, at no great distance, saw
a man at a public house sitting with a bundle before
him. He seemed to be so much alarmed at the sight
of the gentlemen, that they suspected him to be the
cidprlt, and determined to examine the bundle, in
which they found the dress of the lady, which some
of them recognised. The man was, of course, imme-
diately taken into custody, and was to be brought to
trial at the approaching assizes. The lady, however,

a u

514

'SM.. ■ ":^

was too ill to come into court, but appearances were
so strong against him, that he was kept in close cus-
tody, and when she was able to give evidence, though
he appeared at the trial with a different dress and a
wig on, she was struck with terror at the sight of him,
and fainted, but gave evidence ; the culprit was con-
victed and executed. The medical gentleman added,
that when she had finished her narrative, she declared
that she felt the presure of the man's hand on her
neck, while she related it, and that her throat had
gradually contracted from the time when the melan-
choly event occurred. At length her throat became
so contracted, that she was hardly able to receive the
least sustenance."

THE APPARITION OF THE MURDERED BOY.

AT the commencement of the French Revolution,
Lady Pennvman and her two daughters retn-ed
to Lisle, where 'thev had hired a large and handsome
house at a very trifling rent. During their residence
in this abode, the Lady received from her husband.
Sir John Pennyman, a draft for a considerable sum,
which she carried to the banker of the town. And re-
quested to have cashed. The man, as is much the
custom on the continent, gave her a large portion of
silver in exchange. As Lady Pennyman was pro-
ceeding to pay some visits, she requested that the
banker would send the money to her house, of which
she described the situation. The parcel was mstantly
committed to the care of a porter ; and, on the lady s
enquiring of him whether he understood, from her
directions, the place to which his charge was to be
conveyed, the man replied that he was perfectly aware
of the place designated, that it was called the " Haun-
ted House." The latter part of this answer was ad-

I 1 • -1. 1 ' --» -» l-^-s» *r»nf» f^f V'^''''^ Kilt was

dressed to ihe banker m a i0\\ tont o. \ ...v--, ~

ices were
jlose cus-
e, though
iss and a
ht of him,
was con-
an added,
e declared
md on her
hroat had
he melan-
at became
eceive the

BOY.

devolution,
ters retired
handsome
r residence
r husband,
arable sum,
I. And re-
much the
portion of
1 was pro-
id that the
3, of which
as instantly
1 the lady's
\, from her
was to be
fectly aware
the " Haun-
rer was ad-

oa hut was

^.y,.j

515

overheard by Lady Pennyman; she paid, however,
no attention to the words, and naturally supposed that
the report connected with her habitation was one of
those which are raised by the ignorant respecting
every dwelling which is long untenanted, or remark-
able for its antiquity.

A few weeks afterwards, the words were recalled
to her recollection in a manner that surprised her : the
housekeeper, with many apologies for being obliged
to mention any thing that might appear so idle and
absurd, came to the appartment in which her mistress
was sitting ; and said that two of her servants, who
had accompanied her ladyship from England, had
that morning given warning, and expressed a determi-
nation of quitting her ladyship's service, on account of
the mysterious noises by which they had been, night
after night, disturbed and terrified. " I trust, Carter,"
replied Lady Pennyman, " that you have too much
good sense to be alarmed on your own account by any
of these superstitious and visionary fears ; and pray
exert yourself in endeavouring to tranquilize the ap-
prehensions of others, and persuading them to continue
in their places." The persuasion of Carter was inefTec-
tual : the servants insisted that the noises which had
alarmed them were not the operation of any earthly
beings, and persevered in their resolution of returning
to their native country.

The room from which the sounds were supposed to
have proceeded was at a distance from Lady Penny-
man's appartments, and immediately over those which
were occupied by the two female servants, who had
themselves been terrified by them, and whose report
had spread a general panic through the rest of the
family. To quiet the alarm, Lady Pennyman resolved
on leaving her own chambe. for a time, and establish--
ing herself in the one which had been lately occupied
by the domestics.

The room above was a long spacious apartment,

wliiph nnnPOTpH tr» havp hppn fnr a Ipncrth of timft

nr«n nnnpnn
ii

• f^-^B* ■ ' ij^

1(1

<losertcil. li» the contro of the clianiber was a large
iron cage : it was an extraordinary i)ioo(^ of I'nrnituro to
find in any mansion, but the legand which the ser-
vants liad collected respecting it appeared to be still
more extraordinary : it was said that a late proprietor
of the house, a young man of enormous property, had
in his minority been confined in that apartment by his
uncle and guardian, and there hastened to a premature
death by the privations and cruelties to which lie was
exposed : those cruelties had been practised under the
pretence of necessary correction. It was alledged that
he was idle, stubborn, inattentive, and of an unto-
ward disposition, which nothing but severity could
improve. In Ins boyhood, frequent chastisements,
continued application, and tVic .efusal of every inter-
val of relaxation were in vain essayed to urge and
goad him to the grave, and to place his uncle in pos-
session of the inheritance : his constitution struggled
with the tyranny of his unnatural relation, and, wasted
as it was bv the unmitigated oppression, still resisted
with an admirable vitality the eflbrts which were in-
creniously aimed against his existence. As he drew
nearer the age in wliicii he would have been legally
delivered from the dangers and impositions of his
uncle, his life was subjected to more violent and re-
peated severities; every, even llie slightest olleiice
was succeeded by the most rigorous inllictions. llie
iron cage was threatned, was ordered, was erected
up in the upper chamber. At first, for a lew weeks,
it remained as an object of terror only : it was mena-
ced that the next transgression of his guardian's
wishes would be punished with a day's imprisonment
in that narrow circle, without the possibility ot rest,
or the permission of refreshment. Twice the cage was
threatened and remitted, from an atiected show of
mercy, and the better to cover and to palliate the pre-
meditated enormities ; the youth, who was about six-
teen, from the dread of this terrible infliction, applied
himself with sleepless diligence to labors dillicuit to

517

(■ ^1

IS a large
iirnituroto
1 the ser-
to be still
proprietor
perty, had
lent by his
premature
eh lie was

under the
edged that
f an uiito-
3rity could
stisements,
jvery inter-

mgo and
cle in pos-
1 struggled
uid, wasted
itill resisted
h were iu-
Ls he drew
een legally
ions ol' his
3nt and re-
test ollence
tions. The
was erected
lew weeks,
was niena-
; guardian's
fiprisonment
lity of rest,
the cage was
ed show of
iate the pre-
LS about six-
ioii, applied

dillicuit to

be accoini)lishe(l, and extended, purposely extended,
beyond the capacity of the student : his Iesf:ons were
exacted, not in proportion to his abilities, but his
endeavours and performance.

The taskmaster eventually concpiered : then fol-
l(jwed the imprisonment, and the day without food.
Again the imposition was set; again executed with
painful exertion ; again lengthened; again discovered
to be im[)racticable, and again visited with the iron
cage and the denial of necessary subsistence. The
savage i)urpose of thus murdering the boy, under the
l)retence of a strict attention to his interest or his im-
provement, was at last successful : the lad was decla-
red to be incorrigible : there was a feigned necessity
of more severe correction : he was sentenced to two
days' captivity and privation. So long an abstinence
from food and rest was more than his enfeebled framtj
and his broken spirits could endure; and, on his un-
cle's arriving, with the show of an hypocritical lenien-
cy, an hour previous to the appointed time, to deliver
liim from the residue of his punishment, it was found
that death had anticipated the false mercy, and had
for ever emancipated the innocent suHerer from the
hands of the op])ressor.

'J'he wealth was won ; but it was an unprofitable
accpiisition to him who had so dearly purchased it: —
" What profit is it," demands the voice of Revelation,
"if a man shouhl gain the whole world, and lose his
own soul ?" His conscience haunted him : the form
of the dead and inoflensive boy was constantly before
iiim. His dreams represented to his view the playful
and beautiful looks that won all eyes towards him,
while his parents were yet alive to cheer and to divert
him: and then the vision of his sleep would change;
and he would see his calm sufi:ering and his silent
tears, and his patient endurance and his indefatigable
exertions in attempting the accomplishment of difficult
exactions, and his pale cheek, and his wasted limbs,
and his sjdritiess countenance; and then, at last.

518

there was the rigid, bony, and distorted form, the
glazed open eye, the mouth violently compressed,
and the clenched hands, on which his view had rested
for a moment, when all his wicked hopes had attained
their most sanguine consumation, as he surveyed
the corpse of his murdered relative. These recollec-
tions banished him from his home ; the mansion was
left tenantless; and, until Lady JPennyman had ig-
norantly engaged in it, all had dreaded to become the
inmates of a dwelling which had been fatal to one
possessor, and shunned as destructive to the tranqui-
lity of his heir.

On the first night or two of Lady Pennyman's being
established in her new apartment, she met with no
interruption ; nor was her sleep disturbed by any of
those mysiv,iious noises in the Cage Chamber, (for so
it was commonly called in the family,) which she had
been induced to expect by the representations of the
departed servants. This quiet, however, was of very
short duration : one night she was awakened from her
sleep by the sound of a slow and measured step, that
appeared to be pacing the chamber overhead : it con-
tinued to move backwards and forwards with nearly
the same regular and constant motion for rather more
than an hour — perhaps Lady Pennyman's agitation
may have deceived her, and induced her to think the
time longer than it really was. It at length ceased :
morning dawned upon her. The lady naturally felt
distressed by the occurrence of the night ; it was in
every point of view alarming : ii she doubted its being
the effect of any preternatural communication, there
was only another alternative, which was almost equally
distressing — to suppose that there were means of en-
ternig the house, which were known to strangers,
though concealed from the inhabitants. She went
down to breakfast, after framing a resolution not to
mention the event.

Lady Pennyman and her daughters had nearly
completed their breakfast, before her son, a young

form, the
nn pressed,
had rested
id attained
surveyed
3 recollec-
nsion was
n had ig-
lecome the
;al to one
e tranquU

lan's being
t with no
by any of
2r, (for so
;h she had
>ns of the
as of very
d from her
step, that
d : it con-
ith nearly
ither more
i agitation
think the
th ceased :
urally felt
it was in
d its being
tion, there
ost equally
ins of en-
strangers,
She went
on not to

lad nearly
a young

519

man who had lately returned from sea, descended
from his appartment, " My dear Charles," said his
mother, " I wonder you are not ashamed of your in-
dolence and your want of gallantry, to suffer your
sisters and myself to finish breakfast before you are
ready to join us." " Indeed, madam," he replied,
" it is not my fault if I am late : I have not had any
sleep all night. There have been people knocking at
my door and peeping into my room every y^f hour
since I went up stairs to bed : I presume they^n reaori
to see if my candle was extinguished. If this be si"k
case, it is really very distressing; as I certainly never
gave you any occasion to suspect I should be careless
in taking so necessary a precaution ; and it is not
pleasant to be represented in such a light to the do-
mestics." — "Indeed, my dear, the interruption has
taken place entirely without my knowledge, t assure
you it is not by any order of mine that your room has
been looked into ; I cannot think whac could induce
any servant of mine to be guilty of such a liberty.
Are you certain that you have not mistaken the na-
ture and origin of the sound ?" — " Oh, yes ; there
could have been no mistake : I was perfectly awake
when the interruption first took place, and afterwards
it was so frequently repeated as to prevent the possi-
bility of my sleeping."

More complaints from the housekeeper; no servants
would remain ; every individual of the family had his
tale of terror to increase the apprehension of the rest.
Lady Penny man began herself to be alarmed. Mrs.
Atkins, a very dear and approved friend, came on a
visit to her : she communicated the subject which had
so recently disturbed the family, and requested her
advice. Mrs. Atkins, a woman devoid of every kind
of superstitious fear, and of tried courage, under-
standing, and resolution, determined at once to silence
all the stories that had been fabricated respecting the
Cage Room, and to allay their terrors by adopting
that apartment for her own bed chamber during the

I'M;

520

reniainder of lier residence at Lisle. It was iu vain
to oppose her purpose : she dechireil that no half
measure could be equally etlectual : that, if any of
the family were to sleep there, though their rest should
be perfectly undisturbed, it would have no efficacy in
tranquilizing the agitation of the family; since the
servants would naturally accuse either Lady Permynian
or her son of being interested witnesses, and doubt of
the (i}ay e their having reposed in the centre of tiie
frlaiiiief dominions, without undergoing any punish-
posr.t for the temerity of their invading them. A bed
was accordingly placed in the apartment. The Cage
Room vvas rendered as comfortable as possible on so
short a notice ; and Mrs. Atkins retired to rest, at-
tended by her favorite spaniel, saying, as she bade
them all good night, " I and my dog, 1 flatter myself,
are equal to compete with a myriad of ghosts ; so let
me entreat you to be under no apprehension for the
safety of Rose and myself.

Mrs. Atkins examined her chamber in every im-
aginable direction ; she sounded every pannel of the
wainscot, to prove that there was no hoUowness,
which might argue a concealed passage; and, having
bolted the door of the Cage Room, retired to rest,
confident that she was secure against every material
visitor, and totally incredulous of the airy encroach-
ments of all spiritual beings. Her assurance vvas
doomed to be shortlived : she had oidy been a few
minutes asleep, when her dog, which lay by the bed-
side, leaped, howling and terrified, upon the bed;
the door of tlie chamber slowly opened, and a pale,
thin, sickly youth came in, cast his eyes mildly to-
wards her, walked up to the iron cage in the middle
of the room, and then leaned in the melancholy atti-
tude of one revolving in his mind the sorrows of a
cheerless and unblest existence : after a while he again
withdrew, and retired by the way he errtered.

Mrs. Atkins, on witnessing his departure, felt the
return of her resolution : she was re-assured in her

521

original belief in the impossibility of all spiritual visi-
tations : she persuaded herself to believe the figure
tlie work of some skilful impostor, and she determined
on following its footsteps : she took up her chamber
lamp, and hastened to put her design in execution.
On reaching the door, to her infinite surprise, she
discovered it to be fastened, as she had herself left it,
on retiring to her bed. On withdrawing the bolt and
opening the door, she saw the back of the youth de-
scending the staircase : she followed, until, on reach-
ing the foot of the stairs, the form appeared to sink
into the earth. It was in vain to attempt concealing
the occurrences of the night : her voice, her manner,
the impossibility of sleeping a second time in the ill
omened chamber, would necessarily betray that some-
thing of a painful and mysterious nature had occurred.
The event was related to Lady Pennyman : she
detern)ined to remain no longer in her present habita-
tion. The man of whom the house had been engaged
was spoken to on the subject : he became extremely
violent — said it was no time for the English to indulge
their imaginations — insinuated something of the guil-
lotine — and bade her, at her peril, drop a single
expression to the injury of his property. While she
remained in France, no word was uttered upon the
subject; she framed an excuse for her abrupt depar-
ture : another residence was offered in the vicinity of
Lisle, which she engaged, on the pretext of its being
better calculated to the size of her family ; and at once
relinquished her habitation, and with it every preter-
natural occasioii of anxiety.

THE DYING ROBBER.

(A Fact, l)y a Clergyman.)

TAURING the awful visitation of that contagion
IJ which swept thousands to the grave, a clergyman
17 3 x

Mi l>ii'

^..:A

?•*'•

' ■ h-

mUhI' ^

Wm^ ^

in ;

622

of the Church of England, after a day spent in minis-
tering the support and comfort of tlie gospel to many
a sick and dying soul, had retired early, fatigued and
exhausted, to his bed, hoping to enjoy for a few hours
the repose which he much needed : he had spent
some time in prayer for a blessing on the Word which
he had dispensed that day, and committed his own
soul and body into the keeping of him who neither
slumbers nor sleeps. He lay still for some tini", but
could not sleep ; the scenes he had witnessed that day,
the countenances of the dying, some racked with
agonizing pain, and some in the livid death-like tor-
por of the collapsed state, still seemed before him,
and a nervous feverish ness from this excitement ban-
ished sleep from his eyelids. Oh ! thought he, " that
men were wise, that they understood this, that they
would consider their latter end."* " Blessed is the
people that know the joyful sound of the gospel If
they shall walk, O Lord, in tlie light of thy counte-
nance ; and when they pass tlnough the valley of the
shadow of death, they will fear no evil, for thou wilt
be with them ; thy rod and tliy staff they comfort
them;"+ and he shuddered at the fearful contrast
which that day presented to him, in the case of too
many. The clock struck twelve, and he had just
fallen into a slumber, when a knock at the hall door
aroused him : he heard it opened, and in a few mi-
nutes his servant entered the room. " Sir, there is a
man below, who says he must speak with you." "Ask
him his name and business." " He says, Sir, he must

speak to yourself." Mr. T rose, dressed himself

in haste, and taking the candle left by his servant,
descended into the hall. The man stood close to the

door. Mr. T approached, and held the light to

his face, which he seemed rather anxious to conceal—
The countenance which he beheld was appalling.
Dark and thick mustachios covered the upper Hpj

* Deut. xxxii. 29 t Psalm Ixxxix. 15.

\ Psalm xxiii. 4.

523

3altn xxiii. 4.

tlie beard long iiutl neglected j the eye sunk, and ex-
hibiting an expression of being long familiarized with
crime and reckless of the consequences. " What do
you want with me?" said the clergyman. "I want
you to come to a dying man, who wishes to speak
with you." "What is his complaint?" "Cholera."

Mr. T hesitated ; and at length said, " I cannot

go with you — you do not even tell your name, nor the
place to which you would lead me; I would fear to
trust my life in your hands." " You need not fear,"
said the stranger : " what end would it sei\e lo take
your Hie? Come with me, take no money w« h you,

and on my honor you are mle." Mr. T gave

another glance at the man, and the word honor con-
nected with the appearance of such a being, made him
smile. " Sit down," said he, " I will go with you."
He went again to his chamber, committed himself to
the care of his Heavenly Father, prayed for his bles-
sing on th*^ intended visit to the dying man, and felt
sobstrengthened and assured by his communion with
heaven, that he seemed to have lost all fear of accom-
panying his ferocious-looking guide.

He followed the man through many streets of a
large and populous city ; it seemed as if they traversed
it into the lengtii thereof, so tedious did the way
appear. The watchmen were calling the hour of one,
and still they proceeded. At length they came to a
street long and narrow, with houses bespeaking
wretchedness, and well known as a quarter of the town
remarkable for the vice as well as the poveity of its

inhabitants. Mr. T followed his guide into a

long dirty entry, which terminated in a square, who
there stopped, took out of his pocket a knife, with
which he began to scrape away some earth from the
ground. " I can go no farther with you," said the
clergyman ; but considering he was already as much
in the power of the man as he could be in any possible
situation, his courage revived, and he watched with
intense interest the movements of his strange compa-

■■iiiiiHl"^

524

nion. After some time, he opened a small trap-door,
which disclosed a vault of considerable depth, from
whence no ray of light proceeded. " Fear not, Sir,"
said the man, as he let himself down by a rope fas-
tened at the inside. Mr. T felt at this moment

the awful horror of his situation ; he could have fled,
but he knew the man could soon overtake him, an('
in the dark he could scarcely find his way back. He
th?refore determined to see the end of this strange ad-
venture, and committing himself again to the protec-
tion of the Almighty in a short ejaculatory prayer, he
watched at the edge of the pit until he saw a light
glimmer within it, by the faint light of which, as it
approached nearer, he saw the man place a ladder
firmly, which he ascended a few steps, and entreated
the clergyman to descend, assuring him again of his
safety. He did descend, into this pit of darkness,
which reminded him c f the descent of the prophet into
the den of lions ; for at the bottom, stretched upon the
g;jund in different attitudes, he beheld a number *()f
men, savage and ferocious as beasts of prey, who,
raising their haggard countenances, stared wildly upon
him: their appearances appalled him. "Have I,"
thought he, " got into the region where hope never
comes, that comes to all ?" The vault was large ; the
candle which the man held scarcely enlightened where
they stood, and left the otiier end in pitchy darkness.
The man then led the clergyman to the farthest end,
where, in a corner stretched upon straw, lay a man
dying of cholera. Here was a picture of human
nature brought i<> tlie last extremity of wretchedness,
cramped in every limb, his eye sunk and hollow, and
his skin exhibiting the black hue attendant on this
awful malady when there is scarcely a hope of re-
covery. Mr. T shook in every limb; he had

been used to patients in this dreadful malady, but
here was one in such a state as he had never before
witnessed. " Did you wish to see me?" he asked the
dviuLr man. *' I did." he replied in a clea- and

525

I' h

distinct tone. "Why do you wisli to see me?'*
" Because," said the man, " some short time ago, I
wandered into your church, and heard ycu read what
I want you to read to me again : I want to hear it
before I die. Oh ! it has never left my mind, night
and day it sounded in my ear. I thought I could
hide myself from God, but the darkness hideth not
from him ; he has found me out : he has laid his hand
heavily upon me, and soon shall I appear before him
covered over with my crimes. And did not I hear
vou say, sir, that God would slay the wicked — that
lie would say, depart from me, ye bloody men. O
God, I have sinned against thee: thou art just, there
can be no hope for a wretch like me." Every nerve
in his body seemed convulsed with agony ; and he
fixed liis eye eagerly on the clergyman, waiting an-
xiously to hear again that portion of scripture which
had first convinced him of his sin. " Tell me some
verse that will bring it to my memory," said the cler-
gyman. " Oh, it told me," said the dying man, " that
God knew my downsitting and mine uprising : that
he understood my thoughts ; that he compassed riiy
path, and my lying down ; and was acquainted with
all my ways ; that there was not a word in my tongue
but God knew it altogether. That if I could climb
into heaven, he was there ; if I went down to hell, he
was there also." The clergyman then knew it was
the 130th Psalm that had carried conviction of sin into
this poor sinner's heart ; and he prayed that this might
be the work of the Holy ^Spirit; and taking out his
Bible read the 139th Psalm.

" Oh ! that is it, that is it," said the dying man,
in a low voice : " thank God, I have heard i^ again."
The clergyman then said, "The blood of the Lord
Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin." "This is a faith-
ful saying and worthy of all acceptation, tL t Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners."*

* 1 Timothy i. 15.

626

To save sinners," said he ; " but, Oh ! not such
sinners as I have been." " Yes, such as you," said
the clergyman, " hear what comfortable words are
here, 'iJany man sin, we have an advocate with the
Father, Jesus Christ the Righteous, and he is the
propitiation for our sins.'* Hear what God says,

* Come now, and let us reason together, though your
sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow :
though they be red like crimson, they shall be as
wool.' "t " How, how," said the man eagerly,
" what must I do to be saved ?" " ' Believe on the
Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved :'J your
past sins will not condemn you. * Christ is able to save
to the uttermost all that come unto God by him."'||
The man stretched out his hands, with upraised e^-es
as if imploring mercy : " God be merciful to a poor
sinner," he faintly uttered, and in that ^attitude his
soul departed.

The clergyman looked around him : the light of
the glorious gospel can illumine even this dungeon of
darkness and horror, thought he : on him who lay in
darkness, and the shadow of death, has this light now
shined. The rest of the men had kept at a distance,
from the idea that something mysterious must pass
between a dying soul and his spiritual instructor,
which others were not to hear, " corrupted as their
minds are, from the simplicity that is in Cnrist."§
But he determined not to depart without a word of
exhortation to them; and coming forward into the
midst of them, he spoke to them of the awful state in
which they were sunk ; invited them also to come to
Jesus and obtain from him a full and free pardon for
all their past offences. " You know not, my fellow
sinners," said he, " how soon each of you may be
summoned, like that poor man, before the awful bar of
God. Cholera is sweeping this city from one end to
the other : there is contagion in that corpse : I know

* 1 John ii. 1 & 2. f Isa. i. 18. | Acts xvi. 31. || Heb. vii. 25.

I Isa. i. 18.
6 2 Cor.

XI.

Heb. vii. 25.

527

not but this may be the last time I may have an op-
portunity of declaring the gospel to poor perishing
sinners. I am a dying man, addressing dying men ;
but, oh ! let the love of Christ, who poured out his
blood upon the cross to save lost sinners, speak to you,
and urge you to quit this pit of destruction — a faint
type of that hell to which sin must lead you ; return
to habits of honest industry : nothing but idleness and
crime could have brought you into this place." " It
is true," said the nan who led him there, " it was
crime brought us here — we are a gang of robbers.
Our lives, sir, are in your hands ; but, as a minister
of religion, I depend on your not betraying us. We
could not now get employment — no one would trust
us." *' Trust in the Lord," said the clergyman, " hear
his words, ' Let him that stole steal no more ; but rather
let him labor, working with his hands that which is
good, that he may have to give to him that needelh.'*
Farewell ; we may never meet again in !iis world ;
but a time will come when we shall meet ; and, oh !
on that awful day, may I find that this message of
mercy has been blessed to all your souls." The man
conducted the clergyman until he was past the dark
narrow street, and could find his way easily to his
home ; where he returned with sensations of astonish-
ment at the strange and almost romantic scene he had
witnessed : it almost appeared to him like a dream ;
but blessing God for sending him as a messenger to
declare the gospel to the poor sinner, to bind up his
broken heart, and proclaim liberty to this wretched
bond-slave of Satan. "Oh!" said he, "is not this a
brand plucked out of the fire?"f

What an important testimony does this afford of the
efficacy of God's Word, when applied to t'^e heart by
the Holy Spirit. The Word of God was in this case
" quick and powerful ; it was sharper 'than any two-
edged sword : it pierced even to the dividing asunder

* Epbesians iv. 28. f Zechariah iii. 2.

528

I ll \l

of soul and spirit, and was a discenier of the thoughts
and intents of the heart ;"* like what was said by the
Samaritan woman, it " told this robber all that ever he
did." He had wandered into the chnrch by accident,
as he thought ; but was it chance ?— No ; the blessed
Jesus was going alter this lost sheep; he nmst be
brought to the fold— the arrow of conviction was sent
into his heart—" the polislied shaft,"t winged from the
bow of mercy, a messenger was sent to him to speak
peace to his soul, and pour in the gospel balm into his
wounded conscience ; and He who has all hearts in
his hands, so disposed the hearts of his ferocious and
hardened companions in guilt, as to induce them to
consent to have the clergyman sent for whom he wished
to see ; although it exposed themselves to danger, and
put their lives, as they said, in his hands. It was free
grace, like that extended to the thief on the cross.
This is no fictitious narrative ; it is truth, however ro-
mantic it may seem ; and, oh ! how does it speak in
awful language to those who would keep the scriptures
from the people ! Had this robber wandered into a
Catholic chapel, would the idolatrous worship there
practised have benefited his soul ? If he had sent for
a priest, would the oil of extreme unction, applied to
his body, have brought relief to his wounded spirit,
smarting under a sense of accumulated and unpardoned
guilt ? Oh ! no : it might have given a false peace,
like a stupifying draught administered by an unskilful
hand to a patient in a deadly malady ; but the peace
of God can only be enjoyed by those who, relying on
the merits cf a crucified Saviour alone, know that their
sins are pardoned through his most precious blood.J:
Reader, if you have not already obtained this pardon,
and felt its^peace, you need it as much as this poor
robber. " O ! seek it while it is called to-day :"1|
" Him that cometh unto me, (said the blessed Jesus,)
I will in no wise cast out."§
* Heb. iv. 12. t Isa. xlix, 2. t Komans iii. 24. || lieb. iii. 13.

l«l

t Isa. xlix, 2. I
§ John

Komans iii. 24.
vi. 37.

