unhappy on account of her sinful and miserable condition, that she could not refrain from much weeping. The thought of entering eternity without a change of heart filled her with alarm. Every looming cloud had a voice which spoke of the judgment to come; every unpropitious event awakened painful forebodings. Her fears, which were the genuine fruits of divine influence, were further aggravated by the popular excitement of the times. France was threatening war with England, and the prevailing apprehensions of the multitude communicated themselves with double force to the heart of the sorrowing child. "What," thought she, "if they should come now, and I should be killed in my sins." Indeed her trouble increased to such a degree that her aunt was grieved, imagining that her mother would think she had been unkindly treated. She therefore resolved to take her home. On the way a number of circumstances occurred which to Mary's childish imagination were pregnant with evil, and prognosticated nothing less than the day of general doom. The city was in a state of unusual commotion, a report had gained ground that the invader was at hand, some foolish person had caused the massive portcullis of the city gate to be let down, several recruiting parties were parading the streets, two of these she met, and the shrill blasts of a few mounted trumpeters, together with a dense and portentous cloud, which just at the moment spread itself upon the horizon, completed her dismay. She reached home in tears. Her mother, whose solicitude was awakened, inquired the cause. She replied, "Mother, I can't tell you, but nothing in this world will make me happy." Suspecting the real state of her feelings, her mother conversed kindly with her, and administered suitable consolation, but in vain. After committing herself to God in earnest prayer, she retired to rest with the conviction, that she was the greatest sinner in the world; but the next morning, which was the holy Sabbath, broke upon her with healing in its wings. She awoke with the words in her mind,

"What a blessing to know that my Jesus is mine."

Her soul was immediately filled with a calm sweet joy, which she was unable to describe. She arose from her bed, and went to the house of God, her heart still glowing with these newly awakened emotions; and while on her way thought within herself, "O that I had a voice that would reach to all the world, I would tell them how happy I am." This occurred on the 12th of February, 1795. But the transport of her feelings, after enduring for a season, at length subsided; yet not without leaving a permanent though perhaps not easily defined impression. It may be asked was this conversion? was it genuine? and in a child so young? We answer it would be very difficult to prove that it was not. One thing is certain, that from this time there was a settled purpose to serve the Lord, which spite of fluctuating feeling and periods of wintry coldness was steadily kept in view; ever and anon gathering strength until it ripened into maturity. The sapling, because it bends to the breeze is not therefore destitute of life; unless it be torn up by the roots, or scorched and withered by the noon-day sun, or absolutely frozen by the winter's cold, it will gradually wax and grow until its massive trunk is able to bid defiance to the storm. Conversing on this subject with one of her children at a late period in life, when her judgment was matured, and her views of divine truth rendered more clear by her approximation to a better world, she said, "I lost my peace because I grieved the Lord by a trifling disposition, but the Lord did not leave me;" then, employing the language of the lamented David Stoner, she added, "I have been converted a hundred times." To another of her children, after using similar language she said with peculiar, emphasis, "I have been aiming to please God all my life, I can say that." Her conviction was that the work was real, but that at the time, she did not understand the nature of it; and hence from causes clearly ascertainable, it was as in many similar cases, soon overshadowed by circumstances of doubt. The truth is, children are just as capable of experiencing the grace of God as persons of riper years; but they are not capable of defining their feelings, or of understanding the great doctrines of salvation,—and for this very reason, they are more liable to be subjected to fluctuations both of feeling and purpose. It would be well if some older people, who do not take the pains to obtain a clear and intelligent view of the religion they profess, were not equally unstable and from the same cause; if there was no occasion for the apostolic admonition, "Be not children in understanding; howbeit in malice be ye children, but in understanding be men." The feelings of children, when employed about the great subjects of religion and eternity, are not lightly to be discouraged, even when mixed up with much that a maturer judgment must condemn; they should be fostered with solicitous care. The tender plant requires gentle culture; touch it not too rudely lest you check its development; watch it carefully; support its weak and fragile stem; tenderly remove what is injurious; and give it plenty of scope, that it may put forth its young fresh leaves; and it will bloom by and by with all the richer fragrance and beauty. "Forbid them not," cries the Saviour. Let them come with their first fruits, and lay the offering of their childhood unsullied by unholy communion with the world at the Master's feet. Let them come with their cherry lips, and sparkling eyes, and loving hearts. Let them come before age has curdled their blood, and the pleasures of life have blunted the keenness of their susceptibilities. Let them come, let them come. The Saviour welcomes their approach. The fragrance of the sacrifice they bring is precious in his sight, and while he folds the little ones in his arms, he lifts his eyes to heaven, and "rejoicing in spirit, says, I thank thee O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes, even so Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight."

Providentially Mary Burdsall was under judicious direction, and retained her religious purpose although she lost the sweetness of her enjoyment. Her experience assumed that unsettled phase which often characterises the earlier stages of youthful piety. Now miserable from a consciousness of having grieved the Spirit of God, and again hopeful, confident, and happy. Sometimes she was driven even to despair, and admitted the thought that the day of grace was past for ever. One day while in this state of feeling she overheard her father conversing with a friend on the awful case of Francis Spira,[Footnote: "Francis Spira an advocate of Padua, Ann. 1545, that being desperate, by no counsell of learned men could be comforted; he felt, as he said, the pains of hell in his soule, in all other things he discoursed aright; but in this most mad. Frismelica, Bullovat, and some other excellent physicians, could neither make him eat, drink or sleep; no persuasion could ease him. Never pleaded any man so well for himself, as this man did against himself; and so he desperately died. Springer, a lawyer, hath written his life."—Burton's Anatomy of Melancholie.] her mind was filled with great horror, and she was constrained to seek refuge in prayer. While she was pleading with God the words were applied, "Turn ye at my reproof," and the snare was broken. During this period of mental conflict she steadfastly maintained her connexion with the church; and thus escaped that total loss of spiritual feeling, into which many, in similar circumstances, plunge themselves by withdrawing from the circle of religious influence. Her exceeding volatility of temper, which was the cause of her instability, often occasioned her bitter reflections; and as it was a source of trouble to herself, excited the anxiety of her mother, who frequently said to her, "There's a