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"True, my Caroline, I admire your remark. This is the seed time-the present moment; and it should be remembered, that 'what a man soweth that shall he also reap. He that soweth to the flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting.' In regard to the soul and eternity what activity and carefulness are necessary in sowing well, that we, through Divine grace, may reap abundantly."

"And every encouragement is given to us, 'Then shall we know if we follow on to know the Lord.' Every day should be devoted to sowing something useful, for the hand of the diligent shall bear rule."

"There is something consoling in the appearance of this delightful season to the children of adversity, They may be admonished by the scene that the winter of their sorrows will pass away, and the spring of joy return."

"Yes! brother, and a lesson is presented to the young to devote themselves to the Lord. All indeed should be excited to activity, all should abound in the work of the Lord."


R. C.

A Dialogue between Eliza B., Mrs. C., and Mrs. D. Mrs. C. I am very glad to see you, my dear Miss B., again; pray how long have you been arrived?

Eliza. I came only just before dinner, and I have done nothing but ask questions ever since my arrival, so many changes have taken place in the town since I was here last.

Mrs. C. Pray how long may it be since you were in this part of the world?

Eliza. At least five years, for I was then only eleven years old, and I think my visit here was the pleasantest I ever made.

Mrs. C. I hope you will find the place quite as agreeable as it was then-and you are now of an age to enjoy a town more than you did at that period, for children are in general happiest running about the fields in the country.

Eliza (smiling.) I am quite a child then still, for I like the country better than the town.

Mrs. C. Oh, you will alter your mind: do you live in the country?

Eliza. Oh yes! and I have hardly ever visited any town except this.

Mrs. C. Did you not go to school in town?

Eliza. Dear mamma taught us herself as long as she was able, and since her death we have had a governess.

Mrs. C. You have done with the governess now I supposebut pray do you find many changes in this place since you were here? Eliza. I have not had time to ask after every body, but I am very glad to find that Miss Amelia F. is still living here-I am quite impatient to see her.

Mrs. C. She is not at this moment in the town; she is gone out for change of air with her mother, who has been very unwell; you must talk to her great friend, Mrs. H., if you want to hear about her.


Mrs. D. And I expect Mrs. H. to tea this evening, and she will be very happy to answer all your questions about your old friend.

Mrs. C. How came she to take your fancy so much—she is several years older than you are, and so very grave.

Eliza. She is about four years older than I am, but she was so kind that she was always ready to play with me, and I always thought the evenings I spent at her mamma's house the pleasantest of all my visits.

Mrs. C. Pray what did you find so captivating in them?

Eliza. In the first place the family were all so good tempered. I never saw so many brothers and sisters more united; there was nothing selfish or disobliging in their behaviour to each other; and they were so obedient to their parents, and their parents were always studying to make them happy.

Mrs. C. Dear! I am surprised to hear you say so. I am told that Mrs. F. is remarkably strict—but you were a child then, and hardly capable of judging; and pray what else do you remember of the family?

Eliza. Oh, I remember Mr. H's large garden, and a grass plot scattered with flower borders, full of sweet peas and mignionette, and a mound with an arbour upon it.

Mrs. C. It was very natural that you should like the large garden. As you had been used to the country, you were glad, I dare say, to be able to run about.

Eliza. I remember perfectly the last evening I spent with Amelia, she took me into her arbour and gave me a little book, called "Familiar Dialogues," and she said to me, "when you go home I hope you will try to have such a holy friendship with your sisters, as the little girls you will read of in this book had one with another. And then she talked to me respecting some things she had seen wrong in my behaviour, and she did it in so sweet a way, that I can never forget it.

Mrs. C. Upon my word, that was taking upon her in an extraordinary way, just as if you had no mamma to reprove you.

Eliza. All she said, was in the gentlest manner, and so very humbly; I repeated every thing that had passed to my dear mamma, and she was very much pleased, and bid me remember her advice.

Mrs. C. I always took Miss Amelia F for a very conceited censorious girl, setting herself up above her neighbours, and thinking nobody good enough for her.

Eliza. Dear! I am very sorry to hear you say so. She must be very much altered indeed since I last saw her: she seemed then so gentle and humble in her behaviour.

Mrs. C. Oh! I do not mean that there is anything offensive in her manners; she is pleasant and obliging enough as far as that goes, and good-natured too in speaking of neighbours. She is certainly a pleasant spoken girl; but I am quite sure, that where there is so much singularity as there is in her, there must be pride and conceit.

