her, almost from childhood, to take a large share of the domestic management of the family; and as she grew older, her father derived such advantage from her sound sense and exactness in all matters of business, that he always called her his head-steward.

This dear girl was the first young person to whose spiritual concerns I felt called to devote myself. I kept up a regular correspondence with her; and recommended to her such books as I thought suitable. She laboured under the disadvantage of not having either Christian friends, or a spiritual minister in her own neighbourhood; and although she diligently read the books I gave her, and received all my instructions with gratitude and humility, yet for some years I could perceive little progress towards a spiritual apprehension of divine truth. At length a ray of light appeared visible; she spoke with feeling of the evils of her own heart; of the difficulty of doing that which she knew to be right, and of loving those things which reason told her are most worthy of love. These favourable symptoms continued and increased. Previous to my visit at Christmas, 18-, she wrote me as follows: 'I look forward to your approaching visit with feelings I never experienced before; I always felt grateful for your kindness, but now I trust I shall be able to enjoy Christian communion with you. When you made me read your favourite old authors, I often thought them very tiresome, and was not unfrequently disgusted with many of their expressions; but now I think I know what they mean, where they speak of our blessed Saviour, as being "the chief among ten thousand, and altogether lovely.”

This was indeed a delightful visit. Louisa was in

the spring-time of a religious course: each day seeming to increase the beauty, the freshness, and the verdure of the same; when the renewing influences of the Spirit, like dew upon the tender herb, invigorated life, and shed fragrance around. Although her sisters were both at home, yet I was her chosen companion; we read, we worked, we walked together; and I felt that I gained more than I was able to impart.

The neighbourhood around Mr. Montague's residence was very populous: there were noble families, and old families, and new families, with all of whom the old gentleman kept up acquaintance, more or less intimately. Many of the younger members of those families visited them at the period I speak of, on account of Letitia and Emma having just left school, and taken up thefr permanent abode at home. In the country there is usually one prevailing local topic, which, for a time, engrosses much of the conversation. Mr. Montague's nearest neighbour was one of the largest proprietors in the country; but though their estates joined, they had never lived on intimate terms; as Mr. Romilly called himself a whig, and others called him a radical. Party politics, however, did not run so high as to prevent occasional intercourse between those of opposite sentiments: and as Mr. Romilly's mansion was one of the most splendid, and his establishment one of the largest in the vicinity, himself and his doings afforded a good deal of drawing-room chit-chat at all times. He had two children, who both died in infancy; and I had, on many previous visits, been shocked at the coolness with which poor Mrs. Romilly's demise used to be spoken of, as a consummation devoutly to be wish

ed,' in order that she might make way for a young wife and a young family. Many years, however, Mrs. Romilly persisted in living; even until she and her husband were both verging towards three-score and ten. At length she died, and the neighbours were very anxious to know whether Mr. Romilly would think of taking another wife. The general opinion was that he ought to do so; for, shocking to relate, the next heir to the estate of Elmwood and all its appurtenances was a certain John Stubbs, a hosier, in Cheapside, the son of Mr. Romilly's eldest sister; who, some fifty years before, had eloped with her father's butler. What were Mr. Romilly's thoughts on the subject, never was known; as in little more than a year after his aged partner's death, he followed her to the tomb; and John Stubbs was thus left undisputed possessor of Elmwood. At the time his uncle died, he was very ill; and his medical attendants thought that to exchange the mild climate of Cheapside, for the keen and bracing air of the country, might be attended with inconveniences-to themselves at least. He therefore continued in his own first floor, till the day of his death, which happened a few months after Mr. Romilly's, and about six weeks prior to my arrival at Mr. Montague's.

Public attention was now turned to his son, John Edward Stubbs, now esquire of Elmwood. He seemed the general topic of conversation; and yet, as no one knew any thing about him, it was wonderful how they contrived to get on with such an unknown subject. They discussed how far it was expedient to visit a man whose father was a hosier, and who, perhaps (horrid thought) had himself stood behind the counter, and untied parcels of stockings;

while some of the younger ladies carried their speculations farther, and considered whether it were possible for any one to accept the splendours of Elmwood Hall, at the expense of being called Mrs. Stubbs. It was currently reported that he was coming to the hall at Christmas; then he was not coming; then again, he was coming before the end of the holidays. While these interesting discussions were carried on, dear Louisa often looked at me with a smile of impatience, not unmingled with contempt: 0 that tiresome John Stubbs,' she used to exclaim, 'he precludes all attempts at rational conversation.'

He did not visit Elmwood during the Christmas holidays; and after I left the Montagues, I forgot his existence, until I was reminded of it on my return to them the following summer.

MARTHA MARKWELL.

THE BESETTING SIN.

THE whole instruction of the Gospel is applied particularly to pride; this was Adam's sin, and accordingly the chief ingredieht of that nature which he has transmitted to his posterity. That the bent of our nature is so peculiarly inclined to it, is fully proved by its prevalence above all other vices, "the sin that does so easily beset us;" Satan tempts us more to this than any other, not only from being sensible of its great heinousness and destructive tendency, but having greater hopes of success where the bias is so strong.

Pride is the most deceitful of all vices, for they generally have the most of it, who imagine they have the least; it lays us open to all other sins, and strikes at the very root of holiness, which is a humble dependance on our Saviour; it veils itself under a variety of unsuspected appearances, assumes such plausible titles as magnanimity, heroic spirit, independence, greatness of mind, honour, &c. and even humility; for often, from its deceitfulness, the professions of humility arise from the essence of spiritual pride; it conceals itself from our reflecting inquiries and observations, will hide from us other faults as well as itself, and will insinuate itself into genuine humility; more than all the other works of darkness it can least endure light, it is nourished by indistinct and