Ml, ,.'■

520

e thoughts
lid by the
lat ever he
Y accident,
lie blessed
\ must be
n was sent
'd from the
I to speak
hii into his

hearts in
)cious and
e them to
I lie wished
langer, and
Tt was free

the cross,
lowever ro-
it speak in
e scriptures
■red into a
rship there
ad sent for

applied to
ided spirit,
mpardoned
alse peace,
m unskilful

the peace

relying on
w that their
(US blood.J
his pardon,
J this poor

I to-day :"1|
5sed Jesus,)

II lieb. iii. 13.

EXTRAORDINARY TRIAL OF A MAN AT EXETER FOR

STEALING SHEEP.

A MAN that was tried in Exeter Castle, for steal-
ing sheep, pleaded that he did not steal them ;
for he was going to a fair, and the flock of sheep
jumped over the hedge and ran before his horse. He
rode as fast as his horse could run, to get before them ;
but still the sheep kept before the horse. He turned
his horse many ways to try to shun them, but the
sheep would immediately turn and get before him.
He then turned his horse and thought to go home ;
but the sheep turned in an instant, and came before
him again. After his turning many times, trying
every way in his power to get before the sheep, and
finding it impossible, he thought he might as well go
with them to the fair, as be found driving them home
to his own house ; and in driving them to the fair he
was taken. And in this manner he pleaded in the
Castle, to clear himself; and the judge said he believed
him innocent; but the jury said they believed him
guilty. The judge could not bear to give it up to the
jury ; and said he would try another jury. He had
another jury, and tried the cause over again, and they
found him guilty the same. When the judge found
he could not free him, but by the two juries had
made the case more strong against him, the judge
then addressed the prisoner — " I believe you innocent
concerning stealing these sheep; but I believe you
aie guilty of some fatal crime, for which the judg-
ments of God followed you, in the sheep, to punish
you for a crime that you have committed, in a crime
that you have not ; and as I have tried my utmost to
save you, and by that way brought it the harder
against you, it is impossible now for me to save your
life, as you are found guilty by both juries; therefore
I shall thank you, as you must die, that you will
confess what crime you have committed." The bloody
wretch then confessed, he lived a servant in the house
m 3 V

I'*'

* 1*1*1

ikli

530

with the mistress, lie was then married to : but as she
had got a husband when he went there a servant, so
to have the wife whom he said he loved, he contrived,
one morning, when his master arose to go to a fair,
to rise early and go before him and meet him in a pri-
vate place and murder him, whicn he tlid. Ho then
went home to bed as if composed, and happy in tlie
cruelty he had committed, ana appeared easy and
cheerful before the wife. The t ight came, but no
husband returned. She was alarmed ; and he pre-
tended equal alarm the same; but would not go alone
in pursuit to find him. A miserable night was spent
by the wife, and he api)eared to share her sorrows, as
an angel of light, though he was the devil himself.
When the master was found murderei., he professed
every agony with the wife ; and by his false and pre-
tended love gained her favor, and she afterwards mar-
ried him. And at the time he was taken he was going
to the same Fair that his master was goiiig to when
he murdered him ; and at the ven/ place that he killed
his master and threw him into the ditch, the sheep
that were in the field jumped over the hedge and ran
befoie him. So the innocent sheep brought the guilty
wretch to the end he deserved.

sili . i'i i

TIBBY HYSLOP'S DREAM, AND THE SEQUEL.

IN the year 1807, when on a jaunt through the val-
leys of Nith and Annan, I learned the following
story on the spot where the incidents occurred, and
even went and visited all those connected with it, so
that there is no doubt with regard to its authenticity.
I a wee cottage, called Know-Back, on the large
farm of Drumlochie, lived Tibby Hyslop, a respect-
able spinster, about the age of forty I thought when I
saw her, but of course, not so old when the first inci-
dents occurred which this singular profetic tale relates.

531

\ w

but as she
ervant, so
contrived,
to a fair,
1 in a pri-
Ho then
\)y in the
easy and
e, but no
1 he })re-
t go alone
was spent
)nows, as
1 himself,
professed
and pre-
paid s mar-
was going
; to when
t he killed
the sheep
3 and ran
the guilty

UEL.

h the val-
following
irred, and
vith it, so
thenticity.
the large
a respect-
;ht when I
; first inci-
ale relates.

Tibby was represented to me as a good and sincere
Cinistian, not in name and profession only, but in
word and in deed ; and I believe 1 may add, in heart
and in soul. Nevertheless, there was something in
her manner and deportment different from other peo-
ple — a sort of innocent simplicity, bordering on silli-
ness, together with an instability of thought, that, in
the eyes of many, approached to abstraction.

But then Tibby could repeat the book of the Evan-
gelist Luke by heart, and many favorite chapters both
of the Old and New Testaments; while there was
scarcely one in the whole country who was so tho-
roughly acquainted with those Books from beginning
to end ; for, though she had read a portion every day
for forty years, she had never perused any other books
but the Scriptures. They were her week-day books,
and her Sunday books, her books of amusement, and
books of devotion. Would to God that all our bre-
thren and sisters of the human ^ace — the poor and
comfortless, as well as the great and wise, knew as
well how to estimate these books as Tibby Hyslop did !

Tibby's history is shortly this. Her mother was
married to a sergeant of a recruiting party. The year
following he was obliged to go to Ireland, and from
thence nobody knew where ; but neither he nor his
wife appeared again in Scotland. Before their depar-
ture, however, they left Tibby, then a helpless babe,
with her grandmother, who lived in a hamlet some-
where about Tinwald ; and with that grandmother was
she brought up to read her Bible, card and spin, and
work at all kinds of country labor to which women
are accustomed. Jane Hervey was her grandmother's
name, a woman then scarcely past her prime, certainly
within forty years of age ; but an elder sister, named
Douglas, lived also with her, and with these two were
the early years of Tibby Hyslop spent, in poverty,
contentment and devotion.

At the age of eighteen, Tibby was hired at the
Candlemas fair, for a great wage, to be byre-woman

illii

- I^^I^^^^^^K 1'''^

' ^^^^^^^^^B f ' ' ^n

JpJ[ Vi

^ 3

■' I

■

'l^BHHIt .

'^''l" '

532

to Mr. Gilbert Forret, then farmer at Drumlochie.
Tibby had then acquired a great deal of her mother's
dangerous bloom — dangerous, when attached to po-
verty, and so much simplicity of heart ; and when she
came home and told what she had done, her mother
and aunty, as she always denominated the two, mar-
velled much at the extravagant conditions, and began
to express some fears regarding her new master's de-
signs, till Tibby put them all to rest by the following
piece of simple information.

" Dear, ye ken, ye needna be feared that Mr. For-
ret has ony design of courting me, for, dear, ye ken,
he has a wife already, and five bonny bairns ; and he'll
never be so daft as fa' on and court anither ane. I'se
warrent he finds ane enow for him, honest man !"

" O'l, then, you are safe enough, since he is a mar-
ried man, my bairn," said Jane.

" Ay, but wlia on Monanday's mon\ lias seen
The gerse and the dew-cup growing green,
Where a married man and a maid had been?"

said old aunt Douglas ; but she spoke always in rid-
dles and mysteries, and there was no more of it. But
the truth was, that Mr. Forret was notorious in his
neighbourhood for the debauching of young and pretty
girls, and was known in Dumfries market by the name
of Gibby Gledger, from the circumstance of his being
always looking slyly after them ; and perceiving Tibby
so comely, and at the same time so simple, he judged
her a fine prey, hired her at nearly double wages, and
moreover gave her a crown as arle money.

So home Tibby went to her service, and being a
pliable, diligent creature, she was beloved by all
about the town. Her master attended much about
the byre, commended her for her neatness, and when-
ever a quite opportunity offered, would pat her rosy
cheek, and say kind things. Tibby took all these in
good part, judging them tokens of approbation of her
good services, and was proud of th(Mn ; and if he once

533

rumlochie.
[• mother's
ed to po-
when she
er mother
two, mar-
aud began
aster's de-
1 following

t Mr. For-
r, ye ken,
; ; and he'll
ane. I'se
man !"
e is a mar-

eii

ys m
of it.

rid-
But

3US in his
and pretty
y the name
f his being
ving Tibby
, he jndged
wages, and

id being a
ved by all
mch about
and when-
it her rosy
dl these in
xtion of her
(1 if he once

or twice whispered a place and an hour of assignation,
she took it for a joke, and paid no further attention
to it. Mr. Forret was much from home, kept much
company, and had few opportunities of meeting with
his pretty dairymaid privately ; and the fewer, that
beiwecn the stable and byres there was only a half
wall.

In short, a whole year passed over without the
worthy farmer having accomplished his cherished pur-
pose regarding poor Tibby ; still he was quite convin-
ced that it was a matter which might be accomplished
with perfect ease, and would lead to a very pleasant
diversity in a farmer's monotonous life. With this
laudable prospect, when the Candlemas Fair came
round again, he hired Tibby to remain another year,
still on the former high conditions, and moreover he
said to her : " [ wish your grandmother and grand-
aunt would take my pleasant cottage of Know-Back,
they should have it for a mere trifle, a week's shearing
or so, as long as you remain in my service ; and as it
is likely to be a long while before you and I part, if I
get my will, it would be better to have them near you,
that you might see them often, and attend to their
wants. I could give them plenty of work through
the whole year, on the best conditions. What think
you of this proposal Rosy ?" — a familiar name he often
called her by.

" Oh, Fm sure, sir, I think ye are the kindest man
that ever the Almighty made. What a blessing is it
when riches open up the heart to acts of charity an'
benevolence ! My poor auld mother and aunty will
be blithe to grip at the kind otier, for they sit under a
hard master yonder, and the Almighty will bestow a
blessing on you for this, sir ; and they will gie you
their blessing, an' I sail bestow my poor blessing on
you too, sir."

" Well, Fll rather have that than all the rest.
Come- bestow it, then. Nay, I see I must take it,
after all."

I I

mmi

r, .

pnii '

■ 1

.- 1 -. ,

1 '.

Vi .

531

So saying, he kissed her. Tibby neither bhished
nor prortered refusal, because it was the way that the
saints ol" ohl sahited one another; and away siie went
witli tlie joyful n(^ws to her poor mother and aunty.
Now, they had of late found themselves (juite easy in
their circumstances, owing to the large wages Tibby
received, every farthing of which was added to the
common stock : and though 'J'ibby appeared a little
brawer at the meeting-house, it was her grandmother
who laid it out on her, without atiy consent on her
part. *' I'm sure," said her grandmother, when Tibby
told the story of her master's kindness and attention,
** I am sure it was the kindest intervention o' Provi-
dence that ever happened to poor things afore, when
ye fell in wi' that kind, worthy man, i' the mid o' a
great hiring market, where ye might just as easily hae
met wi' a knave, or a niggard, or a sinner, — wha wad
hae thought naething o' working your ruin, — as wi'
this man o' sickan charity and mercy."

" Ay ; the wulcat maun hae his coUop,

An' the raven maun hae his part,
An the tod will creep through the liether,

For the bonny moorhen's heart,"

said old Douglas Hervey, poking in the fire 'all the
while with the tongs, and speaking only as if speaking
to herself — " Heck-wow, an' lack-a-day ! but the
times are altered sair since I first saw the sun ! *How
are they altered kerlin P' Because the gospel's tuni'd
like a gainder, and Jmu a fine madam. How d'ye do,
sweet Madam Sin ? Come in by here, and be a sha-
rer o' our bed and board. Hope you left a' friends
weel in yon cozy hame ? But, but the tither hand,
ca' away that dity, weary some bird ; fling stanes an'
glaur at him. What is he aye harp, harp, harping
there for? — Thraw his neck about. Poor, poor Reli-
gion, waes me for her ! She was first driven out o' the
lord's caslle into the baron's ha' ; out o' the baron's
ha', into the farmer's biea dwelling; and at last out o'
that, into the poor cauldrife shiel, where there's nae
ither comfort but what she brings wi' her."

r):Mj

" What lias set ye onna time rcnections the day,
aunty ?" cried Tibby aloud at her ear ; for she was
half deaf, and had so many flannel mutches on, besides
a blue napkin, which she always wore over them all,
that her deafness was nearly completed altogether.

"Oogh! what's the lassie saying?" said she, after
listening a good while, till the sounds actually reached
the interior of her ear, " what's the young light-head
saying about the defections o' the day? what kens she
about them ? — oogh ! Let me see your face, dame,
and find your hand, for I hae neither seen the ane,
nor felt the thither, this lang and mony a day." '^hen
taking her grand-niece by the hand, and looking close
into her face through her spectacles, she added — " Ay,
it is a weel-faured sonsy face, very like the mother's
that bore ye ; and her's was as like her mother's ; and
there was never as muckle common sense amang a' the
three as to keep a brock out o' the kail-yard. Ye hae
an unco good master, I hear — oogh ! I'm glad to
liear't — hoh-oh-oh-oh ! — verra glad. I hope it will
lang continue, this kindness. Poor Tibby ! — as lang
as the heart disna gang wrang, we maun excuse the
head, for it'll never aince gang right. I hope they
were baith made for a better world, for nane o' them
were made for this."

When she got this length, she sat hastily down,
and began her daily and hourly task of carding wool
for her sister's spinning, abstracting herself from all
external considerations.

" I think aunty's unco parabolical the day," said
Tibby to her grandmother; "what makes her that
gate ?"

"O dear, liinny, she's aye that gate now. She
speaks to naebody but herself," said Jane. " But —
lownly be it spoken — I think whiles there's ane speaks
till her again that my een canna see."

The angels often conversed wi' good folks lang
saiu

(C '

syne

M-l

<^ r 1.

der them to do sae still, if they're sae disposed. But

■ iM

']^H

V-

i -If

'■-i

53()

fc . '

weel wad 1 like to hear ane o* ihao prervut ai)ologies,
(perhaps meaning apologues,) for m\ . tnty has some-
thing in her aboon other earthly creatures."

*' Ye may hear enow o' them ainee we war leeviiig
near you again ; there's ane every midnight, and ano-
ther atween daylight and the sun. It is my wonder
that she's no tain for a witch ; for, troth, d'ye ken,
hinny, I'm whiles a wee feared for her mysel'. And
yet, for a' that, I ken she's a good Christian."

" Ay, that she is — I wish there were mony like her,"
said Tibby, and so the dialogue closed for the present.

Mr. Forret sent his carts at the term, and removed
the old people to the cottage at Know-Back, free from
all charge, like a gentleman as he was, and things
went on exceedingly well. Tibby had a sincere re-
gard for her master ; and as he continued to speak to
her, when alone, in a kind and playful manner, she
had several times ventured to broach religion to him,
trying to discover the state of his soul. Then he would
shake his head, and look demure in mockery, and re-
peat some grave becoming words. Poor Tibby thought
he was a blessed man. Then, when he would catch
a kiss or two, Tibby did not in the least comprehend
the drift of this ; but, convinced in her heart that it
could only mean something holy, and good, and kind,
she tried not further to reflect on it, for she could not;
but she blessed him in her heart, and was content to
remain in her ignorance of human life.

But in a short tune his juirposes were divulged^ in
Kuch a manner as to be no more ecpii vocal. That
morning immediately preceding the development of
this long cherished atrocity, Jane Hervey was awaked
at an early hour by the following unintelligible dia-
logue in her elder sister's bed.

" Have ve seen the news o' the day, kerlin ?

"Ooh?''

" Have ye seen the news o' the day ?"

" Ay, that I hae, on a braid open book, without
clasp or seal. Whether will you or the deil win?

o»»

537

Tliat dciMMids on the citadel. If it stand out

the powers n' hell winnji sliuke tlie lortiess, nor s;
slane o' its foundation."

*' Ah, the fortress is a good ane, and a sound ane ;
but the poor head captain ! — ye ken what a sweet-
lipped, turnip-headit broosey he is."

" Aye ; and the weapons o' sin are grown Strang
and povverfu' now-a-days, kerlin."

'* fSae they say, sae they say. They hae gotton a
new forge i' the fire o' hell, made out o' dispised or-
dinances. O, lack-a-day, my poor Tibby Hyslop;

my innocent, kind thowless Tibby Hyslop! Now
for the tod or the moorhen !"

Jane was friglitened at hearing such a colloquy, but
particularly at that part of it where her darling child
was mentioned in such a way. She sprung from her
own bed to that of her sister, and cried in her ear with
a loud voice, — " Sister, sister Douglas, what is that
you are saying about our dear bairn ?"

" Oogli ? 1 was saying naething about your bairn.
She is turned intil a spring gun, k she ? — or a man-
trap rather is it ? I trow little wilk o' them it is, poor
stupit creature. She lies in great jeopardy yonder;
but nane as yet. Gang awa' to your bed — wow, but
1 was sound asleep."

" There's naebody can make ought out o' her but
nonsense," said Jane, as she went to put a few sticks
and peat clods on the scarcely living embers. But,
after the two had risen from their scanty but happy
breakfast, which Douglas had blessed with more fer-
\ency than ordinary, she could not settle at her card-
ing, but always stopped short, and began mumbling
am! speaking to herself. At length, after a long
pause, she looked over her shoulder, and said — " Jeanie,
warna you speaking o' gauging ower to see our bairn
the day ? llaste thee an' gang away, then ; and stay
nouther to put on clean bussing, kirtle, nor barrie,
else ye may be an anlrin meenut or twa ower lang."

Jane made no ' :]ily, but, diawing the skirt of her

''^ z

ti iii,

.^ '~*^..

538

gown over her slioulders, she set out for Drumlochie,
a distance of nearly a mile ; and as she went by the
corner of the byre, she weened she heard her bairn's
voice, in great passion or distress, and ran straight
into the byre, crying out, "What's the matter wi'
you, Tibby? what ails you my bairn?" but, receiving
no answer, she thought her voice must have been
somewhere outside the house, and slid quitely out,
looking everywhere, and at length went down to the

kitchen.

Tibby had run a hard risk that hour, not from any
proffer of riches or finery— these had no temptations
for her— she could not understand the purport or drift
of them. But she did escape, however; and it was,
perhaps, her grandmother's voice that saved her.

Mr. Forret, (Uias Glodging Gibby, had borne the
brunt of incensed kirk-sessions before that time, and
also the unlicenced tongues of mothers, roused into
vehemence by the degradation of beloved daughters ;
but never in his life did he bear such a rebuke as he
did that day from the tongue of one he had always
viewed as a mere simpleton. It was a lesson to him

a warning of the most sul)lime and terrible discrip-

tion, couched in the pure and emphatic language of
Scripture. Gibby cared not a doit for these things,
but found himself foiled, and exposed to his lamily,
and the whole world, if this fool choose to do it. He
was, therefore, glad to act a part of deep liypocrisy,
pretending the sincerest contrition, regreting, with
tears, his momentary derangement, and want of self-
control ; attributing^it wholly to the temptations uf the
wicked one, and praising poor Tibby to the skies for
saving him in an hour of utter depravity. He like-
wise made her a present of a sum of money he had
offered her before, saying, he did not give it lier as a
bribe, but as the reward of honesty, virtue, and truth,
for all of whicli he had the highest regard, and that
he would esteem her the more for her beiiaviour that
day, as long as he lived.

;

umlochie,
;nt by the
er bairn's
1 straight
natter wi'
, receiving
rave been
litely out,
vn to the

from any
imptations
)rt or drift
id it was,

her.

borne the
time, and
)used into
laughters ;
ike as he
ad always
m to him
le discrip-
nguage of
}se things,
lis laiiiily,
do it. He
hypocrisy,
ting, with
nt of self-
Lions Kj] the
3 skies for

He like-
ney he had
it her as a

and truth,
I, and that
iviour that

539

Poor Tibby readily believed and forgave him ; and
thinking it hard to ruin a repentant sinner in his world-
ly and family concerns, she promised never to divulge
what had passed ; and he knowing well the value of
her word, was glad at having so escaped.

Jane found her grand-daughter terribly flushed in
the countenance, and flurried in her speech that day, but
Jane's stupid head could draw no inferences from these,
or anything else. Shf asked if she was well enough,
and the other saying she was, Jane took it for granted
that she was so, and only added, " Your crazed auntie
would gar me believe ye war in some jeopardy, and
hurried me away to see you, without giving me leave
to change a steek." One may easily conceive Tibby's
astonishment at hearing this, considering the moment
at which he grandmother arrived. As soon as the lat-
ter was gone, she kneeled before her Maker, and poured
out her soul in grateful thanksgiving for her deliver-
ance ; and, in particular, for such a manifest interference
of some superior intelligence in her behalf.

" How did ye find our poor bairn the day, titty
Jean ? Was tiie trial ower afore ye wan? Or did ye
gUi a helping hand at raising the seige ? — Oogh ?"

*' Whaten siege ? I saw nae siege, nor heard tell
of ony."

" The great siege o' the castle o' Man-soul, that
Bui^yan speaks about, ye ken. Was it ower? Or is
it to try for again ? Oh ! ye dinna understand me .'
Did ye ever un{lerstand onything a' your days ? Did
our bairn no tell ye onything ?"

"She tauid me naething, but said she was very
weel."

" She's ae fool, and ye re another ! If I had been
her, I wad hae blazed it baith to kirk and council ;—
to his wife s ear, and his minister's teeth ! I wad hae
gart heaven sab, and hell girn at it ! Isna the resetter
waur than the theif ? The cowardly butcher that con-
ceals the land)s and kills them, waur than the open
fauld-brikker and sheep-reiver? And isna the sweet-

"».snv

^'tli¥

mm'

iflHHtl

'"'S

Itt II

'-!

fii i"

^i^vmk

sfeiw'

]• 1

540

lippit kiss-me-lufe saint waui llian the stoutiight i'<v
probate ? Figli — fie ! A disli o' sodden turnips at tiie
best. She's very weel, is she ?— Oogh ! Red an' rosy
like a boiled lobster? Aye. Hoh — oh — oh — oh! —
silly woman — silly woman — Hoh — oh — oh !"

in a few weeks, Mr. Forret's behaviour to his sim-
ple dairymaid altered ery materially. He called her
no more by the endearing name of Rosy ; poor ideoi
was oftener the term ; and finding he was now safe
from accusation, his malevolence towards her had
scarcely any bounds. She made out her term with
difficulty, but he refused to pay the stipulated wage,
on pretence of her incapacity ; and as she had by that
time profited well at his hand, she took what he of-
fered, thanked liim, and said no more about it. She
was no more hired as a servant, but having at the
first taken a long lease of the cottage, she continued,
from year to year, working on the farm by the day,
at a very scanty allowance. Old Douglas in a few
years grew incapable of any work, through frailty of
perso::, being constantly confined to bed, thougli in
mind as energetic and mysterious as ever. Jane
wrouglit long, till at lengtli a severe illness in 1790
rendered her unfit to do any tiling further ihan oc-
casionally knit a piece of a stocking ; uid poor Tibbj-'s
handywork had all three to iiiaintain. They had
brought her up witli care and k tflncss amid tlic most
pinching j)overty, and how, indeed, ner filial atlection
was hardlv put to the prot.> ; but it was genuine, and
knew no bounds. Night u,) day lid she toil for the
sustenance of her i)ged and feeble relations, and a
murmur or complaint never was heard to drop from
her lips. Many a blessing was bestowed on her as
they raised their palsied hands to ^-artake of her ho'd
earned pittance ; and many a fervent prayer was ])our-
ed out, when none heard but llie Father of the spirits
of all flesh.

Times grew harder and harder. Thousands yet
living remember what a time that was the jioor,

tright re-
lips at tlie
d ail' rosy
h_oli !—

I liis siin-
called her
)oor idcoi
now safe
; lier had
term with
ted wage,
id by that
lat he ol-
t it. She
ng at the
continued,

the day,
s ill a icw

frailtv of

•J

thougli ill
I'er. Jane
s in 1700
than 00-
or Tibbv's
rhev had

ft/

1 the most
i\ atl'ection
mine, and
)il lor the
lis, and a
hop from
on her as
her hp'«l
was ])our-
the spirits

I sands yet
the jioor,

541

while the meal for seasons was from four to live shil-
lings a-stone, and even sometimes as high as seven.
Tibby grew fairly incapable of supporting herself and
her aged friends. She stinted herself for their sakes,
and that made her still more incapable ; yet often with
tears in her eyes did she feed these frail beings her
heart like to melt becr^use she had no moo to give
them. There are no poor fates in that country.
Know-back is cpiite retired — nobody v;ent near it, and
Tibby complained to none, but wrought on, and
fouglit away, night and day, m sonow and anxiety,
but still with a humble and thankful heart.

In this great straight, Mrs. Forret was the first who
began, unsolicited, to take compassion on the destitute
group. Slie could not conceive how they existed on
the poor creature's earnings. So she went privately
to see them, and when she saw their wretched state,
and heard their blessings on their dear hild, her cheart
was iiio\ed to pity, and she determined to assist thorn
in secret, for her husband was such a churl, that pub-
licly she durst not venture to do it. Accordingly,
whenever she had an opportunity, she made Tibby
come into the kitchen, and get a meal for herself; and
often die considerate lady slid a small loaf, or a little
tea and sugar, if to lu^r lap, quietly, for the two aged
invalids ; — fo? trentle woman is always the first to
pitx', and ^h'^ viist to relieve.

j'oor Tr.i.) ! how her heart expanded with gratitude
on receiving these little [)re8ents, for her love for the
two old d^ncudent creatures was of so pure and sacred
.1 sort, as scarcely to retain in its element any of the
common feelings of humanity. There was no selfish
principle there — they were to her as a part of her own
natbie. And it was observed, that whenever she got
*■ <^sr little presents, enabling her to give the aged and
infirn, a better meal, and one more suited to their
wast!;! frames she had not i^atieir^e to ^valk home to
Kuow-uack — she ran all the w:\- .

