of every impression before we allow it entrance into our mind, for after it has once lodged there it will combine with all that follows and all which precedes it, and if itself false will produce a false result, which we shall never, perhaps, be able completely to disentangle.

We are told that the temple at Jerusalem, besides being a type of our Lord Himself, was also a type of the Church, and consequently of each individual heart which is the smallest form of a church. How wisely was it appointed that an efficient company of porters and doorkeepers should guard every gate of access into the temple, that they should rigorously examine every commodity of every sort that was brought in, and that nothing should be allowed to enter to which was not affixed the temple-mark; for as all admitted into that temple was dedicated to the service of God, so should all be perfect and without flaw or blemish. If we indeed have the privilege to be numbered among the smaller forms of the Divine temple, to us is the exhortation: "See that ye defile not the temple of God."

I have now concluded the account of my earliest childhood; and as I have recalled it, how deeply have I felt the goodness of God to me during its course, and the evidence of His wisdom in those whom He placed near me, as the channels of His mercy! How can I ever be sufficiently thankful for the

noble example of my dear mother, for the kindly beneficent influence of my grandfather, and Lizzie Forster, and for the early testimony afforded me of the reality of religion by the unfeigned holiness of my Aunt Polly! Long as it is since they departed from this earth to the rest I am so nearly approaching, new applications of the great truths I heard from them still continually arise, and I often feel as if I were yet but beginning to know how deeply I am indebted to them.

PART II.

1787-1788.

"His thoughts were of the past, the early past, the bye-gone days of youth, For the sunshiny morning of life came to him in vivid light."-Tupper.

'L'esprit humain est un vrai miroir, qui prend aisément toutes les couleurs qui se presentent à lui." St. Francis de Sales.

AND now I come to the sorrowful time of my mother's illness. Christmas Day of the year 1787 dawned; an eventful day to me - one which in its consequences has coloured the whole of my life, and in its impressions must be remembered while life lasts.

Whilst I was dressing on that day, it was announced to me that my mother's illness had suddenly assumed an alarming character, and that my father had taken her to consult a doctor, a long way off; that the carriage had just driven from the door, but that she had written a letter to me which was to be delivered into my own hands. No time can ever

erase and no words can ever describe the suffering of that moment; I felt as one transfixed to the spot. When I at length was able to open the letter, I recognised at once her kindness; - the folding the sealing and the writing all exhibiting the admirable order and beauty which uniformly characterised everything she did. The purport of the letter was to say, that she had been suddenly taken very ill, and that she bade me farewell as expecting to see me no more. She then exhorted me to be an obedient and a dutiful child, and to do all that she had herself taught me, and to remember that none could love me so well as she did, nor, consequently, be so interested in my welfare. More I do not remember. I recollect nothing clearly but the deep sense of anguish with which I was overwhelmed. I remember going to the window, which was covered with that crystallisation of hoar frost which but a few moments before appeared so beautiful to me; the whole ground was one white sheet of snow, with which the ice of the lake was likewise covered; deeply furrowed below the windows, and far extending along the windings of the road were the marks of the carriage wheels which had just departed, -the only trace left me of my mother!

How cruel I felt the wrench of being called to my lessons, which my distress made it impossible for me to learn! The wind gradually rose, and my heart sank

within me, for I thought the marks of the carriage wheels would soon be no longer visible. How did I count the moments till I could once more go to the window! The snow began again to fall, and when about noon the sun broke out, it was upon a landscape in which the trees were beautifully fledged with frost and snow; the cascade seen from the windows was adorned with long and clear icicles, and the whole expanse of the lawn and valley was a sheet of unsullied snow. Of the time which immediately followed, I have no distinct recollection, but that it seemed a chaos of misery, and an eternal now of despair; for as a child I lived intensely in the present as though it would never end.

Amongst the family left at home were Miss P— and the French governess. Miss P-, of whom I shall have occasion to speak hereafter, was the daughter of a gardener at Enfield. She had been a protégée of my great-aunt Priscilla, who took the complete charge of her. At my aunt's death, which happened, I believe, before I was two years old, the charge of Miss P-devolved on my dear mother, who intended at that time to place her out in some occupation: to this end she was apprenticed to Nelly and Hannah Marshall, two celebrated Friends' milliners, in Lombard Street. There she remained several years. Her character was remarkable for its