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PREFATORY NOTE.

In order to gratify my beloved mother's dying desire, that the thousands who were living, as she had done, in forgetfulness of God, might hear her testimony concerning the vanity of the world, the deceitfulness of sin, and the sufficiency of the "truth as it is in Jesus" to support the soul in affliction and death, I have undertaken this little work.

Finding myself fast nearing an eternal world, amidst other joyous anticipations I pictured to my mind the gladness of a re-union with my beloved mother. One reproachful reflection, however, instantly checked my joy, viz. :-What if she should inquire-"Why not a Memorial of me ?that some poor wanderer might have learned to love the world less, and Jesus more!" It was enough-my decision was arrived at: my fastfailing energies also arousing me, with a voice

which said, "What thou doest, do quickly!" And thus, amid the pain and languor attendant upon pulmonary consumption, many hours of the long winter have been wiled away by the resurrection of the panoramic scenery of the past, which otherwise had found no earthly record. That the blessing of my mother's God may accompany these unpretending pages, to the winning of some poor wanderer from his downward way to light and life in Jesus, is the writer's earnest prayer.

"And now, farewell! Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done;
By contemplation's help-not sought in vain-
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine."

March, 1850.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

CHAPTER I.

LONG AGO!

Long ago!-oh! long ago!
Do not those words recal past years;
And scarcely knowing why they flow,
Force to the eyes unbidden tears?
Do ye not feel, as back they come,
Those dim sweet dreams of olden days,
A yearning to your childhood's home,
With gladdening tones of love and praise-

Long, long ago?"

THERE is an object in my bed-room which has an indescribable power over me. My eye never rests upon it for a moment but my whole soul thrills beneath its talismanic influence; and yet, this magic power is all contained within the narrow, plain, black frame of an old sampler, which is suspended over the mantelpiece, from year to year unchanged; excepting where those indefatigable enemies to old relics, the moths, have found an inlet, and are rapidly proceeding in their despoiling operations. They have eaten numerous long winding paths through the delicate tracery of silken flowers, with which it is bordered; here and there devouring an opening rose-bud, or an expanded blossom of Forget-me-not;" and bidding fair even to untie

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the very "True-love-knots," with which it appears to be fastened at the four corners. Within the border are a few rows of bold marking letters, a

B

bunch of roses and blue-bells, tied with a knot of blue ribbon, and a verse as follows,

"Tell me, ye knowing and discerning few,
Where I may find a friend both firm and true;
Who dares stand by me when in deep distress,
And then their love and friendship most express?"

As my mother remarked, it ought to have been "his love;" only that her governess, who was a very prudish, elderly lady, thought it a less evil to violate a rule in grammar, than to suffer the intrusion of the masculine gender into any tense-past, present, or future.

However, at the foot of the sampler, is the endeared name and date, "July 21, 1800." My mother! it was her birth-day; and when her youthful fingers traced this lovely page, she was just thirteen years old. Many, very many precious hours had been occupied in the completion of this specimen of needlework; for very clever that little girl was then considered, who could mark her linen with her hair. Oh! had a tithe of the precious time, consumed in learning this art, been occupied by mothers in teaching their daughters the precious truth, that in the God of love they have a friend, who with inexpressible regard has numbered their blood-bought hairs, they had not needed to inquire,

"Where (they might) find a friend both firm and true ?"

I shall, however, proceed to notice some few of the throng of busy recollections, which a single glance at the sampler awakens. It is as if a magic spring were touched within the mind, causing some secret door to fly open, and give way before a crushing crowd of actors and scenes and circumstances, which at once rush in upon the stage of present contemplation. I shall not take them as they come, tripping up each other's heels-some assuming the

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