Tibby never went into the kUoiien unless the mis-

542

tress <losiro<l liov, or sent her word by some of the
other (hi\ laborers to eonie in us sIk; went liome ; and
one evening having got word in tiiis last way, she
went in, and the lady of the house, with her own
band, presented her with a little bowl lull of beat po-
tatoes, and some sweet milk to them. This was all,
and ojie would have ihonght it was an ailment so
humble and plain, that seareely any person would
have grudged it to an hungry dog. IJowever, it so
happened that as Tibby was sitting behind backs en-
joying her savoury meal, Mr. Forret chanced to come
into the kitchen to give orders anent something that
had come into his mind ; and perceiving Tibby, his
old friend, so comfortably engaged, he, without
speaking a word, seized her by the r»eck with one
hand, and by the shoulder with the other, and hurry-
mg h* It at the back-door into the yard, he Hung
lier, Uh Jl his might, on a dunghill. " VVha the
devil L \^ you come into my house, and eat up the
meat that was made for others?" cried he, in a de-
moniac voice, choking with rage ; and then he swore
a terrible oath, which J do not choose to set down,
that, " if he found her again at such emi)loyment, he
woidd cut her throat, and tling her to the dogs."

Poor Tibby was astounded beyond the power of
utterance, or "even of rising from the place where he
had thrown her down, until lifted by two of the ser-
vant maids, who tried to comfort her as they suppor-
ted her part of the way home ; j'.nd bitterly did they
blame their master, saying, it would have been a
shame to any one who had the feelings of a man, to
do such an act ; but as for their n ster, he scarcely
had the feelings of a l>east. Tibby never opened her
mouth, neither to curse, blame, nor complain, but
went on her way crying till her heart was like to

break.

She had no supper for the old famishing pair that
night. They had tasted nothing from the time thai
8he left them in the morin'ng ; and as she had accounted

543

nc of tlie
unit' ; and
way, slie
her own
r beat po-
^ was all,
lilinent so
on would
3ver, it .so
backs en-
d to come
thing that
ribby, his
, without
with one
md hurry-
, he llung
' VVha the
■at up the
, in a de-
he swore
set down,
ynieut, he
ogs."

power of
ft where he
)f the ser-
sy suppor-
y did they
ve been a
a man, to
le scarcely
)[)ened her
iplain, but
,'as like to

pair that
time that
accounted

herself sure of receiving something from Mrs. Forret
that night, she had not asked her day's wages from
the grieve, glad to let a day run up now and then,
when able to procure a mt^al in any other honest way.
She had nothing to give them that night, so what
could she do ? She was obliged with a sore heart, to
kiss them and tell them so ; and then, as was her
custom, she said a prayer over her couch, and laid
herself down to sleep drowned in tears.

She had never so nmch as mentioned Mr. Forret's
name either to her grandmother or grand-aunt that
night, or by the least insinuation given them to un-
derstand that he had either used her ill or well ; but
no sooner were they composed to rest, and all the
cottage quiet, than old Douglas began abusing him
with great vehemence and obstriperousness, and Tibby,
to her astonishment, heard some of his deeds spoken
of with great familiarity, which she was sure never
had been whispered to the ear of flesh; and many
more of the same stamp which Tibby had never heard
mentioned before, which nevertheless, from obvious
circumsiances, might have been but too true. But
what shocked her most of all, was the following terri-
ble prognostication, which she heard repeated three
several times : — " Na, na, I'll no see it, for I'll never
see aught earthly again beyond the wa's o' this cottage,
but Tibby will live to see it; — ay, ay, she'll see it.'*
Then a diilerent voice asked — " What will she see,
kerlin ?" *' She'll see the craws picking his banes at
the back o' the dyke."

Tibby 's heart grew cold within her when she heard
this terrible arniouncement, because, for many years
bygone, she had been coi vinced, from sensible de-
monstration, that old Douglas Hervey had commerce
with some superior intelligence; and after she had
licard the above sentence repeated again and again,
she shut her cars, that she might hear no more ; com-
mitted herself once more to the hands of a watchfal
Creator, and fell into a troubled sleep.

i Ml- m 5

The elemental spirits that weave the shadowy tapes-
try of dreams, were busy at their aerial looms that
night in the eottage of Know-back, bodying forth the
de'stinies of men and women in brilliant and quick
succession. One only of these delineations I shall here
relate, precisely as it was related to me, by my friend
the worthy clergyman of that parish, to whom Tibby
related it the very next day. 'inhere is no doubt that
her grand-aunt's disjointed prophecy formed the
groundwork of the picture; but be that as it may, this
was her dream ; and it was for the sake of telling it,
and tracing it to its fulfilment, that I bi-gan this story.

Tibby Hyslop dreamed, that on a certain spot which
she had never seen before, between a stone-dyke and
the verge of a woody precipice, a little, seipiestered,
inaccessible corner, of a triangular shape, — or, as she
called it to the mhiister, "a three neiiklt crook o' the
linn," she saw Mr. Forret lying without his hat, with
his throat slightly wounded, and blood running from
it ; but he neither appeared to be dead, nor yet dying,
but in excellent spirits. lie was clothed in a fine new
black suit, had lull boots on, which appeared like-
wise to be new, and yellow spurs gilt. A great nuni-
ber of rooks and hooJled crows were making free with
his person; — some picking out his eyes, some his
tongue, and some tearing out his bowels. J3ut in
place of being distressed by their voracity, he a[)peare(l
much delighted, encouraging them on all that he could,
and there was a i)erfectly good understanding between
the parties. In the midst of this horrible feast, down
cahie a majestic raven from a dark cloud close above
this scene, and, driving away all the meaner birds, lell
a-feasting himself; — opened the breast of his victim,
who was still alive, and encouraging him on; and
after preying on his vitals for some time, at last picked
out his heart, and devoured it; and then the mangled
wretch, after writhing for a short time in convulsi\e
agonies, groaned his last.

This was precisely Tibby 's dream as it was told to

545

wy tapes-
oiris that
I'orlli the
md quick
shall here
ny friend
)m Tihby
oubt that
med the
may, this
telling it,
his story,
pot which
[lyke and
ipiestered,
or, as she
lok o' the
hat, with
ning from
^-et dying,
1 fine new
ired like-
reat nuni-
free with
some his
, ]3ut in
} a[)peare(l
L he couhl,
g between
ust, down
ose above
birds, fell
ds victim,
I on ; and
ast picked
e mangled
convulsi\e

as told to

me, first by my friend Mr. Cunningham of Dalswin-
ton, and afterwards by the clergyman to whom she
herself related it next day. But there was something
in it not so distinctly defined, for though the birds
which she saw devouring her master, were rooks,
blood-crows, and a raven, still each individual of the
number had a likeness by itself, distinguishing it from
all the rest ; a certain character, as it were, to support ;
and these particular likenesses were so engraven on
the dreamer's mind, that she never forgot them, and
she could not help looking for them both among
" birds and bodies," as she expressed it, but never
could distinguish any of them again ; and the dream,
like many other distempered visions, was forgotten, or
only remembered now and then with a certain tremor
of antecedent knowledge.

Days and seasons passed over, and with them the
changes incident to humanity. The virtuous and in-
defatigable Tibby Hyslop was assisted by the benevo-
lent, who had heard of her exertions and patient suf-
ferings ; and the venerable Douglas Hervey had gone
in peace to the house appointed for all living, when
one eveinng in June, John Jardine, the cooper,
chanced to come to Know-back, in the course of his
girding and hooping peregrinations. John was a
living and walking chronicle of the events of the day,
all the way from the head of Glen-breck to the bridge
of 8toney-lee. He knew every man, and every man's
atiiiirs — every woman, and every woman's feelings;
and his information was not like that of many others,
for it was generally to be depended on. How he got
his information so correctly, was a mystery to many,
but wiiatever John the cooper told as a fact, was never
disputed, and any woman, at least, might have ven-
tured to tell it over again,

" These are hard times for poor folks, Tibby. How
are you and auld granny coming on ?"

" Joost fighting on as we hae done for mc^y a year.
8he is aye contentit, poor body, an' thankfu', whether

4.\

^1. ;

'!fl

546

I liae little to gie her, or muckle. This life's uuething
but a fight, Johnie, frae beginning to end."

" It's a' true ye say, Tibby," said the cooper, in-
terrupting her, for he was afraid she was going to
begin on religion, a species of conversation that did
not accord with John's talents or disposition, " It's a'
true ye say, Tibby ; but your master will soon be sic
a rich man now, that we'll a' be made up, and you
amang the lave will be made a lady."

" If he get his riches honestly, an' the blessing o'
the Almighty wi' them, Jolm, I shall rejoice in his
prosperity, but neither me nor ony ither poor body
vvill everbe muckle the better o' them. What way is
he gaun to get sican great riches ? If a' be true that I
hear, he is gaun to the vvrang part to seek them :^"

"Aha, lass, that's a' that ye ken about it. Did ye
no hear that he had won the law-plea on his laird,
whilk has been afore the Lords for malr than seven
years ? An' did ye no hear that he had won ten pleas
afore the courts o' Dumfries, a' rising out o' ane ani-
ther, like ash girderings out o' ae root, and that he's
to get, on the liale, about twenty thousand punds
worth o' damages?"

" That's an unco sight o' siller, John. How muckle
isthat'**"

"Aha, lass, ye hae fixed me now; but tliey say it
will come to as muckle goutl as six men can curry on
their backs. And we're a' to get twentys, and thir-
ties, and forties o' punds for bribes, to gar us gie
faithfu' and true evidences at the great conc]u(Hng
trial afore the Lords ; and vou arc to be bribit aniang
the rest, to gar ye tell the hale truth, and nothing but
the truth."

" There needs nae waste o' siller to gar me do that.
But, Johnie, I wad like to ken whether that mode o'
taking oaths, solemn and sacred oaths, about the
miserable trash o' this world, be according to the tenor
o' gospel revelation, and the third o' the commands?"

" Aha. lass ! ve hae fixed me now ! That's rather

547

nuething

oper, in-
going to

lllclt (11(1

, " It's a'

)n be sic
and you

3ssing o'
'.e in his
)or body
it way is
ue that I
em :

Did ye
lis laird,
an seven
ten pleas
ane ani-
that he's
id punds

w muckle

ey say it
eurrv on
and thir-
ir us gie
)nclu(ling
it aiiiang
thing but

; do that.

mode o'
ibout the

the tenor
imands ?"
t's rather

a kittle point, but I believe it's a' true that ye say
However, ye'U get the offer of a great bribe in a few
days; an' take ye my advice, Tibby,— Get baud o'
the bribe afore hand ; for if ye lippen to your master's
promises, you will never finger a bodle after the job's
done."

" I'm but a i)oor simple bodie, Johnie, an' canna
manage ony sickan things. But I shall need nae fee
to gar me tell the truth, an' I winna tell an untruth
i'or u' my master's estate, an' his sax backfu's o' goud
into the bargain. If the sin o' the soul, Johnie "

"Ay, ay, that's very true, Tibby! very true, in-
(\ee(\, about the sin o' the soul! But as ye were say-
ing about being a simple body—What wad ye think
if I were to cast up that day Gledding Gibby came
here to gie you your lesson— I could maybe help you
on a wee bit — What wad ye gie me if I did ?

" Alack, I hae naething to gie you but my blessing ;
but I shall pray for the blessing o' God on ye,"

"Ay, ay, as' ye say. I daresay there might be
v/aur things. But could ye think o' naething else to
gie a body vvha likes as weel to be paid aff hand as to
gie credit? That's the very thing I'm cautioning you

against.

" I dinna expect ony siller frae that fountain-head,
Johnie : It is a dry ane to the puir and needy, and an
unco sma' matter wad gar me make over my rights to
a pose that I hae neither faith nor hope in. But ye're
kend for an auld farrant man ; if ye can bring a little
honestly this way, I shall gie ^ Oii the half o't; for
weel I ken it will never come this way by ony art or
shift (/ mine."

" Ay, ay, that's spoken like a sensible and reason-
able woman, I'ibby Hyslop, as ye are and hae always
been. But think you that nae way could be contri-
ved" — and here the cooper gave two winks with his
left eye — " by tiie vvilk ye could gie me it a', and yet
no rob yoursel' of a farthing ?"

" Na, na. Johnie Jardine. that's clean aboon mv

le-,!'

548

comprehension : But yeVe a cunning draughty man,
and I leave the hale matter to your guidance."

" Very weel, Tibbv, very .weel. I'll try to ca' a
gayan substantial gird round your success, if I can hit
the with o' the chance, and the girtli o' the gear.
Gude day to you the day, an' think al)out the plan o'
equal-equal that I spalce o'."

Old maids are in general very easily courted, and
very apt to take a hint. I have indeed K nown a great
many instances in which they took hints i cry seriously,
before ever thev were given. Not o with Tihhy
Hyslop. There had such a heavy charge lain upon
her the greater part of her life, that slie had never
turned her thoughts to any earthly thing beside, and
she knew no more what the cooi)er was aiming at,
than if the words had not been spoken. When he
went away, her grandmother called her to the bedside,
and asked if the cooper was gone away. Tibby an-
swered in the afhrmative; on which granny said,
" What has he been havering about sae king the day ?
I thought I heard him courting ye."

" Courting me ! Dear granny lie was courting nane
o'me; he was telling me how Mr. Forret had won
as muckle siller at the law as sax men can carry on
their backs, and how we are a' to get a yavi of it.

" Dinna believe him, hinny ; the man that caii win
siller at the law, will lose it nae where. But, Tibby,
I heard the cooper courting ye, and I thought I
heard you gie him your consent to manage the mat-
ter as he likit. Now ye hae been a great blessing to
me. I thought you sent to me in wrath, as a punish-
ment of my sins, but I have found that you were in-
deed sent to me in love and in kindness. You have
been the sole support of my old age, and of hers wha
is now in the grave, and it is natural that I { j )uhl like
to see you put up afore I leave you. But Tibby Hy-
slop, John .Tardine is not the man to lead a Christian
life with. He lias nae mair religion than the beasts
that perish— he is frighted for it, and shuns it as a body

549

lity man,

to ca' a
I can hit
the gear,
e plan o'

rted, and
n a great
seriously,
th Tibby
ain upon
lad never
side, and
iniing at,
When he
e bedside,
Fibby an-
iiny said,
the day ?

ting nane
had won
carry on
of it.

It can win
it, Tibby,
thought I
e the mat-
lessing to
a punish-
. were in-
You liave
' hers wha
pljould \\ke
ribby Hy-
L Christian
the beasts
t as a body

would do a loathsome
besides, it is weel kei
naething

il(

or poisonous draught: And
d how sair he neglected his first

to do

dear bai

wile, iiae naeimng lo uo wi nini, my uear Dairn,
but rather live as you are. There is neither sin nor
sliame in being unwedded, but there may be baith ia
joining yoursel' to an unbeliever."

Tibby wondered at this information. She did not
know that she had been courted, and she found that
she rather thought the better of the cooper for what
it appeared he had done. Accordingly she made no
promises to her grandmother, but only remarked, that
" it was a pity no to gie the cooper ^a chance o' con-
version, honest man."

The cooper kept watch about Drumlochie and the
hinds' houses, and easily found out the sly Gibby's
movements, and even the exact remuneration he could
be urged to give to such as were pleased to remember
aright. Indeed it was believed that the most part of
the hinds and laboring people remembered nothing
of the matter farther than he was pleased to inform
them, and that in fact they gave evidence to the best
of their knowledge or remembrance, although that
evidence might be decidedly wrong.

One day Ciibby took his gun and went out towards
Know-back. The cooper ah 7, guessing what was in
his head, went thither by a circuitous route, so as to
come in as it were by chance; but ere he arrived, Mr.
Forret had begun his queries and instructions to Tibby,
—The two could not agree by any means; Tibby
either could not recollect the yearly crops on each field
on the farm of Drundochie, or recollected wrong.— But
at length, in comes the cooper, when the calculations
were at the keenest, and at every turn he took Mr. Fer-
ret's side, with the most strenuous asseverations, abu-
sing Tibby for her stupidity and want of recollection.
'^ Hear me speak, Johnie Jardine, afore ye condemn
me ati-loof : Mr. Forret says that the crooked holm
was pease in the 96, and corn in the 97 ; 1 say it was
corn baith the years= How do you say about that?"

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

<" m.

1.0

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1^ lilM

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3.2

2.2

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2.0

1.8

1.25 1.4

1.6

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►

PlintnrrrQnihip

Sciences
Corporation

rv^

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 1 4580

(716) 872-4503

650

" Mr. P'orret's right — perfectly right. It grew
pease in the 96, and aits, good Angus aits, in the 97,
Poor gouk ! dinna ye think that he has a' these things
inerkit down in black an' v.hite, and what good could
it do him to mislead you ? Depend on't, he is right
there."

" Could ye tak your oath on that, Johnie Jardine?"
"Ay, this meenint, — sax times repeated, if it were
necessary."

" Then I yield — I am but a poor silly woman, liable
to mony errors and shortcomings — I\ly recollection is
playing at hide- an' seek \vi' me — I maun be wrang,
and I yield that it is sae. But I am sure, John, you
cannot but remember this sae short while syne, for
ye shore vvi' us that liar'st. Was the lang field niest
liobie Johnston's farm growing corn in the dear year,
or no ? I say it was."

" It was the next year, Tibby, my woman," said
Mr. Forret; "you are confounding one year with
another again ; and, I see what is the reason. It was
oats in 99, grass in 1800, and oats again in 1801;
now you never remendjer any of the intermediate
years, but only those that you shore on these fields.
I cannot be mistaken in a rule I never break."

The cooper had now got his cue. He perceived
that the plea ultimately depended on proof relating
to the proper cropping of the land throughout the
lease ; and he supported the farmer so strenuously,
that Tibby, in her simplicity, fairly yielded, although
hardly convinced ; but the cooper assured the farmer
that he would put her all to rights, provided she re-
ceived a handsome acknowledgement, for there was
not the least doubt that Mr. Forret was right in every
particular.

This speech of the cooper's gratified the farmer ex-
ceedingly, as his whole fortune ik \v deperrded uporr
the eviderrce to be elicited in the court at Dumfries,
on a day that was fast approaching, and he was wil-
ling to give anything to secure the evidence on his

561

side ; so he made a long set speech to Tibby, telling
her how necessary it was that she should adhere strictly
to the truth — that, as it would be an awful thing to
make oath to that which was false, he had merely
paid her that visit to instruct her remembrance a little
in that which was the truth, it being impossible, on
account of his jottings, that he could be mistaken ;
and finally it was settled, that for thus telling the
truth, and i.othing but the truth, Tibby tlyslop, a
most deserving woman, was to receive a present of
£15, as wages for time bygone. This was all ma-
naged in a very sly way by the cooper, who assured
Forret that all should go right, as far as related to
Tibby Hyslop and himself, which elated the fanner
exceedingly ; for the spirit of litigation had of late
possessed him to such a degree, and he had ventured
such a stake on tiie issue, that if he had been master
of the realm, he would have parted with the half of it
to beat his opponents.

The dav of tlie trial arrived, and counsel attended
from Edingburgn lor both parties, to take full evidence
before the two Circuit Lords and Sheriff. The evi-
denre was said to have been unsatisfactory to the
Judi^es, but upon the vhole in Mr. Forret's favor.
Tlie cooper's was decidedly so, and the farmer's coun-
sel were crowing and bustling immoderately when at
length Tibby llyshjp was called to the witnesses' box.
At the first sight of her master's counsel, and tiie
Dumfries writers and noteries that were hanging about
him, Tibby was struck dumb with amazement, and
almost bereaved of sense. Siie at once recognised
them, all and severally, as the birds that she saw, in
her dream, devouring her master, and picking the flesh
from ills bones ; while the great lawyer from Edin-
burgh was, in feature, eye, and beak, the identical
raven which at last devoured his vitals and heart.

This siiigular coincidence brought reminiscenses of
such a nature over her si)irit, that, on the first ques-
tions I ing put, s' J could not answer a word. 8he

m:\

652

mil

. i

sift:

W^BKB^^Wrt M.^

III

Bli

li '

knew from thenceforwan^ that her master was a ruined
man, and her heart failed, on thinking of her kind
mistress and his family. The counsel then went, and
whispering Mr. Forret, inquired what sort of a woman
she was, and if her evidence was likely to be of any
avail. As the cooper harl behaved so well, and had
likewise answered for Tibby, the farmer was intent
on not loosing her evidence, and answered his counsel
that she was a worthy honest woman, who would not
swear to a lie for the king's dominions, and thai he
must not loose her evidence. This intelligence the
lawyer announced to the bench with great conse(^uence
and pomposity, and the witness was allowed u. little
time to recover her spirits.

Isabella Hyslop, spinster, was again called, an-
swered to her name, and took tho oath distinctly, and
without hesitation, until the official querist came to
the usual question, " Now, lias no one instructed you
what to say, or what you are to answer ?" When
Tibby replied, with a steady countenance, " Nobody
except my master !" The counsel and client stared at
one anotlier, while the Court could hardly maintain
their gravity of deportment. The querist went on —

" VViiat ! Do you say your master instructed you
what to say ?"

"Yes."

" And did he promise or give you any reward for
what you were to say ?"

" Yes."

" How much did he give or promise you for an-
swering as he directed you ?"

"He gave me fifteen pound notes."

Here Mr. Forret and his counsel loosing all patience,
interrupted the proceedings, the latter addressing the
Judges, with [)ompous vehemence, to the following
purport : —

" My Lords, in my client's name, and in the names
of justice and reason, I protest against proceeding
with this woman's evidence, it being manifest that

55:}

3 a ruined
her kind
i^ent, and
a woman
e of any
and had
as ititent
is counsel
vould not
I that he
^enee the
ise(^uence
d x little

ailed, an-
ictly, and

came to
ncted you
"' When
'• Nobody
t stared at

maintain
mt on —
acted you

eward for

)u for an-

1 patience,

essing the

following

tlie names
proceeding
nifest that

she is talking through a total derangement of intellect.
At first she is dumb, she cannot answer nor speak a
word, and now she is answering in total disregard of
all truth and propriety. 1 appeal to your Lordships
if such a farrago as this can be at all inferential or
revelant?"

" Sir, it was but the other minute," said the junior
Judge, " that you announced to us with great impor-
tance, that this woman was a person noted for honesty
an(i worth, and une vvlio would not tell a lie for the
king's dominions. Why not then hear her evidence
to the end? Fox my own part, I perceive no tokens
of (liscrepency in it, but rather a scrupulous conscien-
tiousness. Of that, however, we shall be better able
to judge when we have heard her out. I conceive
that, for the sake of botii parties, this woman should
be stiictly examined."

" Proceed with the evidence, Mr. Wood," said the
senior Lord, bowing to his assistant.

Tibby was reminded that she was on her great oath,
and examined over again ; but she adhered strictly to
her former answers.

" Can you repeat any thing to the Court that he
desired vou to sav?"

" Yes ; he desired me over and over again to tell
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

" And, in order thai you should do this, he paid
you down fifteen pounds sterling?"

-Yes."

" This is a very singular transaction : I cannot per-
ceive the meaning of it. You must be sensible that
you made an advantageous bargain?"

"Yes."

" J3ut vou depone that he charged you to tell only
tlie truth*?"

" Yes, he did, and before witnesses, too."

Here Mr. I'orret's counsel began to crow amain, as
if the victory had been his own; but the junior Judge
again took him short by saying, " Have patience, sir,
ie 4 H

Si.'

I'.l'^

')r)i

the woman may br rij^lit, and your client in tlie wrong;
nt least I think I can perceive as mnch. Now, my
good woman, 1 esteem your {)rinci|)les and plain sim-
|)licity very liijifhly. Wo want only to ascertain the
truth, and you say your master there charged you to
tell that only. 'JVll me this, then, — did he not inform
you what that truth was?"

" Yes. It was for that purpose he came over to see
me, to help my memory to what was the truth, for
fear I should hae sworn wrang, which wad hae been
a great sin ye ken."

" Yes, it would so. 1 thought that would be the
way. — You may now proceed with your (piestions
regularly Mr. Wood."

'• Are you quite conscious, now, that those things
he brought to your remembrance were actually the
truth?" ^

" Are 3'ou conscious they were not the truth ?"

'* Y'es; at least, some of them, I am sure, were not."

"Pleaae to condescend on one instance."

** He says he has it markit on his buik, that the
crookit houm, that lies at the back o' the wood, ye
ken, grew pease in the ninety-sax, and corn in the
ninety-se'en ; now, it is unco (pieer that he should hae
settin't down wrang, for the houm was really and
truly aits baith years."

" It is a long time since ; perhaps your memory
niav be at fault?"

" If my master had not chanced to mention it, I
could not hae been sure, but he set me a-calculating
and comparing ; and my mother and me have been
consulting about it, and have fairly settled it."

" And you are quite positive it was oats both years?"

"Yes."

" Can you mention any circumstance on which you
rest your conclusions ?"

" Yes ; there came a great wind ae Sabbath day, in
the ninety-sax, and that raised the shearers' wages.

-i

00.)

10 wronj^;
'»f()W, my
lain siiii-
rliiiii llu)
1 you to
ot iiifonii

ler to see
Irutli, lor
liae been

(1 be the
tiuestions

se things
-uully the

th ?"
vere not."

that the
ivood, ye
n in tlie
louhl liae
YdWy and

memory

Lion it, 1
ilcuhiting
ave been

h years ?"

diich you

li (lay, in
s' wages.

at Dumfries, to three shillings the day. We began
to tlie crookit bourn on a Monanday's morning, at
three shillings a day, and at that very day twalmonth,
we began tili't again at tenpenee. We had a good
deal o' s[)eaking about it, and 1 said to John Edie,
'What need we grumble! I made sae muckle at
shearing, the last year, that it's no a' done yet.' And

he said, ' Ah, Tibby, Tibby, but wha can hain like

'11 »>
von r

ter

" Were there any others that you think your mas-

• had marked down wrong?"

** There was ane at any rate — the lang field niest
liobie Johnston's march : He says it was clover in the
drouthy dear year, and aits the niest; but that's a
year 1 canna forget; it was aits baith years. I lost a
weeks shearing on it the first year, waiting on my
auntie, and the niest year she was dead; and I shore
the lang field niest liobie Johnston's wi' her sickle
henk, and black ribbons on my mutch."

The whole of Tibby's evidence went against Mr.
Forret's interest most conclusively, and the Judges at
last dismissed her, with high compliments on her truth
and integrity. The cause was again remitted to the
Court of Session for revisal after this evidence taken,
and the word spread over all the country that Mr.
Forret had won. Tibby never contradicted this, nor
disputed it, but she was thoroughly convinced, that
in place of winning, he would be a ruined man.