Eliza. I beg your pardon, madam, I do not quite understand you. Mrs. C. Perhaps not; you are young, my dear, and do not understand the world; I must explain myself a little. Your friend, Miss Amelia F. does not do as

other people do: she

does not come out into the world; her ways of acting are peculiar, very peculiar; we consider our society as particularly genteel in this town, but it seems that she holds us very cheap.

Eliza. How so, madam?

Mrs. C. She will not join our amusements, she enters into nothing fashionable, and her dress is proverbially quite plain; for some time, indeed, I laid the blame of all this upon the parents, but now Miss Amelia is turned twenty, as I am positively informed she is, it must be her own taste and inclination to be so strict.

Eliza. Does she never visit her friends?

Mrs. C. Oh! I suppose her own friends and relations, and people of her own sentiments, but the rest of us, I suppose, are not good enough for her, or else she is of that gloomy temper, that she can take no pleasure in a little innocent amusement; but for my part, I think it quite proper and necessary, that young people should mix in the world a little, and do as their neighbours do. Pray when are they to have a little pleasure, if not when they are young?

Eliza. But perhaps they may never live to be old.

Mrs. C. My dear Miss Eliza, how dismally you talk. I hope with all your advantages, you are not so enthusiastic as to think in this way. Every body ought to have a proper sense of their duty; but I am sure that it is really quite wrong for a fine young lady, like Miss Amelia F. to shut herself up, and keep out of company, jus as if she was going to die to-morrow. I do hope you will never think of doing as she does. I knew your grandmother and great uncle very intimately, and I cannot help having a great regard for you, and wishing you better than to be like Miss Amelia F.

Eliza. I thank you, ma'am.

[Eliza sits silent and thoughtful-presently Mrs. C. turns to Mrs. D. and says, I thought you expected Mrs. H. this evening. Mrs. D. Yes, I did, and wonder why she is so late.

Mrs. C. then tells Mrs. D. the news of the town till there is a knock at the door, and Mrs. H. is shewn into the room. Eliza is introduced to her, and then they all sit down.

Mrs. D. You are late Mrs. H.-we were afraid you would not

⚫ come.

Mrs. H. Indeed I could not have gone to any place where I felt under restraint, for I have been greatly agitated this evening. Mrs. D. Agitated! what with; nothing is the matter at home I hope.

Mrs. H. No, not in my own house I am thankful to say, but I have sustained a great and sudden loss, indeed we all have, the whole town has.

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Mrs. H. You heard that Amelia F. was gone into the country with her mother.

Mrs. D. Yes; but what of that?

Mrs. H.


I hardly know how to begin my story, but she is

Mrs. D. Dead; you mean the mother?

Mrs. H. No, I mean Amelia herself.

Eliza and Mrs. C. looked up earnestly at Mrs. H. without speaking.

Mrs. D. How! Amelia! what was the matter?

Mrs. C. Her seizure was most alarming and rapid, and attended with extraordinary suffering; she was not ill twenty-four hours; the exact nature of the complaint is not yet ascertained.

Mrs. D. How awfully sudden; what were the particulars? Mrs. H. I know but little of them. I have just received a few hurried lines from her brother, which I will read to you.

Mrs. H. takes out her letter and reads it.

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My dear Madam,—You requested our dear Amelia to send you some account of my mother's health; what will be your grief and surprise when I tell you of the awful news, that my beloved sister has herself laid down the veil of flesh. On Sunday evening Amelia and myself sat up somewhat later than the rest of the family, discoursing upon the wisdom and necessity of preparation for sudden death-a necessity now become doubly momentous, by the state of national health. Her conversation expressed a most lively hope full of immortality, founded entirely on a Saviour's merits; for never surely had any human being a heart so full of humility in judging of herself, and so full of faith in the all-sufficient atonement of Christ. I remember thinking, as the moon-beams played on her countenance, that she looked like one almost on the threshold of heaven. She parted from me apparently in perfect health, but before twenty-four hours had elapsed she was a corpse. Her seizure was too violent to allow much season for the manifestation of what passed in her own mind; but as far as she could, she gave evidence of faith in Christ, and resignation, as long as her faculties were spared to her. We are all wonderfully supported under this awful visitation. Our dear Amelia always lived with eternity in view, and we have no doubt, but that she is now with that Saviour, in whose death she trusted, and whose life she copied, as her one grand business, during her short and beautiful course upon earth.

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