About a month after the examination at Dumfries,
he received a letter from his agents in Edinburgh,
buoying him up with the hopes of great and instant
success, and urging the utility of his presence in town
at the final decision of the cause on which all the mi-
nor ones rested. Accordingly he equipped himself,
and rode into Dumfries in the evening, to be ready for
the coach the following morning, saying to his wife,
as he went away, that he would send home his mare
with the carrier, and, that, as he could not possibly
name the day on which he would be home, she was

ifili ft

ii«:i 'I

m-.-

p^- -

550

to give herself no uiieariness. The mare was returned
the following night, and put up in her own stall, no-
body knew by whom ; but servants are such sleepy,
careless fellows, that few regarded the circumstance.
This was on a Tuesday night ; and a whole week
passed over, and still Mrs. Forret had no word from
her husband, which kept her very uneasy, as their
whole fortune, being, and subsistance, now depended
on the issue of this great law-suit, and she suspected
that the case still continued dubious, or was found to
be going against him.

But, behold, on the arrival of the Edinburgh papers
next week, the whole case, so important to farmers,
was detailed ; and it was there stated, that the great
farmer and improver, Mr. Forret of Drundochie, had
not only fovfeited his whole fortune by imi)roper hus-
bandry and manifest breaches of the conditions on
which he held his lease, but that criminal letters had
been issued against him for attempts to pervert ju tice,
and rewards oH'ered for his detention or seizure. This
was terrible news for the family at Drundochie, but
there were still sanguine hopes entertained that tiie
circumstances were misstated, or at all events tiiat the
husband and father would make his escape; and as
there was no word from him day after day, this latter
sentiment began to be cherished' by the whole family
as their only remaining and forlorn hope.

But one day, as lioor Til)b\- Hyslui) was going over
to the Cat Linn, to gather a burden of sticks for fire-
wood, she was surprised, on looking over the dyke,
to see a great body of crows collected, all of vvliicli
were so intent on their prey, that they seemed scarcely
to regard her presence as a sullicient cause lor their
desisting ; she waved her burden-rope at them over
the dyke, but they refused to move. Her heart neaiiy
failed her, for she remembered having before seen
something of the same scene, with some fearful con-
comitants. But pure and unfeigned religion, the first
nrincinltt of which teaches a firm reliance on divia«

.').')?

protection,^ can give courage to the weakest human
beings. Tibby climbed over the dyl^e, drove the ver-
min away, and there lay the corpse of her late unfor-
tunate master, woefully defaced by these voracious
birds of prey. He had bled himself to death in the
jugular vein, was lying without his hat, and clothed
in a fine new black suit of clothes, top boots, which
appeared likewise to be new, and gilt spurs; and the
place where he lay was a little three-cornered seques-
tered si)ot, between the dyke and the precipice, and
inaccessible any otiier way than through the field.
It was a spot that Til)by had never seen before.

A city dream is nothing but the fumes of a distem-
pered frame, and a more distempered imagination ;
but let no man despise the circumstantial and impres-
sive visions of a secluded Christian; for who can set
bounds to the intelligences existing between the soul
and its Creator ?

The only thing more I have to had is, that the Lord
President, having made the remark that he paid more
regard to that poor woman, Isabella Hyslop's evidence,
than to all the rest elicited at Dumfries, the gainers
of the great plea became sensible that it was principally
owing to her candor and invincible veracity that they
were successful, and sent her a present of twenty
pounds. Sue was living comfortably at Know-back
when I saw her, a contented and happy old maiden.
The letter was found in Mr. Forret's pocket, which
had blasted all his hopes, and driven him to utier dis-
traction ; he had received it at Dumfries, returned
home, and put up his mare carefully in the stable,
but not having courage to face his ruined family, he
had hurried to that sequestered spot, and perpetrated
the woeful deed of self-destruction.

1:1

■ lift

; li|i'

! ,;

568
Passages f rota the Diary oj a laie Phi/sician.

THE MARTVR-rillLOSOPHKIl.

EVEN were I disposed, 1 could not giatil'y the
reader with anything like a lair sketch of the

early days of Mr. h] . 1 have often lamented,

that, knowing as 1 did the siniplicit}^ and frankness
of his disposition, 1 (Uil not once avail myself of seve-
ral opportunities wiiich fell in my way of becoming
acquainted with the leading particulais of his life.
Now, however, as is generally the case, 1 can but
dt'plore my negligence, when remedying it is impos-
sible. All I iiave now in my power to record, is some
particulars of his latter days. Interesting 1 know
they will be considered : may they prove instructive.
I hope tlie few recoids 1 have here preserved, will
shew how a mind long disciplined by pliilosophy, and
strengthened by religious pruiciple, may triumph over
the assault of evils and misfortunes condjined against
its e,vpiriu(j energies. It is fitting, 1 say, the world

shouhi hear how nobly E surmounted such a

sudden indux of disasters as have seldom before burst
overwhelmingly upoa a death bed.

And should this chapter of my diary chance to be
seen by any of his relatives and early friends, 1 hope
the reception it shall meet with from the public may
stimulate them to give the world some luUer particu-
lars of Mr. E 's valuable, if not very varied, life.

More than seven years have elapsed since his death ;
and, as ^yet, the only intimation the i)ublic has had of
the event, has been in the dreary corner of the public
prints allotted to " Deaths,'' — and a brief enumeration
in one of tiie quarterly journals of S(jme of his leading
contributions to science. The world at large, h )W-
ever, scarce know that he ever lived — or, at least,
how he lived or died ; — but how often is such the fate
of modest merit !

My fiist acquaintance with Mr. E commenced

accidentally, not long before liis death, at one of

559

the evening meetings of a learned society of which we
were botli mennbers. The first glimpse I caught of
him interested me much, and ins.iired me with a kind
of reverence for him. He came into the room within
a few minntes of the chair's being taken, and walked
quietly and slowly, with a kind of stooping gait, to
one of the benches near the fire-place, where he sat
down, without taking od'liis great-coat, and crossing
his gloved hands on the knob of a high walking stick,
he rested his chin on them, and in that attitude conti-
nued throughout the evening. He removed his hat
when the chairman made his appearance ; and I never
saw a finer head in my life. The crown was quite
bald, but the base was fringed round as it were, with
a little soft, glossy, silver-hued hair, which, in the
distance looked like a faint halo. His forehead was
of noble proportions ; and, in short, there was an
expression of serene intelligence in his features, blen-
ded with meekness a. • ^*ty, which quite enchan-
ted me.

" Prav, who is that "" I enquired of my

friend. Dr. D , wh g beside me. " Do

you mean that elderly thin . itting nea. the fire-

place, with a great coat on?" — *'The same." — "Oh,

it is Mr. E , one of the very ablest men in the

room, though he talks the least," whispered my friend,
" and a man who comes the nearest to my beau ideal
of a })hilosoplier, of any man I ever knew or heard of
in the present day !"

" Whv, he does not seem very well known here,"
said I, observing that he neither spoke to, nor was
spoken to by any of the members present. "Ah, poor

Mr. E is breaking up, I'm afraid, and that very

fast," replied my friend with a sigh. " He comes but
seldom to our evening meetings, and is not ambitious
of making many acquaintances." I intimated an eager
desire to be introduced to him. " Oh, nothing easier,"
replied my fiiend, " for I know him more familiarly
than any one present, and he is, HpfiiHno oimr^ip ««

i'lv'l: \\

■s-ina

JM.\A\J

ay V3

impi

■•Tirj

560

Et I ' ■ \

child in his manners, even to eccentricity, and the
most amiable man in the world. I'll introduce you
when the meeting'^ over." While we were thus whis-
pering together, the subject of our conversation sud-
denly rose from his seat, and with some trepidation of
manner, addressed a few words to the chair, in correc-
tion of souje assertions which he interrupted i member
in . Ivanciiig. It was something, 11 1 recolh t right,
about the ntoinic theory, aiul was received witii mar-
ked deference by the ])resi(lent, and general *'llear!
hears!" from the members, he then resunied his seat,
in which he was presently followed by the speaker
whom he had evidently discomfited ; his ey^s glisten-
ed, and his cheeks were flushed with the ellbrt he had
made, and he did not rise again till the conclusion of
the sitting. We then made our way to him, and my
friend introduced me. He received me politely and
frankly. He complained, in a weak voice, that the
walk thither had quite exhausted him — that his health
was failing him, &c.

" Why, Mr. E , you look very well," said my

friend.

" Ay, nerhaps T do, but \'ou know how little fn'th
is to be p. It in the hale looks of an old and weak man.
Age generally puts a good face on bad matters, even
to the last," he added, with a smile and a shake of
the head.

"/i sad night!" he exclaimed, on hearing the wind
howling drearily without, for we were standing by a
window at the north-east corner of the large building ;
and a March wind swept cruelly by, telling bitter
things to the old and feeble who had to face it. " Al-
low me to recommed that you wrap up your neck and
breast well," said I.

" I intend it, indeed," he replied as he was folding
up a large silk handkerchief. '' One must guard one's
candle with one's hand, or Death will blow it out in
a moment. That's the sort of treatment we old people
get from him ; no ceremony- — lie waits for one at a

r^..

and the
lee vou
lis whis-
oii sud-
lalion of
1 coirec-
inenibor
ct right,
til luar-
*' Hear !
lis seat,
speaker
glisten-
t he had
iision of
and my
tely and
tliat tile
is Jiealtli

said inv

tie IVi'th
!al\ man.
!rs, even
diake of

:he wind
ng by a
►uilding;
]g bitter
t. " Al-
leek and

folding
ird one's
t out in
d people
)ne at a

661

bleak corner, and puffs oui one*s expiring light with
a breath, rnd then hastens on to ti>e more vigorous
torch of youth."

*' Have you a coach ?" enquired Dr. D . " A

coach ! I shall indk it in less than twenty minutes,"

said Mr. E , buttoning his coat up to the chin.

" Allow m ' to offer you both a seat in mine," said
I ; "it is at the door, and I am driving towards your

nei.^hbourhood." He and Dr. D accepted the

olFer, and in a few minutes time w entered, and drove
off. We soon set down the li it'.i, who lived close
by ; and then iny new philosophical friend and I were
left t()"-ether. Our conversation turned, for a while,
(»n the evening's discussion at the society ; and, in a
very few wor(> remarkably well chosen, he pointed
out what he considered to have been errors committed

l^y Sir and Dr. , the principal speakers.

J was not more charmed by the lucidness of his views,
than by the unati'ected diffidence with which they
were expressed.

" Well," said he, after a little pause in our con-
versation, " your cariiage motion is mighty pleasant!
Ft scfluces one into a feeling of indolence ! These de-
licious soft-vielding cushioned backs and seats, they
would make a man loath to use his legs again ! Yet
I never kept a carriage in my life, though I have
often wanted one, and could easily have afforded it
once " I asked him why? He replied, " It was not
because he feared childish accusations of ostentation,
nor yet in orde. to save money, but because he thought
it becoming a rational being to be content with the
natural means God hP3 given him, both as to matter
of necessity and pleasure. It was an insult, he said,
- to nature, while she was in full vigour, and had
exhibited little or no deficiency in her functions—to
hurry to art. For my own part," said he 'I have
always found a quiet but exquisite satisfaction, in
continuing independent of her assistance, though at
the cost of some occasional inconvenience : it ^ives
18 '^^

III ¥

ffives

4 1 «fl|HB

liiittla J-:

1
1

[HI

5()2

you a consciousness of relying incessently on Him who
made you, and sustains you in being. Do you recol-
lect the solemn saying of Johnson to Garrick, on see-
ing the immence levies the latter had made on the
resources of ostentatious, ornamental art? ' J)avie,
Davie, these are the things that make a death-bed
terrible !' " I said something about Diogenes. " Ah,"
he replied quickly, " the other extreme ! He accused
nature of superfluity, reckmdancy. A proper sub-
ordination of externals to her use, is part of her ])ro~
vince ; else why is she placed among so many materials,
and with such facilities of i;sing them? My principle,
if such it may be called, is, that art may inni'islcr to
nature, but not jxinqwr and suyfiit her with super-
fluities."

"You w^ould laugh, jjerhaps, to come to my house,
and see the extent to which I have carried my princi-
ples into practice. T, yes, I, whose life has been
devoted, among other things, to the disco' ery of me-
chanical contrivances ! You, accustomed, perhaps, to
the elegant redundancies of these times, may consider
my house and furniture absurdly plain and naked — a
tree stripped of its leaves where the birds are left to
lodge on the bare branches ! But I want little and
do not ' want that little long.' But stop here is my
house! Come — a laugh, you know, is good before
bed — will you have it now ? Come, see a curiosity —
a Diogenes, but no Cynic!" Had the reader seen the
modesty, tlie cheerfulness, the calmness of maimer

with which Mr. E , from time to time, joined in

the conversation, of which the above is the substance,
and been aware of the weight due to his sentiments,
as those of one wdio had actually lived up to them
all his life, and earned a very high character in the
philosophical world — if he be aware how often old age
and pedantry, grounded on a small reputation, are
blended in repulsive union, he might not consider the
trouble T have taken thrown away in recording tiiis my
first conversation with Mr. E . He was, indeed,

■^■|«W,;i. v-m

lim who
:m recol-

011 see-
( on the

' Davie,

eath-bed

" All,"

accused
Dcr siib-
lier ])ro-
laterials,
irhiciple,
Hts/cr to
1 super-

y house,
i priiici-
las been
' of nie-
iiaps, to
consider
aked — a
) left to
ttle and
3 is my
d before
•iosity —
seen the

manner
)ine(l in
ibstance,
itiments,
to them
I' in tlie
1 ohi age
Lion, are
sider the
: tliis my

indeed;

503

an instance of " philosophy teaching by example;" a
sort of character to be sought out for in life, as one at
whose feet we may safely sit down and learn. I could

not accept of Mr. E 's invitation that evening, as

I liad a patient to see a little further on ; but I pro-
mised him an early call. All my way home my mind

was filled with the image of E , and partook of

the tranquility and pensiveness of its guest.

I scarce know how it was, but with all my admira-
tion of Mr. E , I suffered the month of May to

approach its close before I again encountered him.
It was partly owing to a sudden increase of business,
created by a raging scarlet fever — and partly occasion-
ed by illness in my own family. I often thought and
talked, however, of the philosopher, for that was the

name he went by with Dr. D and myself. Mr.

E had invited us both to take " an old-fashioned

friendly cup of tea" with him; and accordingly,
about six o'clock, we found ourselves driving down to

his house. On our way, Dr. D told me that our

friend had been a widower nearly five years ; and that
the loss, somewhat sudden, of his amiable and ac-
complished wife, had worked a great change in him,
by divesting him of iicarly all interest in life or its
concerns, lie pursued even his philosophical occu-
[)ations with langour, more from a kind of habit than
inclination. Still he retainetl the same evenness and
cheerfullness which had distinguished him through
life. i3ut the blow had been struck which severed
him from the world's joys and engagements. He
might be compared to a great tree torn up by the root,
and laid prostrate by a storm, yet which dies not all
at once. 'J'he sap is not instantaneously dried up ;
but for weeks, or even months, you may see the
smaller branches still shooting unconsciously into
short-lived existence, all fresh and tender IVom tlie
woiiil) of their dead mother; and a rich green mantle
of leaves long concealing from view the poor fallen
trunk beneath. Such was the pensive turn my thoughts

iiliJi'

564

had taken by the time we had reached Mr. E 's

door. It was a fine summer evening — the hour of
calm excitement. The old-fashioned window panes
of the house we had stopped at, shone like small sheets
of fire, in the steady slanting rays of the retiring sun.
It was the first house of a very respectable antique-
looking row, in tlie suburbs of London, which had
been built in the days of Hfnry the Eighth. Tlie
stately poplars stood sentries before the gateway.

" Well, here we are at last, at Plato s Porch, as

I've christened it," said Dr. D , knocking at the

door. On entering the parlour, a large old-fashioned
room, furnished with the utmost sunplicity, consistent

with comfort, we found Mr. E sitting near the

window, reading. He was in a brown dressing-gown,
and study cap. He rose and welcomed us cheerfully.
" I have been looking into La Place," said he, in the
first pause which ensued, " and a little before your
arrival, had flattered myself that I had detected
some erroneous calculations; and only look at tlie
quantity of Evidence that was necessary to convince
that I was a simpleton by the side of La Place !"
pointing to two or three sheets of paper crammed with
small algebraical characters in pencil — a fearful arjay
of symbols, sines, co-sines, series, 6lc., &c., witiiout
end. I had tlie curiosity to take up the volume in

question, while he was speaking to Dr. D , and

noticed on the fly leaf the autograph of the Marquis

La Place, who had sent his work to Mr. E . Tea

was presently brought in ; and as soon as tlie plain
old fashioned China, &:c., ^c, had been laid on the
table by the man-servant himself a knowing old fel-
low as I ever saw in my life, Miss E , the phi-
losopher's neice, made her appearance, an elegant
unaliected girl, with the same style o\ features as her
uncle.

"I can give a shrewd guess at your thoughts. Dr.

," said Mr. E , smiling, as he caught my

eye following the movements of the man-servant till

565

he left the room. — " You fancy my keeping a man-
servant to wait at table does not tally very well with
what I said the last time I had the pleasure of seeing

you."

" Oh dear, I'm sure you're mistaken, Mr. E !

I was struck with the singularity of his countenance
antl manners — those of a stanch old family servant."

" Ah, Joseph is a vast favorite witli my uncle,"

said Miss E , "I can assure you, and fancies

himself nearly as great a man as his master." — " Why,
as far as the pratique of the laboratory is concerned, I
doubt if his superior is to be found in London, He
knows it, and all my ways, as well as he knows the
palm of his own hand ! He has the neatest way in the
world of making hydrogen gas, and, what is more,

found it out himself," said Mr. E , explaining

the process ; " and then he is a miracle of cleanliness
and 'care ! He has not cost me ten shillings in breakage
since I knew him. He moves among my brittle wares,
like a cat on a glass wall."

" And then he writes and reads for my uncle— does
all the minor work of the laboratory— goes on errands
—waits at table— in short, he's quite invaluable,"

said Miss E . n^ r.

*' Quite a factotum, I protest,' exclamied Dr. D .

" You'd lose your better halfihen, if he were to die,
I sui)pose ?" said I quickly. ^

" No ' that can happen but once, replied Mr. E

with a sigh, alluding to the death of his wife. Con-
versation flagged for a moment. " You ve forgotten,

at length said E , breaking the melancholy pause,

" tlie very chiefest of poor Joseph's accomplishments
— wluit an admirable, unwearied nurse he is to me.
At that moment Joseph entered the room, with a note
in his hand, which he gave to Mr. E— -. I guessed
where it came from-for happening a few moments
before to cast my eye to the window, J. saw a iootman

- mistaking

alking up to the door

]

■A 1

>ll;

i;!':;

it.: 1 II
■ i;.

the gorgeous scar

let liveries of the Duke of

'^.M ii .

^^^HH^Ih^^ilBl' S^'

r)6()

E , after glancing over the letter, begged us to

excuse him for a minute or two, as the man was wait-
ing for an answer.

*' You, of course, knew what my uncle alluded to,"

said Miss E , addressing Dr. D in a low tone,

as soon as E had closed tlie door after him, " when

he spoke of Joseph's being a nurse — don't you?"

Dr. D nodded. " My poor uncle," she continued,

addressing me, " has been for nearly twenty-five years
afflicted with a dreadful disease in the spine; and
during all that time has suffered a perfect martyrdom
from it. He could not stand straight up, if it were to
save his life ; and he is obliged to sleep in a bed of a
very curious description — the joint contrivance of
himself and Joseph. He takes half an ounce of laud-
anum every night, at bed time, without which, the
pains, which are nlways most excruciating at night
time, would not suiler him to get a moment's sleep !
— Oh, how often have I seen him rolling about on
this carpet and earth-rug — yes, even in the presence
of visitors — in a perfect ecstacy of agony, and uttering
the most heartbreaking groans."

" And I can add," said Dr. D , " that he is the

most perfect Job — the most angelic sufferer, I ever saw !"

" Indeed, indeed, he is," rejoined Miss E , with

emotion. I can say, with perfect truth, that 1 never
once heard him murmur or complain at his hard fate.
When I have been expressing my sympathies, during
the extremity of his anguish, he has gasped, " Well,

well, it mhjht have been worse !' " — Miss E ,

suddenly raised her handkerchief to her eyes, for they
were overflowing.

" Do you see that beautiful little picture hanging
over the mantel-piece '•^" she enquired, after a pause,

which neither I)r. D nor 1 seemed inclined to

interrupt — pointing to an exquisite oil painting of the
crucifixion. "1 have seen my poor uncle lying down
on the floor, while in the most violent paroxysms of
pain, and with his eyes fixed intensely on that picture,

■^mm-\-!9:

567

d us to
-^as wait-

ided to,"
ow tone,
I, " when
t you?"
)ntinued,
ive years
ine; and
irtyrdom
t were to
)ed of a
ranee of

of laud-
licli, the
at night
's sleep !
ibout on
presence

uttering

he is the
/er saw !"
— , witli
f never
ard fate.
;, during
. " Well,

for they

hanging
a pause,
•lined to
isjr of the
ng down
^ysnis of
t picture,

exclaim, * Thine were greater — thine were greater !'
And then he has presently clasped his hands upwards ;
a smile has beamed upon his pallid quivering features,
and he has told me the pain was abated."

" I once was present during one of these painfully

interesting scenes," said Dr. D , ''and have seen

such a heavenly radience on his countenance, as could
not have been occasioned by the mere sudden cessa-
tion of the anguish he had been sufiering."

" Does not this strange disorder abate with his in-
creasing years ?" I enquired.

*' Alas, no !" replied Miss E , " but is, if pos-
sible, more frequent and severe in its seizures. In-
deed, we all think it is wearing him out fast. But
for the unwearied services of that faithful creature,
Joseph, who sleeps in the same room with him, my
uncle must have died long ago."

" How did this terrible disorder attack Mr. E ,

and when?" I enquired. I was informed that he him-
self originated the complaint with a injury he sus-
tained when a very young man : he was riding, one
day, on horseback, and his horse, suddenly rearing

backward, Mr. E 's back came in violent contact

with a plank, projecting from behind a cart loaded
with timber. He was besides, however, subject to a
constitutional feebleness in the spine, derived from his
father and grandfather. He had consulted almost
every surgeon of eminence in England, and a few on
the Continent ; and spent a little fortune among them
— but all had been in vain !

" Really, you will be quite surprised Doctor ,"

said Miss E , " to know, that though such a mar-
tyr to pain, and now in his sixty-fourth year, my
uncle is more active in his habits, and regular in his
hours, than I ever knew any one. He rises almost
invariably at four o'clock in summer, and at six in
winter, — and this, though so helpless, that without

Joseph's assistance, he could not dress himself"

" Ah ! by the way," interrupted Dr. D , " that

HI. I

M:^!^

^^.

■1

Ijllri'

■11

668

is another peculiarity in Mr. E 's case ; he is sub-
ject to a sort of nightly paralysis of the upper extre-
mities, from which he does not completely recover,
till he has been up for some two or three hours."

How little had I thought of the under current of a-
gony, flowing incessantly beneath the calm surface of
his cheerful and dignified demeanour ! O philosophy !
— O Christian philosophy !— I had failed to detect any
marks of suffering in his features, though T had now
had two interviews with him — so completely, even hi-
therto, had " his unconquerable mind conquered the
clay" — as one of our old writers expresses it. If I had
admired and respected him heretofore, on the ground

of Dr. D 's opinion — how did I now feel disposed

to adore him ! I looked on him as an inst ice of long-
tried heroism and fortitude, almost unparalled in the
history of man. Such thoughts were passing through

my mind, when Mr. E reentered the room. What

I had heard, during his absence, made me now look
on him with tenfold interest. I wondered that I had
everlooked his stoop — and the permanent print of pain
on his pallid cheek. I gazed at him, in short, with
feelings of sympathy and reverence, akin to those call-
ed forth by a picture of one of the ancient martyrs.

" I'm sorry to have been deprived of your company
so long," said he ; " but I have had to answer an in-
vitation, and several questions besides, from 1

daresay you know whom?" addressing Dr. D .

" I can guess, on the principle e,r ungne — the gaudy
liverv, 'vaunts of royalty' — eh? Is it ?"

" Yes. He has invited me to dine with Lord ,

^\y , and several other members of the Socie-
ty, at , this day week, but I have declined. At my

time of life I can't stand late hours and excitement.
Besides, one must learn betimes to wean from, the
world, or be suddenly snatched from it, screaming like
a child," said Mr. E , wjth an impressive air.

" I believe you are particularly intimate with ^ at

least I have heard so. Are you ?" enquired Dr. D .

509

" No. I might possibly have been so, for as

shewn great consideration towards me ; but I can as-
sure you, 1 am the sought, rather than the seeker, and
have been all my life."

" Jt is often fatal to philosophical independence to
approach too frequently, and too nearly, the magic
circle of the court," said I.

" True. Science is, and should be, aspiring. So
is the eagle ; but the royal bird never approaciies so

near the sun, as to be drowned in its blaze. has

been nothing since he became a courtier." * * *

" Wiiat do you think of 's pretensions to sci-
ence, generally, and his motives for seeking so anxi-
ously the intimacy of the learned ?" enquired Dr. D .

" Why, " replied E , with some hesitation ;

" 'tis a wonderful thing for him to know even a fiftieth
part of what lie does. He is popularly acquainted
with the outlines of most of the leading sciences. He
went through a regular course of leadings with my

friend : but he has not the time necessary to

ensure a successful prosecution of science. It is, how-
ever, infinitely atlvantageous to science and literature,
to have the willing and active patronage of royalty.
I never knew him exhibit one trait of overbearing
dogmatism ; and thai is saying much for one whom
all flatter always. It has struck me, however, that
he has rather too anxious an eye towards securing the
character and applause of a M^CiENAS."

" Pray, Mr. E , do you recollect mentioning to

me an incident which occurred at a large dinner party

given by , when you were present, when Dr.

maile use of these words to : * Does not

your

think it possible for a man to pelt another

with potatoes, to provoke him to fling peaches in return,
for want of other missiles P' — and the furious answer

was ."

" We will drop that subject, if you please," said

E coldly, at the same time coloring, and giving

lid a peculiar monitory look.

»y

« 4^' |i:

4 D

l« ■

, '\

(

Irt

H|i|i" 1 1

■H^BM^^^^H

570

" I know well, personally, that has done very

many noble things in his day — most of them, com-
paratively, in secret; and one munificent action he
has performed lately towards a man of scientific emi-
nence, who has been as unfortunate as he is deserving,
which will probably never come to the public ear un-
less and die suddenly," said Mr. E — . He

had scarcely uttered these words, when he turned
suddenly pale, laid down his tea cup, with a quivering
hand, and slipped slowly from his chair to the floor,
where he lay at his full length, rolling to and fro,
with his hands pressed upon the lower part of his
spine — and all the while uttering deep sighs and g-oans.
The big drops of perspiration, rolling from his fore-
head down his cheeks, evidenced the dreadful agony

he was enduring. Dr. D and 1 both knelt down

on one knee by his side, pro tiering our assistance —
but he entreated us to leave him to himself for a few
moments, and he should soon be better.

" Emma !" he gasped, calling his neice — who, sob-
bing bitterly, was at his side in a moment — " kiss me
—that's a dear girl— and go up to bed— but, on your
way, send Joseph here directly." She retired, and in
a few moments Joseph entered hastily, with a broad
leathern band, which he drew round his master's waist
and buckled tightly. He then pressed with both his
hands for some time upon the immediate seat of the
pain. Our situation was both embarrassing and dis-
tressing — both of us medical men, and yet compelled
to stand by mere passive spectators of agonies we could
neither alleviate nor remove.

" Do you absolutely despair of discovering what the
precise nature of this complaint is ?" I inquired in an

under tone.

«' Yes in common with every one else that has

tried to discover it, but in vain. That it is an affection
of the spinal chord, is clear ; but what is the imme-
diate exciting cause of these tremendous paroxysms I
cannot conjecture," replied Dr. D .

'^^^ ^- f

llll

one very
111, com-
ction he
fie emi-
jserviiig,
ear un-
— . He
3 turned
[uivering
lie floor,
and fro,
t of his
J g-oans.
his fore-
il agony
elt down
stance —
3r a few

dio, sob-
'* kiss nie

on your
d, and in

a broad
er's waist
both his
at of the
and dis-
oinpelled
we could

what the
[red in an

that has
I afiection
le imrne-
oxysms I

r)71

*' What have been the principal remedies resorted
to ?"

" Oh, every thing— ahiiost every thing thnt the wit
of man could devise — local and general bleedings to
a dreadful extent; irritations and counter-irritations
without end; electricity — galvanism — all the resources
of medicine and surgery have been ransacked to no

purpose. — Look at him !" whispered Dr. D , "look

— look ; — do you see how his whole body is drawn
together in a heap, while his limbs are quivering as
though they would fall from him?— See — see — how
they are now struck out, and plunging about, his hands
clutching convulsively at the carpet — scarce a trace of
humanity in his distorted features — as if this great and
good man were the sport of a demon !"

" Oh ! gracious God ! Can we do nothing to help
him ?" [ enquired, suddenly approaching him, almost

stifled with my emotions. Mr. E did not seem

conscious of our approach; but lay rather quieter,
groaning — " Oh — oh — oh — that it would please God
to dismiss me from my sufferings !"

'* My dear, dear Mr. E ,"exclaimed Dr. D-

evcessively agitated, " can we do nothing for you ?
Can't we be of any service to you ?"

" Oh, noue — none — none !" he groaned, in tones
expressive of utter hopelessness. For more than a
quarter of an hour did this victim of disease continue
writhing on the floor, and we standing by, "physicians
of no value !" The violence of the paroxysm abated
at length, and again we stooped, for the purpose of
raising him and carrying him to the sofa — but he mo-
tioned us off, exclaiming so faintly as to be almost
inaudible — " No — no, thank you — I must not be mo-
ved for this hour — and when 1 am, it must be to bed."
— "Then we will bid }'ou good evening, and pray to
God you may be better in the morning." — " Yes —
yes. — Better— better ; good — good by," he muttered
indistinctly.

" Master's failing asleep, gentlemen, as he always

:»72

does after tliese fits," said Joseph, who iiad his arm
round his sufleriiig master's neck. We, of course,

left immediately, and met Miss E- in the passage,

nmtHed in her shawl, and sobbing as if she woidd
break her heart.

£)r. D told me, as we were walking home, that,

about two years ago, E made a week's stay with

him ; and that, on one occasion, he endured agonies
of such horrible intensity, as nothing could abate, or
in any measure alleviate, but two doses of laudanum,
of nearly six drachms each, within half an hour of each
other ; and that even then he did not sleep for more
than two hours. " When he awoke," continued my
friend, " he was lying on a sofa in a state of exhaus-
tion, the perspiration running from him like water. I
asked him if he did not sometimes yield to such
thoughts as were suggested to Job by his impetuous
friends — * to curse God and die,' — to repine at the long
and lingering tortures he had enduietl nearly all his
life, for no apparent crime of his own?"

"No, no," he replied calmly ; I've suffered too long
an apprenticeship to pain for that ! I own I was at
first a little disobedient— a little restive— but now 1
am learning resignation ! Would not useless fretiing
serve to enhance — to aggravate my pains !"

"Well!" I exclaimed, "it puzzles my theology—

if any thing could make me sceptical." — E saw

the train of my thoughts, and interrupted me, laying
his wiiite wasted hand on mine— " I always strive to
bear in mind that I am in the hands of a God as good
as great, and that I am not to doubt his goodness,
because 1 cannot exactly see how he brings it about.
Doubtless there are reasons for my suffering what I
do, which, though at present incomprehensible to me,
would appear abundantly satisfactory could I be made

acquainted with them. Oh, Dr. D , wkat would

become of me," said E , solemnly, " were I in-

,f tlia v'ynh rnnsolntions of rt^liLnon. to have no-

dirt

\.r%r\ r\

.tlV.1 -KJ^

thing to rely on but the disheartening speculations of

^■<fc -.*.■

073

his arm

course,

passage,

e woiiUl

me, that,
lay with

agonies
ibate, or
udanuin,
r of each
for more
med my

exhaus-
v'ater. I

to such
npetuous

the long
f all his

too long
[ was at
t now 1
J fretting

-ology—

saw

e, laying
strive to

as GOOD
goodness,
it about.
: what I
lie to me,

be made
at would
ere I in-
have no-
lations of

infidelity! — If in this world only I have hope," he
continued, looking steadfastly upwards, " I am, of all
men, most miserable !" — Is not it dangerous to know
such a man, lest one should feel inclined to fall down
and worship him?" enquired my friend. Indeed I

thought so. Surely E waa a miracle of patience

and fortitude ! and how he had contrived to make his
splendid advancements in science, while subject to
such almost unheard of tortures, both as to duration
and intensity — had devoted himself so successfully to
the prosecution of studies requiring habits of long,
patient, profound abstraction — was to me inconceiv-
able.

How few of us are aware of what is suffered by
those with whom we are most intimate! How few
know the heavy counter-balancings of popularity and
eminence J the exquisite agonies, whether physiv^al or
intelkctual, inHicted by one irremovable " thorn in
the Uesh !" Oli ! the miseries of that eminence whose
chief prerogative too often is —

" Above the vulgar herd to rot in state /"
How little had I thought, while gazing, at the

rooms, on this admirable man, first facinated with the
placidity of his noble features, that I looked at one who
had equal claims to the character of a martyr and a
philosopher ! How my own petty grievaiices dwindled

away in comparison of those endured by E ! How

contemptible the pusillanimity I had often exhibited !

And do YOU, reader, who, if a man, are, perhaps,
in the habit of cursing and blaspheming while smart-
ing under the toothach, or any of those minor " ills
that flesh is heir to," think, at such times, of poor,
meek, suffering E , and be silent !

I could not dismiss from my mind the painful image
of E writhing on the floor, as I have above de-
scribed, but lay the greater part of the night, reflect-
ing on the probable nature of his unusual disorder.
Was it any thing of a spasmodic nature ? Would nut

#»

ijl

i ■*'

ft7»

.vwc^ attacks have worn him out long ago ? Was it one
of the remoter effects of partial paralysis ? Was it a
preternatural presure on the spinal chord, occasioned
by frac ture of one of the vertebrie, or enlargement of
the inter' 'tebral ligaments ? — Or was it owing to a
thickening of the medula-spinalis itself?

Fifty similar conjectures passed tl rough my mind,
excited, as well by the singularity o the disease, as
by sympathy for t!ie sufferer. Before I fell asleep, I
resolved to call on him during the next day, and en-
quire carefully into the nature of his symptoms— -in
the forlorn hope of hitting on some means of mitigat-
ing his sufferings.

By twelve o'clock at noon I was set down again at
his door. A maidservant answered my summons, and
told me that Mr. E and Joseph were busily en-
gaged in the '' Lahbory !" She took in my card to him,
and returned with her master's compliments, and he
would thank me to step in. I followed the girl to the

labratory. On opening the door, I saw E and

his trusty work-fellow, Joseph, busily engaged fusing
some species of metal. The former was dressed as on
the preceding evening, with the addition of a long
bla':.iv apron, — looked heated and Unshed with exer-
cise ; and, with his stoopihg gait, was holding some
<mall implement over ♦he furnace, while Joseph, on
his knees, was puffing way at the fire with a small
pair of bellows. — To anticipate for a moment. How
little did E or I imagine, that this was very near-
ly the last time of his ever again entering the scene of
his long and useful scientific labors !

I was utterly asKniished to see one whose suflerings
over night had been so dreadful, quietly pursuing his
avocations in the morning, as though nothing had
happened to him !

" Excuse my shaking hands with you for the pre-
sent. Doctor," said E , looking at me through a

huge pair of tortoise shell spectacles, " for both hands
are engaged, you see. My friend Dr. • has

IS it one
lYas it a
jasioneri
iniont of
ig to a

y mind,
ease, as
.sleep, I
and en-
[)ms — in
mitigat-

again at
ons, and
sily en-
1 to liim,

and he
irl to the

and

d fusing
ed as on

a long
th exer-
[ig some
seph, on

a small
t. How
ery near-
scene of

ufferings
suing his
ling had

the pre-
irough a

III iiauui:

has

675

just sent me a piece of platina, and you see I'm already
playing pranks with it! Really Vm as eager to spoil
a plaything to see what my rattle's nia<le of, as any
I philosophical child in tlio kingdom ! Here I am ana-
lyzing — dissolving — transmuting -and so on: — But
I've really an important end in view here, trying a

new combination of metal, and Dr. is anxious

to know if the result of my process corresponds with

/lis — now, now, Joseph," said K , breaking off

suddenly, " it is ready ; bring the ." At this

critical instant, by pome unlucky accident, poor Jose[)h
suddenly overthrew the whole apparatus — and the
compounds, ashes, fragments, &c., were spilled on
the tloor! Really, I quite lost my own temper with
thinking of the vexatious disappointment it would be

to E . Not so, however, with him.

" Oh, dear — dear, dear me ! Well, here's an end
of our day's work before we thought for it! How did

you do it, Joseph, eh ?" said E with an air of

chagrin, but with perfect mildness of tone. What a
ludicrous contrast between the philosopher and his
assistant ! The latter, an obese little fellow, with a droll
cast of one eye — was quite red in the face, and wring-
ing his hands, exclaimed — " Oh Lord — oh Lord — oh
Lord! what could I have been doing, master?" —
" Why that's surely your concern more than mine,"

replied E , smiling at me. "Come, come, it

can't be helped — you've done yourself more harm than

me — by giving Dr. such a specimen of your

awkwardness as / have not seen for man^r a month.
See and set things to rights as soon as possible," said

E , calmly, and putting away his spectacles.

" Well, Dr. , what do you think of my little

workshop?" he continued, addressing me, who still
stood with my hat and gloves on — surprised and de-
lighted to see that his tempci had stood tiiis trial, and
that such a provoking coni re-temps had really not at all
ruffled hiiiK T'rom the position hi which he stood, the
light fell strongly on his face, and I saw his features

1 1 i,iii

-.fl'

676

more distinctly than heretofore. I noticed that sure
index of a thinking countenance — three strong perpen-
dicular marks or folds between the eyebrows, at right-
angles with the deep wrinkles that furrowed his fore-
head, and then the '* untroubled lustre" of his cold,
clear, full, blue eyes, rich and serene as that

*' Through whose clear medium the great sun

Loveth to shoot his beams, all bright'ning, all
Turning to gold."

Reader, when you see a face of this stamp, so marked,
and with such eyes and forehead, rest assured you are
looking at a gi/ted, if not an extraordinary man. The
lower features were somewhat shrunk and sallow — as
well they might, if only from a thousand hours of
agony, setting aside the constant wearing of his "ever
waking mind ;" yet a smile of cheerfulness — call it
rather resignation — irradiated his pale countenance,
like twilight on a sepulchre. He shewed me round
his laboratory, which was kept in most exemplary
cleanliness and order ; and then, opening a door we
entered the " sanctum sanctorum" — his study. It
had not more, I should think, than five or six hun-
dred books ; but all of them — in plain substantial
bindings — had manifestly seen good service. Imme-
diately beneath the window stood several portions of
a spleiidid astronomical apparatus — a very large tele-
scope, in exquisite order — a recently invented instru-
ment for calculating the parallaxes of the fixed stars
— a chronometer of his own construction, &c. " Do
you see this piece of furniture?" he enquired, direct-
ing my attention to a sort of sideless sofa, or broad
inclined plane, stuffed, the extremity turned up, to
rest the feet against — and being at an angle of about
forty-five degrees with the floor. "Ah! could that
thing speak, it might tell a tale of my tortures, such
as no living being may ! For, when I feel my daily
paroxysms coming on me, if 1 am any where near my
study, I lay my wearied limbs here, and continue till
I find relief!" This put conversation into the very

'^#--

%ifj(

Wli\

hat sure
perpen-
it light-
lis fore-
lis cold,

sun

marked,
you are
ti. The
low — as
lours of
is "ever
—call it
teuauce,
e round
emplary
loor we
:ly. It
ix hun-
jstantial

Imme-
tions of
ge tele-

instru-
ed stars
. "Do
, direct-
r broad

up, to
►f about
uld that
iS, such
ly daily
near my
inue till
he very

577

train I wished. I begged him to favor me with a
description of his disease ; and he sat down and com-
plied, I recollect him comparing the pain to that
which might follow the incessant stinging of a wasp
at the spinal marrow — sudden, lacerating, accompa-
nied by quivering sensations throughout the whole
nervous system — followed by a strange sense of numb-
ness. He said that at other times it was as though
some one was in the act of drilling a hole through his
back bone, and piercing the marrow! Sometimes,
during the moments of his most ecstatic agonies, he
felt as though his back bone was rent asunder all the
way up. The pain was on the whole local— confined
to the first of the lumbar vertebrae ; but occasionally
fluctuating between them and the dorsal. When he
had iinished the dreary details of his desease, I was
obliged to acknowledge, with a sigh, that nothing
suggested itself to me as a remedy, but what I un-
derstood from Dr. D , had been tried over and

over, and over again.—" You are right," he replied,
sorrowfully. "Dreadful as are my sufferings, the
bare thought of undergoing more medical or surgical
treatment makes me shudder. My back is already
frightfully disfigured with the searings ot caustic,
seaton marks, cupping, and blistering ;— and I hope
God will give me patience to wait till their perpetual
knockings, as it were, shall have at length battered
down this frail structure."

" Mr. E , you rival some of the old mart^^rs !

said I, as we rose to leave the study. ^

" In point of bodily suffpving, I may ; but their ho-
Ihu'ss ! those who are put ito the keenest parts— the
very heart of the ' fiery furnace'— will come out most

relincd at last!"

" Well, you may be earning a glorious reward heie-

after, for your constancy " .

" Or 1 may be merely smarting for the sins ot my

forelatiieti !" exclaimed E mournfully.

10 ^ ^ ''

Itii

isf P

I I:-

wiH

.■<. -.is

•

' "WK^

,|V'

1
'1

i,i,.,;

1 '

i , i

i Hi

m .!

•1

3 J
i

' Miaiilliliti

' '^^^^^^^^^^^^1

578

Monday, July 18 — . Having been called to a pa-

tient in the neighbourhood of E-
portunity of calling upon him

I took that op-
It

unity or caning upon mm on my return, it was
about nine o'clock in the evening; and I found the
philosopher sitting pensively in the parlour alone ; for
his neice, I learned, had retired early, owing to in-
disposition. A peculiar semicircular lamp of his own
contrivance, stood on the table, which was strewn
with books, pamphlets, and papers. He received me
with his usual gentle affability.

" I don't know how it is, but I feel in a singular
mood of mind to night," said he ; " I ought to say
rather many moods : sometimes so suddenly and
strongly excited, as to lose the control over my emo-
tions — at others, sinking into the depths of despon-
dency. I've been trying for these two hours to glance
over this new view of the Neptunian theory," pointing

to an open book on the table, " which has sent

me, to review for him in the ; but 'tis useless ;

I cannot command my thoughts." I felt ni« pulse :
it was one of the most irregular I had ever known.
" I know what you suspect," spid he, observing my
eyes fixed with a puzzled air on my watch, and my
finger at his wrist, for several minutes ; " some or-
ganic mischief at the heart. Several ^^ your fraternity
have latterly comforted me with assurances to that
effect." I assured him I did not apprehend any thing
of the kind, but merely that his circulation was a little
disturbed by recent excitement.

"True — true," he replied, "I r«« a little flustered,
as the phrase is "

"Oh — here's the secret, I suppose?" said I,
reaching to a periodical publication of the month, ly-
ing on the table, and in which I had a few days ago
read a somewhat virulent attack on him. " You're
very rudely handled here, I think ?" said I.

"What, do you think //w/ has discomposed me?"
he enquired with a smile. " No, no — I'm pp.it feeling
these thintrs loner aso ! Abuse — mere uersonalitv —

•w\-

579

now excites in me no emotion of any kind !"

*' Why, Mr. E , surely you are not indifferent

to tlie opinion of the public, which may be misled by
such things as these, if suffered to go unanswered ?"

" I am not affraid of that. If I've done any thing
good in my time, as I have honestly tried to do, sen-
sible people won't believe me an impostor, at any
man's bidding. Those who would be so influenced,
are hardly worth undeceiving."

" There's a good deal of accuteness in the paper,
and in one particular, the reviewer has fairly caught
me tripping. He may lau(jh at me as much as he
pleases; but why go about to put himself in a
passion ? The subject did not require it. But if he
is in a passion, should I not be foolish to be in one
too?— Passion serves only to put out truth; and no
one would indulge it that had truth only in view. * *
The real occasion of my nervousness," he continued,
« is far different from what you have supposed— a Uttle
incident which occurred only this evening and I will

tell it you. , . , ,i ' • i ♦

"My niece, feeling poorly with a cold, retired to
bed as soon as she had done tea ; and after sitting
here about a quarter of an hour, I took one of the
candles, and walked to the laboratory, to see whether
all was right— as is my custom every evening. On
ooenini; the door, to my very great amazement, 1 saw
a stranger in it, a gentleman in dark coloured clothes,
holdins a dim taper m one hand, and engaged in go-
ing round the room, apparently putting all my instru-
ments in order. I stood at the door almost petiihed,
watching his movements, without thinkmg of inter-
rupting them, for a sudden feeling of something like
awe crept over me. He made no noise whatever
and did not seem aware that any one was looking at
him— or if he was, he did not seem disposed to notice
the interruption. I saw him as clearly, and what he
was do ng^ as I now see you playing with your
gloves ! He was engaged leisurely putting away all

iii' ■ i>

>K %

580 .

my loose implements, — shutting boxes, cases, and
cupboards, with the accuracy of one who was perfectly
well acquainted with his work. Having thus (Hsposed
of all the instruments and apparatus which had been
used to day — and we have had very many more than
usual out — he opened the inner-door leacUng to the
study, and entered — I followed in mute astonishment.
He went to vvork the same way in the study ; shutting
up several volumes that lay open on the table, and
carefully replacing them in their proper places on the
shelves.

"Having cleared away these, he approached the
astronomical apparatus near the window, put the cap
on the object end of the telescope, pushed in the joints,
all noiselessly, closed up in its case my new chrono-
meter, and then returned to the table where my desk
lay, took up the inkstand, poured out the ink into the
fire place, flung all the pens under the grate, and then
shut the desk, locked it^ and laid the key on the top
of it. When he had done all this, he walked towards
the wall, and turned slowly towards me, looked me
full in the face, and shook his head mournfully. The
taper he held in his hand slowly expired — and the
spectre, if such it were, disappeared. The strangest
part of the story is yet to follow. The pale, fixed fea-
tures seemed perfectly familiar to me — they were
those which I had often gazed at, in a portrait of Mr.
Boyle, prefixed to my quarto copy of his 'Treatise of
Atmospheric Air.' As soon as I had a little recovered
my self-possession, I took down the vvork in question,
and examined the portrait. I was right! 1 cannot
account for my not having spoken to the figure, or
gone close up to it. I think I could have done either,
as far as couratjc went. My prevailing idea was, that
a single word would have dissolved the charm, and
my curiosity prompted me to see it out. I returned
to the parlour and rung the bell for Joseph.

*" Joseph,' said I, 'have you set things to rights
in the laboratory and study to night P' — * Yes, master,'

w-*«r

58 1

ses, and
jierfectly
disposed
lad been
ore than
r to the
dshment.
sliiitting
ible, and
s on the

ched the
t the cap
he Joints,
chrono-
mv desk
i into the
and then
I the top
1 towards
)oked me
lly. The
-and the
strangest
fixed fea-
liey were
lit of Mr.
Preatise of
recovei'ed
question,
1 cannot
figure, or
3ne either,
was, that
larm, and
[ returned

to rights
;s, master,'

he replied, with surprise in his manner ; ' I finished it
before tea time, and set things in particular good or-
der—I gave botli the rooms a right good cleaning out
—I'm sure there's not even a pin in its wrong place.'

" ' What made you fling the pens and ink in the
fire place and under the grate ?'

"'Because 1 thought they were of no use— the
pens worn to stumps, and tlie ink thick and clotted—
too much (/Hill in it.' He was evidently astonislied at
he\u<r asked such (piestions— and was going to explain
furtlfer, when I said simply, ' that will do,' and ne re-
tired Now, what am 1 to think of all this r* 11 it
were a mere ocular spectrum, clothed with its func-
tions from my own excite.i fancy, there was yet an
unity of purpose in its doings that is extraordinary !
Soinething very much like ',shuUin(j up the shop—^h!^
enquired E — "- with a melancholy smile.

" 'Tis touching— very ! [ never heard a more sin-
gular incident," I rei)lied abstractedly, without re-
moving my eyes from the fire; lor my reading ol the
occurrence was a sudden and strong convictioii that,
gho" t or no ghost, E had toiled his last u. the be-
half of science-that he would never again have occa-
sion to use his philosophical n^^^chmery hi^ me-
lancholy presentiment mvested E , ^^"^/^^rDon!

or did, vvith tenfold interest m my eyes. Don t
"ipjos'e, doctor, that I am weak enough o be seri-
ouslv disturbed by the occurrence I have jubt been
Tentio ns. Whether or not it really portends my
a CSng death, I know not. Though I am no
;^^:Jtu^rs enough t. suppose -jf ^--J-J ^^

L to warrant any special ^f ^,^*f ^^" ,^^^^f„f r,^ " o
on mv behalf— vet I cannot help thinking 1 am lo

^^k o'n this as i warning-a ^^-^U^^?!^^^

that I may ' set my ^^^^2^!^' o u intervie^
conversation, during the i^;"^^\\^J\,^^ affecting inci-
turned on the topic -gg^^^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^ ,,

dent ust related. 1 listeneu w aii ■ .

tlw words of a doomed-a dying mu! MIL

.;;i

! 11 , .:■

iU: :

Mir

a '

582

advanced on this difficult and interesti'ig subject, was
marked not less by sound philosophy, than unfeigned
piety. He ended with avowing his belief, that the
Omnipotent Being who formed both t'>e body and the
soul, and willed them to exist unitedly, could surely,
nevertheless, if he saw good, cause the one to exist
separately from the other ; either by endowing it with
new properties for that special purpose, or by enabling
it to exercise, in its disembodied state, those powers
which continued latent in it during its connexion with
the body. Did it follow — he asked — that neitlier body
nor soul possessed any other qualities than those which
were necessary to enable them to exist together?
Why should the soul be incapable of a substantially
distinct personal existence ? Where the impossihilHy
of its being made visible to organs of sense ? Has
the Almighty no means of bringing this to pass ?
Are there no latent properties in the organs of vision
— no subtle sympathies with immaterial substances —
which are yet undiscovered — and even undiscoverable?
Surely this may be tiie case — though how, it would be
impossible to conjecture. He saw no bad philosophy,
he said, in this ; and he who decided the question in
the negative, before he had brought forward some
evidence of its moral or physical impossihility, was
guilty of most presumptuous dogmatism.

This is the substance of liis opinions ; but, alas ! i
lack the chaste, nervous, philosophical eloquence in
which they were clothed. A distinguished living
character said of E , that he was the most fascina-
ting talker on abstruse subjects he ever heard. I could
have staid all night listening to him. In fact, I fear I
did trespass on his politeness even to inconvenience.
I staid and partook of his supper — simple, frugal fare
— consisting of roast potatoes, and two tumblers of
new milk. I left about eleven : my mind occupied
but with one wish, all the way home, — that 1 had known
E intimately for as many years as hours !

Two days afterwards, the following hurried note

583

ect, was
n feigned
that the
^ and the
J surely,
to exist
g it with
enabling
! powers
ion with
lier body
ise which
ogether ?
Jtantially
mssihUlty
e ? Has
to pass ?
Df vision
itances —
)verable?
A'ould be
losophy,
^stion in
ird some
/////, was

1
1

y alas .

uence in

il living

t fascina-

I could

, I fear I

venience.

ugal fare

iblers of

occupied

id known
I

'ied note

was put into my hands, from my friend Dr. D :

" My dear , I am sure you will be as much affected

as I was, at hearing that our inestimable friend, Mr.

E , had a sudden stroke of the palsy this afternoon,

about two o'clock, from which I very much fear he
may never recover ; for this, added to his advanced
age, and the dreadful chronic complaint under which
he labors, is surely sufficient to shatter the small re-
mains of his strength. I need hardly say, that all is
in confusion at . I am going down there to-
night, and shall be happy to drive you down also, if
you will be at my house by seven. Yours," &c., &c.
1 was grieved and agitated, but in no wise surprised at
this intelligence. What passed the last time I saw
him prepared me for something of this kind !

On arriving in the evening we were shown into the

parlour, where sat Miss E , in a paroxysm of his-

terical weeping, which had forced her a few moments
before to leave her uncle's sick room. It was some
time before we could calm her agitated spirits, or get
her to give us any thing like a connected account of
her uncle's sudden illness. " Oh, these will tell you
all !" said she, sobbing, and taking two letters from
her bosom, one of which bore a black seal .; " It is
these cruel letters that have broken his heart ! Both
came by the same post this morning !" She withdrew,
promising to send for us when all was ready, and we
hastily opened the two letters she had left. What
will the reader suppose were the two heavy strokes
dealt at once upon the head of Mr. by an in-
scrutable providence? The letter I opened, conveyed
the intelligence of the sudden death, in childbed, of

Mrs. , his only daughter, to whom he had been

most passionately attaclied. The letter Dr. D

held in his hand, disclosed an instance of almost un-
paralleled perfidy and ingratitude. I shall here state
what I learnt afterwards— that many years ago, Mr.

E had taken a poor lad from one of the parish

sciiools, pleased with his quickness and obedience, and

'^C^:s^^.

ii I';

584

had apprenticed him to a respectable tradeinnan. lie

served his articles honorably, and Mr. E nobly

advanced him funds to establish himself in business.
He prospered beyond every one's expectations : and

the good, generous, confiding E , was so deligiit-

ed with ills conduct, and persuaded of his principles,
that he gradually atlvanced him large sums of money
to increase an extensive connexion ; and, at last, in-
vested his all, amounting to little short of £15,000,
in this man's concern, for which he received 5 per
cent. Sudden success, however, turned tliis young

man's head ; and Jlr. E had long been uneasy

at hearing current rumors about his protege's unstea-
diness and extravagance. He had several times spo-
ken to him about them; but was easily persuaded
that the reports in question were as groundless as
malignant. And as the last half-years interest was
paid punctually, accompanied with a hint, that it
doubts were entertained of his probity, the man was
ready to refund a great part of the principal, Mr.
E 's confidence revived. Now, the letter in ques-
tion was from this person ; and stated, that, though
" circumstances" had compelled him to withdraw from
his creditors for the present, in other words— to ab-
scond, he had no doubt that if Mr. E would wait

a little, he should in time be able to pay him a lair

dividend !"—" Good God! why E is ruined T

exclaimed Dr. 1) , turning pale, and dropping the

letter, after having read it to me.

" Yes, ruined !— all the harii savings of many years
labor and economy, f/one at a stroke !"

"Why, was a// his small fortune embarked in this

concern?"

"All, except a few hundreds lying loose at his ban-
kers !— What is to become of poor Miss K ?"

"Cannot this infamous scoundrel be brought to
justice ?" I enquired.

"If he wercj he mav prove, perhaps, not worth
powder and shot, the viper !"

f)8r>

n. He

- nobly
usiness.
18 : and
ileliglit-
nciples,

money
last, in-
: 15,000,
1 5 per
1 young

uneasy

unstea-
les spo-
ii'suaded
(Hess as
rest was
, that it"
lan was
)al, Mr.
in ques-

tliough
•aw from
—to ab-
uld wait
n a fair
nuni'd !
tping the

ny years

I in this

his ban-

ought to

ot worth

Similar emotions kept us both silent for several mo-
ments.

"This will put his philosophy to a dreadful trial,"
said I "How do you think he will bear it, should he
recover from the present seizure so far as to be made
sensible of the vixtent of his misfortunes ?"

" Oil, nobly, nobly ! I'll pledge my existence to
it! He'll bear it like a Christian, as well as a philo-
sopher ! I've seen liim in trouble before this."

"Is Miss E entirely dependent on her uncle j

and has he made no provision for her ?"

" Alas ! he had appropriated to her £5,000 of the
£15,000 in this man's hands, as a marriage portion —
I know it, for I am one of his executors. The cir-
cumstance of leaving her thus destitute, will, I know,
prey cruelly on his mind." Shortly afterwards, we
were summoned into the chamber of the v^inerable
suderer. His niece sat at the bedside, near the head,
holdino- one of his cold motionless hands in hers. Mr.
E 's face, deadly pale, and damp with perspira-
tion, liad suti'ered a shocking distortion of the features !

the left eye and the mouth being drawn downwards

to the left side. He gazed at us vacantly, evidently
without recognising us, as we took our stations, one
at the foot, the other at the side of the bed. What a
melancholy contrast between the present expression of
his eyes, and that of acuteness and brilliance which
eminently characterised them in health! They re-
minded me of Milton s sun, 1 'Mng

" through the norizontnl misty air,
Shorn of its beams."
The distorted lips were moving about incessantly, as
though with abortive efforts to speak, though he could
utter nothing but an inarticulate murmuring sound,
which he had continued almost from the moment of
his being struck. Was it not a piteous- a heart-ren-
ding spectacle? Was thh the philosopher ?— After
making due enquiries, and ascertaining the extent
of the iniury to his nervou. system, we withdrew to

'In'

m. *!.

IMill!''

f)80

consult on the treatment to be adopted. In account-
ing for the seizure, I considered that the uncommon
quantities of laudanum he had so long been in the ha-
bit of receiving into his system, alone sufficiently
accounted for his present seizure. Then, again, the
disease in his spine— the consequent exhaustion of his
enengies— the sedentary, thoughtful life he led— all
these were at least pre-disposing causes. The sudden
shock he had received in the morning merely accele-
rated what had long been advancing on him. We
both anticipated a speedy fatal issue, and resolved to
take the earliest opportunity of acquainting him with
his approaching end.

[He lies in nearly the same state durnig lhurr>day

and Friday.] . .

Sunday Evenhy/.— My. E gomg on well, and

his mental energies and speech perfectly restored. 1
called on him alone. Almost his first words to me
^ere— " Well, Doctor, good Mr. Boyle was right, you
see !" I replied that it yet remained to be proved.

"God sent me a noble messenger to summon me
hence, did he not? One whose character has always
been my model, as far as I could imitate his great and
good qualities."

" You attach too much weight, Mr. E , to that

creature of imagination"

" What ! do you really doubt that I am on my
death-bed ? I assuredly shall not recover. The pains
ill my back have loft me, that my end may be easy.
Aye, aye, the 'silver cord is loosed.'" 1 enquired
about the sudden cessation of his chronic complaint.
He said, it had totally disappeared; leaving behind it
only a sensation of numbness. " In this instance of
His mercy towards an unworthy worm of the eartli,
I devoutly thank my Father— my God !" he exclai-
med, looking reverentially upward,—" Oh, how could
I in patience have possessed my soul, if to the pains
of dying had been superadded those which 1 ave em-
bittered life ! — My constant prayer to God lias been,

1 >
I

-t'.inkfc-t**.-

587

ccount-
ommon
the lia-
iciently
ain, the
n of his
led— -all
I sudden
' acci'le-
m. We
^Ived to
im with

'hiirsday

^ell, and
ored. I
s to me
ight, you
3ved.
mon me
s always
jreat and

■, to that

I on my
he pains
be easy.
enquired
Dmplaint.
behind it
istance of
he eartii,
le exclai-
[OW could
the pains
i ave em=
lias been,

that, if it be His will, my life may run out clear to
the last drop ; and though the stream has been a little
troubled," alluding to the intelligence which had oc-
casioned his illness, " I may yet have my prayer an-
swered — Oh, sweet darling Anne ! why should I grieve
for you ? Where I am going, I humbly believe you are!
Root and branch — both gathered home ! " He shed
tears abundantly, but spoke of the dreadful bereave-
ment in terms of perfect resignation. + * « You
are no doubt acquainted," he continned, "with the
other afflicting news, which, I own, has cut me to
the quick ! My confidence has been betrayed, — my
sweet niece's prospects utterly blighted, — and I made
a beggar of in my old age. This ungrateful man has
squandered away infamously the careful savings of
more than thirty years — every penny of which has
been earned with the sweat of my brow. I do not so
much care for it m}'self, as I have still enough left to
preserve me from want during the few remaining days
1 have left me ; but my poor dear Emma ! My heart
aches to think of it !"

" I hope you may yet recover some portion of your

property, Mr. E- ; the man speaks in his letter of

paying you a fair dividend."

*' No, no — when once a man has deliberately acted
in such an unprincipled manner as he has, it is foolish
to expect restitution. Loss of character and the con-
fidence of his benefactor, makes him desperate. I find,
that, should I linger on earth longer than a few weeks,
I cannot now afford to pay the rent of this house — I
must remove from it — I cannot die in the house in
which my poor wife breathed her last — this very
room !" His tears burst forth again, and mine started
to my eyes. " A friend is now looking out lodgings
for me in the neighbourhood — to which I shall remove
the instant my health will permit. It goes to my
heart, to think of the bustling auctioneer disposing of
all my annaratus." — tears again gushed from his eyes
— " the companions of many years"

U ^Iti

tllHI

" Dear, dear sir ! — Your friends will ransack heaven
and eartjj before your fears sliall be verilied," said f,

vvitii emotion.

«< 'flj^^.y—you — are very pjood — hut you would he
unsuccessful! — You must tliink ine very weak to let
these things overcome me in tliis way — one can't help
feeling them ! — A man may writhe under the amputa-
ting knife, and yet acknowledge the necessity of its
use! My spirit wants disciplining."

" Allow nie to say, Mr. E , that I think you

bear your misfortunes with admirable fortitude — true

philosophic"

" Oh Doctor ! Doctor !" he exclaimed, interrupting
me, with solenm emphasis — "Believe a dying man,
to whom all this world's fancied realities have sunk
into shadows — nothhuj can make a death bed easy, but
Rin.iGioN— u, humble, hearty faith in Him, whose
Son redeemed mankind! Philosophy — science— is a
nothing — a mockery — a delusion — if it be only of this
Yvorld ! — I believe from the bottom of my heart, and
have long done^so, that the essence — the very crown
and glory of true philosophy, is to surrender up the
soul entirely to God's teaching, and practically receive
and appreciate the consolations of tbe gospel of Jesus
Christ!" Oh, the fervency with which he expressed
himself— his shrunk clasped hands pointed upwards,
and his features beaming with devotion ! I told him
it did n)y heart good to hear such opinions avowed by
a man of his distinguished attainments.

"Don't — don't— don't talk in that strain. Doctor!"
said lie, turning to me with u reproving air. " Could
a living man but know how compliments fall upon a
dying man's ear ! * * I am going shortly into the
presence of liim who is wisdom itself; and shall I go
pluming myself on my infinitely less than glovv-wonn
glimmer, into the presence of that pure etlulgence?
Doctor, I've felt, latterly, that I would give worlds to
forget the pitiful acquirements which I have purchased
by a life's labor, if my soul might meet a snnle of

heaven
' said f,

jiild be
I to let
n't lielp
uiiputa-
y of its

ink
le-

you
-true

ice

rruptuig
ig man,
ive sunk.
?asy, but
whose
is a
y of this
?art, and
y crown
r up the
y receive
of Jesus
!X pressed
upwards,
told him
owed by

Doctor !"
" Could
11 upon a
Y into the
shall I go
ovv-worm
t'ulgence ?
worlds to
purchased
smile of

58\)

approbation when it first flits into the presence of its
Maker — its Judge!" Strange language! thought I,

for the scientific E , confessedly a master-mind

among men ! Would that the shoal of schiolists, now
babling abroad their infidel crudities, could have had
one moment's interview with this dying philosopher!
Pert fools, who are hardly released from their leading
strings — the very go-cart, as it were, of elemental
science— before they strut, and forthwith proceed to
pluck their Makkr by the beard— and this, as an evi-
dence of their independence," and being released from
the trammels of superstition !"

Oh, Lord and Maker of the universe !— that thou
shouldst be so " long suffering" towards these insolent
insects of an hour !

To return. I left E in a glowmg mood ot

mind, disposed to envy him his death-bed, even with
all the ills which attended it! Before leavmg the
house, I stepped into the parlour to speak a few words
to Miss E-— . The sudden illness of her uncle had
found its way into the papers ; and I was delighted to
find it had brought a profusion of cards every n^iorn-
ing, many of thein bearing the most distmguished

names in rank and science. It showed that E s

worth was properly appreciated. I counted the cards
,>f five noblemen, and very many members of the
1 loyal, and other learned Societies.

Wcxhiesdny, 15//. ^^^'f/.-Well, poor E— u^s

vesterdav removed from his house m Row, wl re

he had voided upwards of twenty-five years- whih
e a<l fitted up,^ woiking often with ^^ .^-^f;;^^
•It mucli trouble and expence-havmg budt the labo-
r t rT 3 m sii-^e he had the house-he was removed,
Ts ' fl^ni his house, to lodgings - the ne.ghoou.
hood He has three rooms on the ^^st flooi, sn a l
indeed and in humble style-but perfectly clean
"^^^^J^nn^orUM.. Was not this- Itself suftcien
to tve broken many a haughty spirit P His extensive

,1 -

it?

500

philosophical apparatus, furniture, &c., &c., had all
been sold, at less than a iwentklh part of the sum they
had originally cost him ! No tidings as yet have been
received of the ivillain who has ruined his generous

patron! E has ceased, however, to talk of it;

but 1 see* that Miss E feels it acutely. Poor girl,

well she may ! Her uncle was carried in a sedan to
his new residence, and fainted on the way, but has
continued in tolerable spirits since his arrival. His
conduct is the admiration of all that see or hear of
him ! The first words he uttered as he was sitting
before the fire in an easy chair, after recovering a little
from the exhaustion occasioned by his being carried

up stairs, were to Dr. D , who liad accompanied

him. " Well !" — he whispered faintly, with his eyes
shut — "What a gradation! — reached the half-way

house between Row and the ' house appointed

for all living !' "

" You have much to bear, sir !" said Dr. D .

" And more to be thankful for !" replied E . " If

there were such a thing as a protestant Calendar,'' said

Dr. D to me, enthusiastically, while lecounting

what is told above, *' and I could canonize, E-

should stand first on the list, and be my patron saint!"

When I saw PJ , he was lying in bed, in a very

low and weak state, evidently declining rapidly. Still
he looked as placid as his fallen features would let
him.

"Doctor," said he, soon after I had sat down,
" how very good it is of you to come so far out of
your regular route to see me !"

" Don't name it," said I, " proud and happy"

" But, excuse me, I wish to tell you that, when I
am gone, you will find I knew how to be grateful, as
far as mv means would warrant."

"Mr. E ! my dear sir!" said I, as firmly as

my emotions could let me, " If you don't promise,
this day, to erase every mention of my name or servi-
ces from your will, 1 leave you, and solemnly declare

591

I will never intrude upon you again ! Mr. E ,

you distress me — you do, beyond measure !"

" Well — well — well— rU obey you — but may God
bless you !" be replied, turning his head away, while
the tears trickled down. Indeed! as if a thousand
guineas could liave purchased the emotions with which
I felt his poor damp fingers feebly compressing my
hand! *******

" Doctor !" he exclaimed, after I had been sitting
with him sometime, conversing on various subjects
connected witli his illness and worldly circumstances,
— " Don't you think God can speak to the soul as well
in a iiiglit as a day dream? Shall I presume to say
he has done so in my case ?" I asked him what he
was alluding to.

" Don't you recollect my telling you of an optical,

or spectral illusion, which occurred to me at

Row ? A man shutting up the shop — you know ?"
1 told him I did.

" Well — last night I dreamed — I am satisfied it was
a dream — that 1 saw Mr. Boyle again, but how diffe-
rent! Instead of gloomy clothing, his appearance
was wondronsly radient — and his features were not,
as before, solemn, sad, and fixed, but wore an air of
joy and exultation ; and instead of a miserable expiring
taper, he held aloft a light like the kindling lustre of
a star! What think you of that. Doctor? Surely, if
both these are the delusions of a morbid fancy, (/"they
are, what a light they fling over the ' dark valley' I
am entering !"

I hinted my dissent from the sceptical sneers of the
day, which would resolve all that was uttered on death
beds into delirious rant — confused, disordered faculties
— superstition.

" I think you are right," said he. " Who knows
what new light may stream upon the soul, as the wall
between time and eternity is breaking down? Who
has come back from the grave to tell us that the soul's
energies decay with the body, or that the body's decay

51)2

destroys or interrupts the exercise of tlie soul's powers,
and that all a dying man utters is mere gibberish ? The
Christian philosopher would be loth to do so, when
he recollects that God choose titc hour of death to re-
veal futurity to the patriarchs, and others of old ! Do
vou think a superintending Providence would allow
the most instructive period of our life, the close — scenes
where men's hearts and eyes are open, if ever, to re-
ceive admonition and encouragement — to be mere ex-
hibitions of absurdity and weakness ? Is that the way
God treats his servants ?"

Friday ajtenmon. — In a more melancholy mood
than usual, on account of the evident distress of his
niece about her altered })rospects. He told me, how-
ever, that he felt die confidence of his soul in nowise
shaken. " I am," said he, " like one lying far on the
shores of Eternity, thrown there by the waters of the
world, and whom a high and strong wave reaches
once more and overflows. One may be pardoned a
suden chilliness and heart uttering. — After all," he
continued, " only consider what an easy end mine is
comparatively with that of many others ! How very
— very thankful should I be for such an easy exit as
mine seems likely to be ! God be thanked that I have
to endure no such agonies of horror and remorse as

!" alluding to Mr. ; "that I am writhing

under no accident — that I have not to struggle with
utter destitution ! — Why am I not left to perish in a
prison? To suHer on a scalibld? To be plucked
suddenly into the presence of my Maker in battle,
* with all my sins upon my head ?' Suppose I were
grovelling in the hopeless darkness of scepticism or
infidelity ? Suppose I were still to endure the agonies
arising from disease in my spine ? — oli God !" exclai-
" — , "give me a more humble u id grate-

med Mr. E

ful heart !"

Monday, 10//t Scptemher. — Mr. E —
to the equal astonishment of Dr. D —
The secret must lie, 1 think, in his tranquil frame of

is still alive,
and myself.

593

powers,
? The
s when
to re-
1! Do
1 allow
-scenes
, to re-
lere ex-
the way

r mood

of his
3, how-

nowise
i" on the
; of the

reaches
(loned a
all," he
mine is
jvv very

exit as
t I have
lorse as
viithing
;le witli
sh in a
plucked
battle,

I were
cisni or

agonies

exclai-
d grate-
ill alive,

myself,
rame of

mhid. He is as happy as the day is long! Oh, that
my latter days may be like his! I was listening with

feelings of delight unutterable to E 's description

of the state ol' his mind — tlie perfect peace he felt to-
wards all mankind, and his humble and strong hopes
of happiness hereafter — when the landlady of the
house knocked at the door and on entering, told Mr.

E tl);it a pers(jn was down stairs very anxious to

see him. — " Who is it?" enquired E . She did

not know. " Has lie ever been here befoie ?" — " No :

but she thought she liad several times seen him about
the neighbourhood." — " What sort of a person is he?"

enquired E , with a surprised air. — "Oh, he is

a tall pale man in a brown great coat." L re-
quested iier to go down and ask his name. She re-
turned and said, "Mr. , sir." E on hearing

her utter the word suddenly raised himself in bed ;
the little colour he had tied from his cheeks : he lifted
up his hands and exclaimed— " What can the un-
happy man want with me?" He paused thought-
fully for a few moments. " You're of course aware who
this is?" he enquired of me in a whisper. I nodded.
" Shew him up stairs," said he, and the woman with-
drew. " For your own sake, I beg you to be calm;

don't allow your feelings" I was interrupted by

the door opening, and just such a person as Mrs.

had described, ent. ivd, with a slow hesitating step
into the room. He held his hat squeezed in both his
hands, and he stood for a few moments motionless,
iust within the door, with his eyes fixed on the floor.

In that posture he contiimed till Mrs. had retired,

shutting the door alter her, when he turned suddenly
towards the easy chair by the fire, in which Mr. E-—
was sitting, much agitated-approached, and falling
down on his knees, he covered Ins eyes with his hands
througli which the tears presently tell l.ke ^ajn; and
after many dioking sobs and sighs, faltered, Oh,

Mr. E !" . nyr TT .p'»

" VV hat do you want with me. Mi. n

19 ' ^^

enquired Mr. E , in a low tone, but very calmly.

" Oh, kind, good, abused sir ! I have behaved like
a villain to you" —

" Mr. H , I beg you will not distress me ; con-
sider I am in a very poor and weak state."

"Don't for God's sake, speak so coldly, sir! I am
heart-broken to think how shamefully I have used

you!

" Well, then, strive to amend"

" Oh, dear, good Mr. E ! can you forgive me ?"

]y|i., E (litl not answer. I saw he could not. The

tears were nearly overflowing. The man seized his
hand, and pressed it to his lips witii fervency.

" Rise, Mr. H , rise ! I do forgive you, and I

hope God will! Seek his forgiveness, which will
avail you more than mine /"

" Oh, sir !" exclaimed the man again, covering his
eyes with his hands, — "How very — very ill you look
— how pale and thin. It's / that have done it all — I,
the d dest"

"Hush, hush, sir!" exclaimed Mr. E , \*ith

more sternness than I had ever seen him exhibit, " do
not curse in a dying man's room."

" Dying — dying — dijwg, sir ?" exclaimed the man
hoarsely, staring horror-struck at Mr. E , and re-
tiring a step from him.

" Yes, James," replied E , mildly, calling him

for the first time by his Christian name, " I am assu-
redly dying — but not through you, or any thing you
have done. Come, come, don't distress voursclf un-
necessarily," he continued in the kindest tones ; for
he saw the man continued deadly pale, speechless,
and clasping his hands convulsively over his breast —
" Consider, James, my daughter, Mrs. ."

" Oh, no, no, sir — no ! It's / tliat have done it all ;
my ingratitude has broken your heart — I know it has !
— What will become of me ?" — the man resumed, still
staring vacantly at Mr. E .

"James, I must not be agitated in this way — it

*!* T-ii«"'.'

calmly.
ved like

3; con-

I am

^e used

'e me ?"
t. The
zed his

and I

ch will

ring his

ou look

all— I,

-, Vvith
it, "do

lie man
and re-

ing him
n assu-
ng you
self un-
les ; for
■echless,
) least —

e it all ;
^ it has !
led, still

way — it

595

agitates me — you must leave the room unless you can
become calm. What is done is done; and if you

really repent of it"

" Oh, I do, sir ; and could almost weep tears of
blood for it! But indeed, sir, it has been as much
my misfortune as my fault."

" Was it your misfortune or your fault that you kept
that infamous woman on whom you have squandered
so much of your property — of mine rather?" enquired

Mr. E , with a mild expostulating air. The man

suddenly blushed scarlet, and continued silent,

" It is right I should tell you that it is your miscon-
duct which has turned me out, in my old age, from
the house which has sheltered me all my life, and
driven me to die in this poor place ! You have beg-
gared in} niece, and robbed me of all the hard earnings
of my life— wrung from the sweat of my brow, as you
well know, James. .Tames, how could your heart let
you do all this ?" The man made him no answer.
" 1 am not an/jry with you — that is past — but I am
grieved— disappointed— shocked to find my confidence
in you has been so much abused."

" Oh, sir, 1 don't know what it was tnat infatuated
me ; but— never trust a living man again, sir— never,
replied the man vehemently.

- It is not likely I shall, James— I shall not liave

the opportunity," said Mr. E , calmly. Ihe

man's eye continued fixed on Mr. E— , his Up qui-
vered in spite of his violent compression, and the
fluctuating colour in his cheeks shewed the agitation

he was sutiering. j „^ P"

" Do you forgive me, sir, for what I have done f

he asked almost inaudibly. , u :.
« Yes— if you promise to amend— yes ! tie-e is
my hand-I do forgive you as I hope for my own
forgiveness hereafter!" said Mr. E—, reaching out
his hand. " And if your repentance is smcere, should
it ever be in your power, remember whom you have
most lieavily wronged, not me, but-but-Miss E ,

Hi?

590

my poor iieiee. If yov slioukl ever be able to make

her any re})eiation " the teai's stood in Mr. V. 's

eyes, and his emotions prevented hip compLting tlie
.sentence. " Really you hhlsI leave me, James — you
must — I am too weak to bear this scene any longer,"
said E , faintly, looking deadly pale.

" You had better \vitli(h-avv, sir, and call some other
time," said I. He rose, looking almost bewildered ;
thrust his liand into his breast pocket, and taking out

a small packet, laid it hurriedly on Mr. E 's lap

— snatched his hand to his lips, and nmrmuring,
"Farewell, farewell, best of men!" — with(h'evv. I
watched him through the window ; and saw that as
soon as lie had left the house, he set oiY, running al-
most at the top of his speed. When 1 returned to

look at Mr. E , he had fainted. He had opened

the packet, and a letter lay open in his lap, with a
great many bank notes. The letter ran as follows :
" Injured and revered sir — When you read this epistle,
the miserable writer will have tied from his country,
and be on his way to America. He has abused the
confidence of one of the greatest and best of men, but
hopes the enclosed sum will shew he repented what he
had done ! If it is ever in his power he will do more.

J H ." The packet contained bank notes to

the amount of £3000. When E had recoveied

from his swoon, I had him conveyed to bed, where
he lay in a state of great exhaustion. He scarce spoke
a syllable during the time I continued witli him.

Tuesday. — Mr. E still suHers from tlie effects

of yesterday's excitement. It has, I am confident,
hurried him far on his journey to the grave. He told
me he had been turning over the atUiir in his mind,
and considered that it would be wrong in him to retain
the £3000, as it would be illegal, and a fraud on

H 's other creditors ; and this upright man had

actually sent in the morning for the solicitor to the
bankrupt's assignees, and put the whole into his hands,
telling him of the circumstances under which he had

make

ng tlie
s— you
ODger,"

le other
Idcred ;
lug out
-'s lap
11 u ring,
revv. I
that as
ing al-
iDcd to
opened
with a
dHows :
epistle,
ountry,
sed the
en, but
►vhat he
o more.
Qotes to
covered
, where
:e spoke
n.

! effects
nfident,
He told
i mind,
o retain
and ou
lan had
to the
s hands,
he had

597

received it, and asking him whether he should not be
wrong in keeping it. The lawyer told him that he
might perhaps be legally, but not moially wrong— as
the law certainly forbade such payments, aiul yet he
was, by very far, the largest creditor. " Let me act
right, then, in the sight of God and man ! Take the
money, aiul let me come in with the rest of the cre-
ditors."— Mr. withdrew. He must have seen but

seldom such an instance of noble conscientiousness !^

I remonstrated with Mr. E . "No, no, doctor,"

he replied, " J have endeavoured strictly to do my
duty during life— I will not begin roguery on my
death bed !"— " Possibly you may not receive a penny
in the pound, Mr. E-^— ," said I.

" lUit 1 shall have the comfort of cputtmg lite with

a clear conscience ! * , ^ a., ,,

MoHd<n,-[A week afterwards. ]-The " weary
wheels of life" will soon " stand still !" All is calm

and serene with E as a summer evening's sunsa!

He is at peace with all the world, and witli his trod.
It is like entering the porch of heaven, and hstenmg
to an angel, to visit and converse with E— -. nus
morning he received the reward of his iK)ble conduct

in the matter of H 's bankruptcy The assignees

have wound up the atiairs, and found them not near
so desperate as had been apprehended. The business
was still to be carried on in H— -'s name; andjhe
solicitor, who had been sent for by E-— to leceive
the £3000 in behalf of the assignees, called this morning
with a clKHpie for £3500, and a highly ^oinp u-ntaiy
letter from the assignees. They »^'-y,^^;^^/^ ^^^^^
there was every prospect o the c^P^^^^ J^^^j^^f fj^
ging the heavy amount of his claim, and ^f^Z

he should never return. E--— -" i*;." '\ i ^, n-
eveniim, in the presence ot myselt and Ui. U
evciuiisij ^" I , .^ ^, •_„ u„,.(i wbntever s

He left about Jt4o00 to his neice, ana „ i--^

sums

*■».,••«•'

•98

might be from time to time paid in from H 's bu-
siness;" five guineas fur a yearly prize to the writer
of the best summery of the progress of phiiosoj)hy
every year, in one of the Scotch colleges; and £10
to be delivered every Christmas to ten poor men, as
long as they lived, and who had already received the

gratuity for several years ; " and to J 11 , the

lull and hearty forgiveness, antl prayers to God that
he may return to a coarse of virtue and true piety,
before it is too late." * * ^ '« How is it,"

said he, addressing Dr. D and me, " that you

have neither of you said any thing to me about exa-
mining my body after my decease?" Dr. D

repli-J, that he had often thought of asking his per-
mission, but had kept delaying from day to day.

"Why?" enquired E , with a smile of surprise,

"do you fancy I have any silly foars or prejudices on
the subject? That 1 am anxious about the shell when
the kernel is gone? 1 can assure you that it would rather
give me pleasure than otherwise, to think that by an
examination of my body, the cause of medical science
might be advanced, and so minister a little to my
species. I nmst, however, say you nay ; for 1 pro-
mised my poor wife that 1 would forbid it. She had
prejudices, and 1 have a right to respect them."

Wednesday. — lla looked nmch reduced this evening.
I had hurried to his lodgings, to communicate what 1
considered would be the gratifying intelligence, that
the highest prize of a foreign learned society had just

been awarded him, for his work on , together

with a fellowship. My heated and hurried manner
somewhat iliscomposed him ; and before I had com-
municated my news, he asked, with some agitation,
" What! — {Some new misfortune?" AVlien 1 had told
him my errand, — "Oh, bubble! bubble! bubble!"
he exclaimed, shaking his head with a melancholy
smile, " would 1 not give 10,000 of these lor a poor
man's blessing ? Are these, Ihcse. the trifles men toil
through a life for ?— Oh, if it had pleased God to give

---^-'/)

609

me a single glimpse of what I now see, thirty years
ago, how true an estimate I should have fornied of tb.e
littleness — the vanity of human appluuse ! How much
hapi)ier would my end have been ! How much nearer
should I have come to the character of a true philoso-
pher — an impartial, independent, sincere teacher of
the truth, for its own sake !" — " But honors of this

kind are of admirable service to science, Mr. E ,"

said I, "as supplying strong incentives and sthnulants
to a pursuit of philosophy."

« Yes — but does it not argue a defect in the consti-
tution of men's minds to require them ? What is the
use of stimulants in medicine, Doctor? — Don't they
presupi)ose a morbid sluggishness in the parts they
are applied to? Do you ever stimulate a healthy or-
gan ? — So is it with the little honors and distinctions
we are si)caking of. Directly a man becomes anyioiis
about obtaining them, his mind lias lost its healthy
tone — its symi)athies with truth — with real philoso-

"Would you tlien discourage striving for them?
W^ould you banish honors and prizes from the scien-
tific world?"

" Assuredly— altogether— did we but exist in a bet-
ter state of society than we do. * * What is the
proper spirit in winch, as matters at present stand, a
philosopher shoukl accept of honors ?— Merely as
evidences, testimonials, to the multitude of those who
are olhenrisc incapable of appreciating his merits, and
would set him down as a dreamer— a visionary— but
that they saw the estimation in which he was held by
those who are likely to canvass his claims strictly,
A philosopher ought to receive them, therefore, as it
were in sc/f-HeNce— a shut-mouth to babbling en-
vious gainsayers. Were all tlie world philosophers,
in the true sense of the word, not merely would ho-
nors be unnecessary, but an insult— a reproach. Ui-
i-PPtlv- a nhilosopher is conscious that the love of fame
—the ambition to secure such distinctions, is gradually

^dm-f.^-'- t>'%-^'

000

insinuating — intervveaviriKj itself vvitli tlie very texture
of his mind ; that considerations of that kind are be-
couiing ucirssiinj in antj (/('//trc to prompt liiui to
undertake or prosecute scientific pursuits, he may
write IciiAHOi) on the <h)or of iiis soul's temple — for
the glory is departed. His motives are spurious; his
fires false ! To the exact extent of the necessity for
such motives is, as it were, tlie pure ore of his soul
adultruted. Minerva's jealous eyes can detect the
sligiitest vacillation or inconsistency in her votaries,
and discover her rival even before the votary himself
is sensible of lier existence ; and withdraws from her
faithless achnirer, in cold disdain, [)eriiaps never to
return. Do you think that Arcliimedes, Plato, or Sir
Isaac Newton, would have cared a straw for even royal
honors ? The true test, believe me — the ahnost in-
fallible criterion of a man's havitig attained to true
greatness of mind, to the true phdosophic temper, is,
his utter indiflerence to all sorts of honors and distinc-
tions. Why ? — What seeks lie — or proposes to seek
— but Truth ? Is he to stop in tlie race, to look
after Atalanta's a[)ples? He should vndurc lionors,
not go out of his way to seek tliem. If one api)le
hitches in his vest, he may carry it with him, not stop
to dislodge it. Scientific distinctions are absolutely
necessary in the present state of society, hec< use it is
defective. A mere ambitious strusjri'Ie for colleure ho-
nors, through livalry, has induced many a man to
enter so far upon i)iiilosopliical stuches, as that their
charms, unfolding in })roportion to his [irogress, have
been, oj //(cntsc/rcs, at last sullicient to prevail upon
him to go onwards — to love science for herself alone.
Honors make a man open his eyes, who would else
have gone to his gra\ e witii them shut : and when
once he has seen the divinity of truth, lie laughs at
obstacles, and follows it, through evil and good report
— if his soul be properly constituted — if it have in it
any of the iioblcr sympathies of our nature. — That is
my homily on honors^'' said he, with a smile. " I have

601

not wilfully preached and practised ditferent things, I
assure you," he continued, with a modest air, " hut
through life have striven to act upon these principles.
Still, 1 never saw so clearly as at this moment how
small my success has heen — to what an extent I have
been influenced by incorrect motives — as far as an
over-valuing of the world's honors may be so consi-
dered. Now I see through no such magnifying me-
^" dium; the mists and vapours are dispersing; and I
begin to see that these objects are in themselves little,
^ven to nothingness. — The general retrospect of my

life is far from satisfactory," continued E , with a

sigh — " and fills me with real sorrow !" — *' Why ?" —
I eiKpiired with surprise. "Why, for this one reason
i — because 1 have in a measure sacrificed my relifjion

\ to philosophy ! Oh — will my Maker thus be put off

with the mere lees — the refuse — of my time and ener-
l gies? For o/i. kour in the day, that I have devoted

* to Him, have I not given twelve or fourteen to my

own pursuits ; What shall I say of this shortly—in
a few hours — perhaps moments — when I stand sud-
denly in the presence of God — when I see him face to
face !— Oh, Doctor !— my heart sinks and sickens at
the thought ! — shall 1 not be speechless as one of old ?"
I told him I thought he was unnecessarily severe
with himself— that he "wrote bitter things against
himself."

"I thought so once, nay, all my life, myself—
Doctor"— said he, solemnly—" but, mark my words
as a dying man— you will think as I do now when
you come to be in my circumstances !"

The above feebly conveyed perhaps to the reader,
may be consideied THE LAST WORDS OF A
PHILOSOPHER. They made an impression on my
mind which has never been etFaced ; and I trust never
will. The reader need not suspect him of " prosing.
The above were uttered with no pompous, swelling,
pedantic swagger of iiianner, but with the simp-es.,
most modest air, and with the most silvery tones ot
20 4H

#■*» ' *»i

002

voice I ever listened to. He often paused, from faint-
ness : and at tiie conclusion, his voice grew almost
inaudible, and he wiped the thick standing dews from
his forehead. He begged me, in ii low whisper, to
kneel down, and read him one of the church prayers
the one appointed for those in prospect of death : I
took down the prayer-book, and comi)lied, though
my emotions would not suHLm- me to speak in more
than an often interrupted whisper. He lay perfectly
silent throughout, with his clasped hands pomtmg
upwards; and when I had concluded, he responded
feebly, but fervently, " Amen— Amen ! "—and the
tears gushed down his cheeks. My heart was melted
within me. The silk cap had slipped from his head,
and his long loose silvery hair streametl over his bed
dress; his appearance was that of a dying prophet of
old ! But I find I am going on at too great length
for the reader's patience, and nmst pause. For my
own part 1 could linger over the remembrances ol these
solemn scenes for ever : but I shall hasten on to the
" last scene of all." It did not take place till near a
fortnight after the interview above narrated. His man-
ner during that time evinced no tumultuous ecstacies
of soul ; none of the boisterous extravagance of en-
thusiasm. His departure was like that of the sun,
sinking gradualK lower— lower— lower— no sudden
upflashuigs- no quivering— -no dickering unsteadiness

about his fading ravs !

Tuesday, \3th Octohcr.—UiHii E sent word that

her uncle ap oeared dying, and ha<l expressed a wish

to see both I n: D and me. 1 therefore dispatched

a note to Dr. D , requesting him to meet me at a

certain place, and then hurried through my list of calls,
so as to have finished by three o'clock. By four we
were both in the room of the dying philosoi)her. Miss

E sat by his bed side, her eyes swollen with

wpppinrr, and was in the act of kissing her uncle's

cheek when we entered. Mr. F , an exemplary

clergymen, who had been one of E 's earliest and

60»

— 's fea-
exhibited ao

clearest friends, sat at the foot of the bed, with a copy
of Jereir.y Taylor's "Holy living and dying," from
which he was reading in a low tone, at the re';iest of
K— ^ — • The ai)pearance of the latter was vei ' inte-
resting. At his own instance, he had not long jefore
been shaved, washed, and had a change of linen ; and
the bed was also but recently made, and was not at
all tumbled or disordered. The mournful tolling of
the church biill for a funeral was also heard at intervals,
and added to the solenmity of the scene. I have sel-
dom felt in such a state of excitement as I was on first
entering the room. He shook hands with each of us,
or rather we shook his hands, for he could hardly lift
them from the bed. "Well — thank you for coming
to bid me farewell !" said he, witli a smile ; adding

presently, " Will you allow Mr. F to proceed

with what he was reading?" Of course we nodded,
and sat in silence, listening. I watched E
tures ; they were much wasted — but
traces of pain. His eye, though rather sunk in the
socket, was full of the calmness and confidence of
unwavering hope, and often directed upwards with a
devout expression. A most heavenly serenity was
uIM\i.sed over his countenance. His lips occasionally
moved, as if in the utterance of prayer. When Mr.

F had closed the book, the first words uttered by

E were, " Oh ! the infinite goodness of God !"

" Do you feel that your * anchor is within the veil?"*

enquired F .

u qij j — yes — yes ! — My vessel is steadily moored —
the tide of life goes fast away — 1 am forgetting that I

ever sailed on its seas !" replied E , closing his

eyes.

" The star of faith shines clearest in the night of

expiring nature !" exclaimed F .

"lae sun— the Sun of faith, say rather," replied

E , in a tone of fervent exultation ; " it turns my

night into day — it warms my soul— it rekindles my
energies !— Sun— sun of righteousness !"— he exclaimed

mi^msM^

M»F-«|^!

1''

604

faintly. Miss kissed him repeatedly with deep

emotion. "Emma, my love!" he whispered, "hope
thou in God ! See how he will support thee in death!"
—She burst into tears.—" Will you promise me, love,
to read the little bible 1 gave you when I am gone—
especially the Nar Testament ?— do— do, love."

"I will— I ," replied Miss E , almost cho-
ked with her emoiions. She could say no more.

i' Dr. ," he addressed mc, " I feel more towards

you than I can express ; your services— services-
he grew very pale and faint. I rose and poured out
a glass of wine, and put it to his lips. He draak a
few teaspoonfuls, and it revived him.

"Well!" he exclaimed, in a stronger voice than I
had before heard him speak. "I thank God I leave
in perfect peace with all mankind ! There is but one
thing that grieves me— the general neglect of religion
among men of science." Dr. D said it must af-
ford him great consolation to reflect on the steadfast
regard for religion which he himself had always evin-
ced. "No, no — I have gone nearly as far a«tiay as
any of them ; but God's rod has brought me back
again. I thank God devoutly, that he ever afflicted
me as I have been afllicted througii life— he knows I
do !" * * * Some one mentioned the prevalence
of Materialism. He lamented it bitterly ; but assured
us that several of the most eminent men of the age-
naming them— believed firmly in the immateriality
and immortality of the human soul.

''Do you feel firmly ctmvinced of it— on natural
and philosophical grounds?" encpiired Dr. D .

" 1 do ; and have, ever since 1 instituted an enquiry
on the subject. / think the clij/icultj/ is to believe the
reverse — vvhen it is owned on all hands, that nothing
in Nature's changes suggests the idea of annihiliitioii.
I own that doubts have very often crossed my mind
on the subject— but could never see the reason of

them!"

«R.it i/oj/»- ponfidpnce does not rest on the barren

605

deep
' hope
sath!"
, love,
one —

it cho-

> wards

;d out
•ank a

than I
; leave
»ut one
eligion
ast af-
eadfast
; evin-
tiay as
e back
fflicted
lows I
valence
assured
age—
eriality

natural

•

enquiry
ieve the
nothing
lilatioii.
ly mind
ason of

barren

grounds of reason," said I ; " you believe Him who
brought ' life and immortality' into ihe world."

" Yes — ' Thanks be to God, who giveth us the vic-
tory through our Lord Jesus Christ!'"

" Do you never feel a pang of regret at leaving life ?"
I enquired. "No, no, no !" he replied with emphasis;
"life and I are grown unfit for each other! My
sympathies — my hopes — my joys, are too large for it!
Why should I, just got into the heaven, think of riskng

shipwreck again ?"

* * *******

He lay still for nearly twenty minutes without speak-
ing. His breathing was evidently accomplished with
great difficulty ; and when his eyes occasionaly fixed
on any of us, we perceived that their expression was
altered. He did not seem to see what he looked at.

I noticed his fingers also slowly twitching or scratch-
ing the bed clothes. Still the expression of his features
was calm and tranquil as ever. He was murmuring

something in Miss E 's ear ; and she whispered to

us that he said " Don't go — 1 shall want you at six"
Within about a quarter of six o'clock, he enquired

where Enmia was, and Dr. D , and Mr. F ,

and myself. We severally answered, that we sat
around him.

''- 1 have not seen you for the last twenty minutes.
Shake hands with me!" We did. "Emma, my
sweet love ! put your arm round my neck — I am cold,
cold." Her tears fell fast on his face. "Don't cry,
love — don't— I am quite happy !— God— God bless

you, love!"

His lower jaw began to droop a little.

Mr. F , moved almost to tears, rose from his

chair, and noiselessly kneeled down beside him.

"Have faith in our Lord Jesus Chrisc!" he exclai-
med, looking steadfastly into his face.

" I DO !" he answered distinctly, while a faint smile
stole over his drooping features.

"Let us pray!" whispered Mr. j and we all

606

knelt down in silence. I was never so overpowered
in my life. I thought I should have been choked with
suppressing my emotions. "O Lord, our heavenly
Father !" commenced Mr. F , in a low tone, " re-
ceive thou the spirit of this pur dying brother ."

E slowly elevated his left hand, and kept it point-
ing upwards for a few moments, when it suddenly
dropped, and a long deep respiration announced that
this great and good man had breathed his last !

No one in the room spoke or stirred for several
minutes ; and I almost thought I could liear the beating
of our hearts. He died within a few moments of six
o'clock. Yes— there lay the sad effigy of our deceased
" guide, philosoplier, and friend ;" — and yet, why call
it sad ? I could detect no trace of sadness in his fea-
tures — he had left in peace and joy ; he had lived well,
and died as he had lived. I can now api)reciate the
, force of that prayer of one of old — " Let me die the
' death of the righteous, and let my last end be like
his!"

There was some talk among his friends of erecting
a tablet to his memory in Westminster Abbey ; but it
has been dropped. We soon lose the recollection of
departed excellence, if it require any thing like active
exertion.

A REMARKABLE INCIDENT.

The following incident occurred to Miss Elizabeth
Smith, the amiable and accomplished daughter of
the late Colonel Smith, of Piercefield, on the river
Wye, during her residence at Ulleswater, in the win-
ter of 1800.

I have heard it often mentioned, and sometimes
with a slight variety of circumstances ; but J here re-
peat it from. '\n account drawn up by Miss Smith lier-
self, who was most literally exact and faithful to the

607

re-

truth in all reports of her own personal experience.
There is, on the western side of UUeswater, a fine
cataract, (or in the language of the country,) a force,
known by the name of Airey Force ; and it is of im-
portance enough, especially in rainy seasons to attract
numerous visitors from among " the Lakers." Thither,
with some purpose of sketching, not the whole scene,
but some picturestiue feature of it. Miss Smith was
gone, quite unaccompanied. The road to it lies
through Gobarrow Park ; and it was usual, at that
time, to take a guide from the family of the Duke of
Norlolk's kee})er, who lived in Lyulph's Tower, a
solitary hunting lodge, built by his Grace for the pur-
poses ot an annual viisit which he used to pay to his
estates in that part of England. She, however, think-
ing herself sulHciently familiar with the localities, had
declined to encund)er her motions with such an atten-
dant ; consequently she was alone. For half an hour
or more, she continued to ascend ; and, being a good
" cragswoman," from the experience she had won in
Wales as well as in northern England, she had reach-
ed an altitude nmch beyond what would generally be
thought corresponding to the time. The path had
vanislied altogether; but she continued to trace out
one for herself amongst the stones which iiad fallen
from the force, sometimes approaching much nearer
to the openings allowed by the broken nature of the
rock. Pressing forward in this manner, and still
never looking back, all at once she found herself in a
little stony cliamber, from which there was no egress
possible in advance. She stopped and looked up.
There was a frightful silence in the air. She felt a
sudden palpitation at her heart, and a panic from she
knew not what. Turning, however, hastily, she soon
wound herself out of tins aeriel dungeon ; but by steps
so rapid and agitated, that, at length, on looking
round, she found hersef standing at the brink o( a
chasm, frightful to look down. That way, it was
clear enough, all retreat was impossible ; but, on turn-

1 1'

■: i:i

608

ing round, retreat seemed in every direction alike even
more impossible. Down the chasm, at least, she
might have leaped, though with little or no chance of
escaping with life ; but on all other quarters it seemed
to her eye that, at no price, could she effect an exit,
since the rocks stood round her, in a semicircus, all
lofty, all perpendicular, all glazed with trickling wa-
ter, or smooth as polished porphyry. Yet how, then,
had she reached the point? The same track, if she
could hit that track, would surely secure her escape.
Round and round she walked ; gazed with almost
despairing eyes ; her breath came thicker and thicker;
for path she*^could not trace by which it was possible
for her to have entered. Finding herself grow more
and more confused, and every instant nearer to sinking
into some fainting fit or convulsion, she resolved to
sit down and turn her thoughts (piietly into some less
exciting channel. This she did ; gradually recovered
some self-possession ; and then suddenly a tliought
rose up to her, that she was in the hands of God, and
that he would not forsake her. But immediately came
a second and reproving thought — that this confidence
in God's protection might have been justified had she
been ascending the rocks upon any mission of duty ;
but what right could s/ic ha\ e to any providential de-
liverance, who liad been led thither in a spirit of levity
and carelessness? I am here giving Ac/- view of the
case ; for, as to myself, I fear greatly, that if her steps
were erring ones, it is but seldom indeed that nous
aufres can pretend to be treading upon right paths.
Once again she rose ; and, supporting herself upon a
little sketching-stool that folded u}) into a stick, she
looked upwards, in the hope that some shepher<l might,
by chance, be wandering in those aerial regions ; but
nothing could she see except the tall birches growing
at the brink of the higliest sunnnits, and the clouds
sailing overhead. Suddenly, hov/ever, as she swept
the whole circuit of her station with her alarmed eye,
she saw clearly, about 200 yards beyond her own

600

position, a lady, in a white muslir. morning robe,
such as were then universally worn by young ladies
until dinner-time. The lady beckoned with a gesture
and in a manner that, in a moment, gave her confi-
dence to advance — how she could not guess, but in
some way that baffled all power to retrace it, she found
instantaneously the outlet which previously had escap-
ed her. 8he continued to advance towards the lady,
whom now, in the same moment, she found to be
standing upon the other side of the force, and also to
be her own sister. How or why that young lady,
whom she had left at home earnestly occupied with
her own studies, should have followed and overtaken
her, filled her with perplexity. But this was no si-
tuation for putting questions ; for the guiding sister
began to descend, and, by a few simple guestures,
just serving to indicate when Miss Elizabeth was to
approach and when to leave the brink of the torrent,
she gradually led her down to a platform of rock, from
which the further descent was safe and conspicious.
There Miss Smith paused, in order to take breath,
from her panic, as well as to exchange greetings and
questions with her sister. But sister there was none.
All trace of her had vanished ; and when, in two hours
after, she reached her home, Miss Smith found her
sister in the same situation and employment in which
she had left her ; and the whole family assured her
that she had never stirred from the house.

i I

9 i:'

^ A PROVIDENTIAL DETECTION OF MURDER.

A SETTLER on the great western road, in New
South Wales, was missing from his small farm.
His convict overseer gave out that he had gone oil pri-
vately to England, and left the property in his care.
This was thought extraordinary, as the settler was
not in difficulties, and was a steady prudent mdivi-
.i„nl . the affair, however, was almost forgotten, when,
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one Saturday night, an<3ther settler was returning with
his horse and cart from market. On arriving at a part
of the fence on the road side, near the farm of his ab-
sent neighbour, he thought he saw liim sitting on the
fence; immediately the farmer pulled up his mare,
hailed his friend, and, receiving no answer, got out
of the cart and went towards the fence; his neighbour
(as he plainly a[)peared) quitted the fence, and crossed
the field towards a pond in the direction of his home,
which it was supposed he had deserted. The farmer
thought it strange, remounted his cart, and proceeded
home. The n^xt morning he went to his neighbour's
cottage, expectinj^ to see him ; but saw only the over-
seer, who laughed at the story, and said, that his
master was then near England. The .Ircumstance
was so strange, that the farmer went to the nearest
justice of the peace (I think it was to the Penrith
bench,) related the above, and stated that he thought
foul play had taken place. A native black, wiio was
(and I believe still is) attached t<> the station as a
constable, was sent with some ol" the mounted police,
and accompanied the farmer to the rails where the lat-
ter thought he saw, the evening before, his deceased
friend. The black was pointed out the spot, without
shewing him the direction which the lost jjcrson ap-
parently took after quitting the fence. On close in-
spection, a part of the upper rail was observed to be
discolored ; it was sciaped with a knife by the black,
smelt and tasted. Immediately after, he crossed the
fence, and took a straight direction for the pond near
the cottage; on its surface was a scum, which ^he
black took up in a leaf, and, after tasting and smelling,
he declared it to be ^'whitv matCs fat.'' Several times,
somewhat after the manner of a blood-hound, he
coursed round the lake ; at last darted into the neigh-
bouring thicket, and stopped over a place containing
some loose and decayed brushwood. On removing
this, he thrust down the ramrod of his piece into the
earth, smelt it, and then desired the spectators to dig

611

there. Instantly spades were brought from the cottage,
and the body of the absent settler was found, with his
skull fractured, and presenting every indication of
having been some tune immersed in water. The
overseer, who was in possession of the property of the
deceased, and who had invented the story of his de-
parture for England, was committed to gaol, and tried
for murder. The foregoing circumstantial evidence
formed the main accusations. He was found guilty,
sentenced to death, and proceeded to the scaffold,
protesting his innocence. Here, however, his hardi-
hood forsook him : he acknowledged the murder of
his late master ; that he came behind him when he
was crossing the identical rail on which the farmer
thought he saw the deceased, and, with one blow on
the head, felled him dead — dragged the body to the
pond, and threw it in ; but, after some days, took it
out again, and buried it where it was found. The
sagacity of the native black was remarkable ; but the
unaccountable manner in which the murderer was
discovered, is one of the inscruitable dispensations of
Providence.

liETRlBUTION.

A MAY-MORNING on Uls water and the banks of
Ulswater — commingled earth and heaven. Spring
is many-coloured as Autumn; but Joy, instead of
Melancholy, scatters the hues daily brightening into
greener life, instead of daily dimming into yellower
death. The fear of Winter then — but now the hope
of Summer ; and nature rings with hymns hailing the
visible advent of the perfect year. If for a moment
the woods are silent, it is but to burst forth anew into
louder song. The rain is over and gone — but the
showery sky speaks in the streams on a hundred hills ;
and the wide mountain gloom opens its heart to the
sunshine that on many a dripping precipice burns like

J\^ Mi^rr9'9^'^m.

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612

fire. Nothing seems inanimate. The very clouds and
their shadows look alive — the trees, never dead, are
wide awakened from their sleej) — families of flowers
are frequenting all the dewy places — old walls are
splendid with the light of lichens — and birch crowned
cliffs up among the coves send down their fine fra-
grance to the Lake on every bolder breath that whitens
with breaking wavelets the blue of its breezy bosom.
Nor nuite the voice of man. The she[)herd is whoop-
ing on the hill — the ploughman speaking to his team
somewhere among the furrows in some sniall late field,
won from the woods; and you hear the laughter and
the echoes of the laughter — one sound — of children
busied in half-work-half-play — lor what else in vernal
sunshine is the occnation of young rustic life? "J'is
no Arcadia — no goulen age. But a lovelier soene —
in the midst of all its grandeur — is not in merry and
majestic PJngland — nor did the hills of this earth ever
circumscribe a pleasanter dwelling for a nobler i)ea-
santrv, than those Cumbrian ranges of rocks and
pastures, where the raven croaks in his own region,
unregarded in theirs by the fleecy flocks. How beau-
tiful the Church Tower !

On a knoll not far from the shore, and not high
above the water, yet by an especial felicity of place
gently commanding all that reach of the Lake with all
its ranges of mountains — every single tree — every
grove — and all the woods seeming to shew or to con-
ceal the scene at the bidding of the Spi'it of Beauty
— reclined two Figures — the one almost rustic, but
venerable in the simplicity of old age — the other no
longer young — but still in the prime of life — and
though plainly apparelled — in form and bearing such
as are pointed out in cities, because belonging to dis-
tinguished men. The old man behaved towards hirn
witli deference but not humility ; and between them
too — in many things unlike — it was clear — even from
their silence — that there v/us Friendsh.ip.

A little way off, and sometimes almost running,

"^m

fil3

now up and now down the slopes and hollows, was a
girl auout eight years old — whether beautifid or not
you could not kn(.)W, for her face was either half-
hidden in golden hair, or when she tossed the tresses
from her brow, it was so bright in the sunshine that
you saw no features, only a gleam of joy. Now she
was chasivig the butterflies, not to hurt them, but to
get a nearer sight of their beautiful gauze wings — the
first that had come — she w(jndered whence — to waver
and wanton for a little while in the spring sunshine,
and then, she felt, as wondrously, one and all— as by
consent — to vanish. And now she stooped as if to
pull some little wild flower, her hand for a moment
witheld by a loving sense of its loveliness, but ever
and anon'ailding some new colour to the bloom inten-
ded to gladden her father's eyes— though the happy
child knew full well, and sometimes wept to know,
that she herself had his entire heart. Yet gliding or
tripping, or dancing along, she touched not with fairy
foot one white clover-flower on which she saw work-
ing the silent bee. Her father looked too often sad,
and she feared— though what it was, she imagined not
even in dreams— that some great misery must have
befallen him before they came to live in the glen.
And such, too, she had heard from a chance whisper,
was the belief of their neighbours. But momentary
the shadows on the light of childhood ! Nor was she
insensible to her own beauty, that with the nniocence
it enshrined combined to make her happy ; and tirst
met her own eyes every morning, when most beautitul,
awakening from the hushed awe of her prayers. Mie
was clad in russet, like a cottager's child ; but her air
spoke sweetly of finer breeding than may be met with
amonir those mountains— though natural grace accom-
panies there many a maiden going with her pitcher to
the well-and gentle blood and old flows there in the
veins of now humble men-who, but for the decay of
families once high, might have lived m halls, now

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614

dilapiiialed, and scarcely distinguished through masses
of ivy from the circumjuceiit rocks !

Tile cliild st(jle close heliind lier fatlier, and kissing
his clieek, said, '* Weie tliere ever such lovely flowers
seen on Ulswater before, father? I do not believe
that they will ever die." And she put thern in his
breast. Not a smile came to his countenance — no
look of love — no faint recognition — no gratitude for
the gift which at other times might haply liave drawn
a tear. She stood abashed in the sternness of his eyes,
which, though fixed on her, seemed to see her not —
and feeling that her glee was mistimed — for with such
gloom she was not unfamiliar — the child felt as if her
own happiness had been si/i, and retiring into a glade
among the broom, sat down and wept.

" Poor wretch, better far that she never had been
born!"

The old man looked on his friend with compassion,
but with no surprise ; and only said, " God will dry
up her tears."

These few simple words, uttered in a solemn voice,
but without one tone of reproach, seemed somewhat
to calm the other's trouble, who first looking towards
the spot where his child was sobbing to herself, though
he heard it not, and then looking up to heaven, eja-
culated, for her sake, a broken pruyer. He then would
have fain called her to him, in a gush of love ; but he
was ashamed that even she should see him in such a
passion of grief — and the old man went to her of his
own accord, and bade her, as from her father, again
to take her pastime among the flowers. Soon was she
dancing in her happiness as before ; and, that her fa-
ther might hear she was obeying him, singing a song.

"For five years every Sabbath have I attended di-
vine service in your chapel — yei dare I not call myself
a Christian. I have prayed for faith — nor, wretch
that I am, am I an unbeliever. But 1 fear to fling
mvself at the foot o( tlie cross. Ood bf^ merciful to
me a sinner !"

615

The old man opened not Ills lii)s; for iie felt that
there was about to be made some confession. Yet he
doubted not tliat the sufferer had been more sinned
against than sinniiifr ; for the goodness of the stranger
— so called still after five years' residence among the
mountains — was known in many a vale — and the
Pastor knew that charity covereth a multitude of sins
— and even as a moral virtue pre|)ares the heart for
heaven. So sacred a thing is solace in this vvoful
world.

" We have walked together, many Inmdred times,
for great part (jf a day, by ourselves two, over long
tracts of uninhabited moors, and yet never once from
my lips escaped one word about my fates or fortunes
— so frozen was the secret in my heart. Often have I
heard the sound of your voice, as if it were that of the
idle wind ; and often the words I did hear seemed, in
the confusioi), to have no relation to us, and to be
strange syllablings in the wilderness, as from the
hauntings of some evil spirit instigating me to self-
destruction."

" I saw that your life wa^ oppressed by some per-
petual burden ; but God darkened not your mind
while your heart was disturbed so grievously ; and
well [)leased were we all to think, that in caring so
kindly for the griefs of others, you might come at last
to forget your own, or, if that were impossible, to feel,
that with the alleviations of time, and sympathy, and
religion, yours was no more than the common lot of
sorrow."

Thev rose — and continued to walk in silence — but
not apart — up and down tliat small silvan enclosure
overlooked but by rocks. The child saw her father's
distraction— no unusual sight to lier— yet on each re-
currence as mournful and ftdl of fear as if seen for the
first time— and pretended to be playing aloof with her

face pale in tears.

" That child's mother is not dead. Where she is
now 1 know not— perhaps in a foreign country hiding

y^.

•••^«liv

! I'

her guilt and her shame. All say tjjat a luvlier chihl
was never seen than that wretch— Ood bless her—how
beautiful is the poor creature now in her happiness
singing over her tlowers ! Just such another must her
mother have been at her age — slie who is now an out-
cast — and an aduUress."

The pastor turned away his face, for in the silence
he heard groans, and the hollow voice again spoke :—

"Through many dismal days and nights have I
striven to forgive her, but never for many hours to-
gether have 1 been enable to repent my curse. For
on my knees I implored God to curse her— her head

her eyes — her breast — her body — mind, heart, and

soul— and that she might go down a loathsome leper
to the grave."

" Remember what He said to the woman,—* Go and

sin no more !' " ^

" The words have haunted me all up and down the
hills— his words and mine— but mine have always
sounded liker justice at last— for my nature was crea-
ted human — and human are all the passions that pro-
nounced that holy or uidioly curse !"

" Yet you would not curse her now — were she lying
here at your feet— or if you were standing by her
death-bed?"

*' Lying here at my feet ! Even here — on that very
spot— not blasted, but green through all the year —
within the shelter of those two rocks — she did lie at
my feet in her beauty— and as I thought her innocence

my own happy bride ! Hither 1 brought her to be

blest — and blest I was even up to the measure of my
misery. This world is hell to me now— but then it
was heaven !"

"These awful names are of the mysteries beyond

the grave."

" Hear me and judge. She was an orphan ; all her
father's and mother's relations were dead, but a few
who were very poor. 1 married her, and secured her
life against this heartless and wicked world. That

.^<ifc» ,•»•-•-

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017

child was born — and while it grew like a flower — she
left it — and its father — me wiio loved her beyond life
and light, and would have given up both for her
sake.'*

•* And have not yet found heart to forgive her —
miserable as> she needs must be — seeing she has been
a great sinner?"

" Who forgives ? The fatlier his profligate son, or
disobedient daughter 1* No; he disinherits his first-
born, and sufl'ers him to perish, perhaps by an igno-
minious death, ile leaves liis only daughter ;o drag
out her days in penury — a widow /ith orphans. The
world condemns, but is silen. ; he goes to liuirch
every Sabbath, but no preacher denounces punishment
on the unrelenting, the unforgiving parent. Yet how
easily might he have taken them both back to his
heart, and loved them better than ever ! But she
poisoned my cup of life when it seemed to overflow
with heaven. Had God dashed it from my lips, I
could have born my doom. But with her own hand
which I had clasped at the alter — and with our Lucy
at her knees — she gave me that loathsome draught of
shame and sorrow ; — I drank it to the dregs — and it in
burning all through my being — now — as if it had been
hell-fire from the hands of a fiend in the shape of an
angel. In what page of the New Testament am I told
to forgive her ? Let me see the verse — and then shall
1 know that Christianity is an imposture.

His countenance grew ghastly, — and staggering to
a stone, he sat down and eyed the skies with a vacant
stare, like a man whom dreams carry about in his
sleep. His face was like ashes — and he gasped like
one about to fall into a fit. " Bring me water,"— and
the old man motioned on the child, who, giving ear
to liim for a moment, flew away to the Lake-side with
an urn she had brought with her for flowers ; and held
it to her father's lips. His eyes saw it not;— there
was her sweet pale face all wet with teav«--almosi
touching his own— hei innocent mouth breathing that
20 4 k

yi^:^:>rf...;*#'^'«»|-^-r

t8=

018

pure balm that seems to a father's soul tn be inhaled
from the sinless spirit of love. He took her into his
bosom — and kissed her dewy eyes — and begged her
to cease her sobbing — to smile — to laugh — to sing —
to dance away into the sunshine — to he happy — and
Lucy afraid, not of her father, but of his kindness —
for the simple creature was not able to understand his
wild utterance of blessings — returned to the glade but
not to her pastime, and couching like a fawn among
the fern, kept her eyes on her father, and left her
flov>ers to fade unheeded beside her empty urn.

" Unintelligible mystery of wickedness ! That child
was just three years old the very day it was forsaken —
she abandoned' it and me on its birth-day ! Twice
had that day been observed by us — as the sweetest —
the most sacred of holidays — and now tliat it had
again come round — but I not present — for I was on
foreign service — thus did she observe it — and disap-
peared with her paramour. It so happened that we
went that -ay into action — and I committed her and
our child to the mercy of God in fervent prayers — for
love made me religious — and for their sakes 1 feared
though I shunned not death. 1 lay all night among
the wounded on the field of battle — and it was a severe
frost. Pain kept me from sleep, but I saw them as
distinctly as in a dream — the mother lying with her
child in her bosom in our own bed. Was not that
vision mockery enough to drive me mad ? After a
few weeks a letter came to me from herself — and I
kissed it and pressed it to my heart — for no black
seal was there — and I knew that our Lucy was alive.
No meaning for a while seemed to be in the words —
and then they began to blacken into ghastly characters
—till at last I gathered from the horrid revelation that
she was sunk in sin and shame, steeped in the utmost
pollution of unimaginable guilt.

" A friend was with me — and I gave it to him to
read — for in my anguish at first I felt no shame — and
J watched his face as he read it, that I might see

"^WB •-ami

619

corroboration of the incredible truth, which continued
to look like falsehood, even while it pierced my heart
with agonising pangs. < It may be a forgery,' was all
he could utter— after long agitation ; but the shape of
each letter was too familiar to my eyes— tlie way in
which the paper was folded—and I knew my doom
was sealed. Hours must have passed, for the room
grew dark— and I asked him to leave me for the night.
He kissed my forehead— for we had been as brothers.
I saw him next morning— dead— cut nearly in two-
yet — had he left a paper for me, written an hour be-
fore he fell, so filled with holiest friendship, that oh !
how, even in my agony, I wept for him, now but a
lump of cold clay and blood, and envied him at the
same time a soldier's grave!

"And has the time indeed come that I can thus
speak calmly of all that horror ! The body was brought
into my room, and it lay in its shroud— such as that
was — all day and all night close to my bed. But
kihe was I to all our life-long friendship— and almost
with indifference T looked upon the corpse. Momen-
tary starts of affection seized me — but I cared little or
nothing for the death of him, the tender and the true,
the gentle and the brave, the pious and the noble-
hearted ; for her, the cruel and the faithless, dead to
honour, to religion dead, dead to all the sanctities of
nature — for her, and for her alone, I sufl^ered all
ghastliest agonies — nor any comfort came to me in my
despair, from the conviction that she was worthless —
for (lospcratcly wicked as she had shown herself to be
— oh ! crowding came upon my heart all our hours of
happiness — all her sweet smiles — all her loving looks
— all her affectionate words — all her conjugal and
maternal tenderness — and the loss of all that bliss —
the change of it all into strange, sudden, slip'^eful,
and everlasting misery, smote me till T swooned, and
was delivered up to dreams in which the rueful reality
was mixed up with phantasms more horrible than
man's mind can sniffer out of the hell of sleep !

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'' Wretched coward that I was to outlive that night !
But my mind was weak from great loss of blood— and
the blow so stunned me that I had not strength of
resolution to die. I might have torn off the bandages
—for nobodv watched me— and my wounds were
thought mortal. But the love of life had not welled
out with all those vital streams ; and as I began to
recover, another passion took possession of me— and
I vowed that there should be atonement and revenge.
I was not obscure. My dishonour was known through
the whole army. Not a tent— not a hut— in which
my name was 'not bandied about— a Jest in the mouths
of prolligate poltroons— pronounced with pity by the
compassionate brave. I had commanded my men
with pride. No need had I ever had to be ashamed
when I looked on our colours, but no wretch led out
to execution for desertion or cowardice ever shrunk
from the sun, and from the sight of human faces ar-
rayed around him, with more shame and horror than
did I when, on my way to a transport I came sud-
denly on my own corps, marching to music as
if they were taking up a position in the line of
battle — as they had often done with me at their
head— all sternly silent before an approaching storm
of fire. What brought them there? To do me
honour! Me, smeared with infamy— and ashamed
to lift my eyes from the mire. Honour had been
the idol I worshipped— alas : too too passionately
far— and now I lay in my litter like a slave sold
to stripes— and heard— as if a legion of demons
were mocking me— loud and long huzzas; and
then a confused murmur of blessings on our noble
commander, so they called me— me, despicable m my
own esteem— scorned— insulted— forsaken — me, who
could not bind to mine the bosom that for years had
touched it— a wretch so poor in power over a woman's
heart, that no sooner had 1 left her to her own thoughts
than she felt that she had never loved me, and opemng
her fair breast to a new born bliss, sacrificed me with-

sold

021

out remorse — nor could bear to think ol' me any more
as her husband — not even for the sake of that child
whom I knew she loved — for no hypocrite was she
there — and oh ! lost creature though she was — even
now I wonder over that unaccountable desertion — and
much she must have suffered from the image of that
small bed beside which she used to sit for hours per-
fectly happy from the sight of that face which I too
so often blessed in her hearing, because it was so like
her own ! Where is my child ? Have I frightened
her away into the wood by my un fatherly looks ?
She too will come to hate me — oh ! see yonder her
face and her figure like a fairy's, gliding through
among the broom ! Sorrow has no business with her
— nor she with sorrow. Yet — even her how often
have I made weep ! All the unhappiness she has ever
known — has all come from me ; and would I but let
her alone to herself in her affectionate innocence — the
smile that always lies on her face when s' » is asleep
would remain there — only brighter — all me time her
eyes are awake ; but I dash it away by my unhallowed
harshness, and people looking on her in her trouble,
wonder to think how sad can be the countenance even
of a little child ! O God of mercy ! what if she were

to die !"

" She will not die— she will live," said the pitying
pastor—" and many happy years— my son— are yet
in store even for you — sorely as you have been tiied —
for it is not in nature that your wretchedness can
endure for ever. She is in herself all-sufficient for a
father's happiness. You prayed just now that the
God of mercy would spare her .xfe— and has he not
spared it? Tender flower as she seems, yet how full
of life ? Let not then your gratitade to Heaven be
barren in your heart— but let it produce there resigna-
tion,— if need be, contrition,— and, above all, for-
giveness." J

" Yes ! I had a hope to live for— mangled as 1 was
in body, and racked in mind— a hope that was a faith

J^y

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622

— and bitter sweet it was in imagined foretaste of
fruition — the hope and the faith of revenge. I knew
that he wonhl not aim at my life. But what was that
to me who thirsted for his blood ? Was he to escape
death because he dared not wound bone, or llesh, or
muscle of mine, seeing that the assassin had already-
stabbed my soul ? Satisfaction ! I tell you that I
was for revenge. Not that his blood could wipe out
the stain with which my name was imbrued, but let
it be mixed with the mould, and he who invaded my
marriage-bed — and hallowed was it by every generous
passion that ever breathed upon woman's breast — let
him fall down in convulsions, and vomit out his heart's
blood, at once in expiation of his guilt, and in retri-
bution dealt out to him by the hand of him whom he
had degraded in the eyes of the whole world beneath
the condition even of a felon, and delivered over in
my misery to contempt and scorn. T found him out ;
— there he was before me — in all that beauty by wo-
men so beloved — graceful as Apollo — and with an
haughty air, as if proud of an achievement that ador-
ned his name, he saluted me — her husband — on the
field, — and let the wind play with his raven tresses —
his carled love-locks — and then presented himself to
my aim in an attitude a statuary would have admired.
I shot him through the heart."

Tiie good old man heard the dreadful words with a
shudder— yet they had come to his ears not unexpec-
tedly, for the speaker's aspect had gradually been
growing black with wrath, long before he ended in an
avowal of murder. Y,oy, on ceasing his wild words
and distracted demeanour, did it seem that his heart
was touched with any remorse. His eyes retained
their savage glare — His teeth were clenched — and he
feasted on his crime.

" Nothing but a full faith in Divine Revelation," so-
lemnly said his aged friend, " can subdue the evil pas-
sions of our nature, or enable conscience itself to see
and repent of sin. Your wrongs were indeed great —

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623

but without a change wrought in ail your spirit, alas t
my son ! you cannot hope to see the kingdom of hea-
ven."

"Who dares to condemn the deed? He deserved
death— and whence was doom to come but from me
the Avenger? I took his life— but once I saved it I
bore hini from the battlements of a fort stormed in
vain— alter we had all been blown up by the sprino--
ing of a mine ; and from bayonets that had drunk mv
blood as well as his— and his widowed mother blessed
me as the saviour of her son. I told my wife to re-
ceive him as a brother— and for my sake to feel to-
wards him a sister's love. Who shall speak of tempta-
tion— or frailty— or infatuation to me? Let the fools
liold their peace. His wounds became dearer to her
abandoned heart than mine had ever been, yet had her
cheek lahi many a night on the scars that seamed this
breast— for I was not backward in battle, and our
place was in the van. I was no coward, that she who
loved heroism in him should have dishonoured her hus-
band. True, he was younger by some years than me
— and God had given him pernicious beauty —and she
was young— too— oh ! the brightest of all mortal crea-
tures the day she became my bride— nor less bright
with that baby at her bosom — a matron in girlhood's
resplendant spring!. Is youth a plea for wickedness?
And was I old ? I, who in spite of all I have suffered,
feel the vital blood yet boiling as to a furnace— but
cut off for ever by her crime from fame and glory —
and from a soldier in his proud career covered with
honour in the eyes of all my countrymen, changed in
an hour into an outlawed and nameless slave! My
name has been borne by a race of heroes — the blood
in my veins has flowed down a long line of illustrious
our ancestors—and here am 1 now — a hidden disguis-
ed hypocrite — dwelling among peasants — and afraid
— aye, afraid, because ashamed, to lift my eyes freely
from the ground even among the solitudes of the moun-
tains, lest some wandering stranger should recognise

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0-24

me, ami see the brand of ignominy her hand and his
— accursed both— burnt in upon my brow. She for-
sook this bosom — but tell me if it was in disgust with
these my scars ?"

And as he bared it, distractedly, that I'oble chest
was seen indeed disfigured with many a gash — on
which a wife might well have rested her liend with
gratitude not less devout because of a lofty pride ming-
ling with life-deep affection. But the burst *f passion
was gone by — and, covering his face with his hands,
he wept like a child.

" Oh ! cruel — cruel was her conduct to me — yet
what has mine been to her — for so many years ! I could
not tear her image from my memory — not an hour has
it ceased to haunt me — since I came among these
mountains, her ghost is for ever at my side. I have
striven to drive it away by curses, but still there is the
phantom. Sometimes beautiful as on our marriage
day — all in purest white, — adorned with flowers —
it wreathes its arms around my neck — and offers its
mouth to my kisses — and then all at once is changed
into a leering wretch, retained a likeness of my bride
— then into a corpse. And perhaps she is dead-
dead of cold and hunger — she whom I cherished in all
luxury — whose delicate frame seemed to bring round
itself all the purest air and sweetest sunshine— she
may have expired in the very mire — and her body
been huddled into some hole called a pauper's grave.
And I have suffered all this to happen her ! Or have
I suffered her to become one of the niiserable multi-
tude who support hated and hateful life by prostitu-
tion ? Black was her crime — yet hardly did she de-
serve to be one of that howling crew — she whose voice
was once so sweet, her eyes so pure — and her soul so in-
nocent — for up to the hour I parted with her weeping,
no evil thought had ever been hers — then why, ye
eternal Heavens! why fell she from that sphere
where she shone like a star? Let that mystery that
shrouds my mind in darkness be light<'ned — let me

625

see into its heart — and know but the meaning of
her guilt — and then may I be able to forgive it; but
for five years, day and night, it lias troubled and con-
founded me — and from blind and baffled wrath, with
an iniquity that remains like a pitch-black night
through which I cannot grope my way, no refuge can
I find — and nothing is left me but to tear my hair out
by handfuls — as, like a madman, 1 have done — to
curse her by name in the solitary glooms, and to call
down upon her the curse of God. O wicked — most
wicked! ^et He who judges the hearts of his crea-
tures, knows that I have a thousand and a thousand
times foigiven her, but that a chasm lay between us,
from which, the moment that I came to its brink, a
voice drove me back — 1 know not whether of a good
or evil spirit — and bade me leave her to her fate. But
she must be dead — and needs not now my tears. O
friend ! judge me not too sternly — from this my confes-
sion ; for all my wild words have imperfectly expres -
sed to you but parts of my miserable being — and if I
could lay it all before you, you would pity me per-
haps as much as condemn — for my worst passions on-
ly have now found utterance — all my better feelings
will not return nor abide for words— even I myself
liave forgotten them ; but your pitying face seems to
say, that they will be remembered at the Throne of
Mercy. I forgive her." And with these words he fell
down on his knees, and prayed too for pardon to his
own sins. The old man encouraged him not to des-
pair—it needed but a motion of his hand to bring the
child from her couch in the cover, and Lucy was fol-
ded to her father's heart. The forgiveness was felt to
be holy in that embrace.

The day had brightened up into more perfect beauty

and showers were sporting with sunshine on the

blue air of Si)ring. Tlie sky shewed something like a
rainbow— and the Lake, in some parts quite still, and
in some breezy, contained at once shadowy fragments
of wood, and rock, and waves that would have mur-
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02(5

mered round the prow of pleasure-boat suddenly hois-
ting a sail. And such a very boat appeared round
a promontory that stretched no great way into the
water, and formed with a crescent of low meadow-land
a bay that was the first to feel the wind coming down
Glencoin. The boatman was rowing heedlessly along,
when a sudden squall struck the sail, and in an instant
the skiff was upset and went down. No shrieks were
heard — and the boatman swam ashore — but a figure
was seen struggling where the sail disappeared — and
starting from his knees, he who knew not fear, plunged
into the Lake, and after desperate exertions brought
the drowned creature to the side — a female meaidy
attired — seemingly a stranger — and so attenuated that
it was plain she must have been in a dying state, and
had she not thus perished, would have had but few
days to live. The hair was grey — but the face though
withered was not old — and as she lay on the greensward
the features were beautiful as well as calm in the sun-
shine.

He stood over her awhile — as if struck motionless
— and then kneeling beside the body, kissed its lips
and eyes — and said only " It is Lucy !"

The old man was close by — and so was that child.
They too knelt — and the passion of tlie mourner held
him dumb, with his face close to the face of death —
ghastly its glare beside the sleep that knows no
waking, and is forsaken by all dreams. He open-
ed the bosom — wasted to the bone — in the idle
thought that she might yet breathe — and a paper dropt
out of his hand, which he read aloud to himself — un-
conscious that any one was near. " I am fast dying
— and desire to die at your feet. Perhaps you will
spurn me — it is right you should — but you will see
how sorrow has killed the wicked wretch who was
once your wife. I have lived in humble servitude for
five years — and have suffered great hardships. I think
I am a penitent — and have been told by religious per-
sons that I may hope for pardon from Heaven. Oh !

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627

tliat you would forgive me too ! and let me have one
look at our Lucy. I will linger about the Field of Flo-
wers — perhaps you will come there and see me lie
down and die on the very spot were we passed a sum-
mer day the week of our marriage."

" Not thus could I have kissed thy lips — Lucy —
had tliey been red with life. White are they — and
white must they have long been ! No pollution on
them — nor on that poor bosom now! Contrite tears
had long since washed out thy sin ! A feeble hand
traced these lines — and in them a humble heart said
nothing but God's truth. Child — behold your moth-
er. Art thou afraid to touch the dead ?"

" No — father — I am not afraid to kiss her lips — as
you did now. Sometimes, when you thought me as-
leep, I have heaid you praying for my mother."
" Oh ! child ! cease — cease — or my heart will burst."
People began to gather about the body — but awe
kept them aloof; and as for removing it to a house,
none who saw it but knew such care would have been
vain, for doubt there could be none there lay death.
So the groups remained for a while at a distance — even
the old pastor went a good many paces apart ; and
under the shadow of that tree the father and child
composed her limbs and closed her eyes, and continu-
ed to sit as if they had been watching over one asleep.
That death was seen by all to be a strange calamity
to him who had lived long among them — had adopted
many of their customs — and was even as one of them-
selves — so it seemed — in the familiar intercourse of
man with man. Some dim notion that this was the
dead body of his wife was entertained by many, they
knew not why ; and their clergyman felt that there
needed to be neither concealment nor avowal of the
truth. So in solemn sympathy they approached the
body and its watchers ; a bier had been prepared ; and
walking at the head, as if it had been a funeral, the Fa-
ther of little Lucy, holding her hand, silently directed
the procession tovvards his own house — out of the
Field of Flowers.

AaO^.

J. NICHOLSON, (iUOVE STUKET, IIALIKAX.

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