of my mother, on visiting the metropolis, I found out poor Charlotte. She was living in a most respectable family, and was no longer a persecutor, but, like Paul, had "joined herself to the disciples." She reminded me how I used to find her out when alone, to speak to her concerning her soul; and related to me many circumstances respecting my early days, one of which, as it is calculated to encourage young believers, I shall give. She said that she had been in the habit, when out of my mother's hearing, of taking the Lord's name in vain; and that on one of these occasions I reproved her in these words, "Set a bridle on your lips, Charlotte, that you sin not with your tongue.' On her becoming angry at the reproof, it appears that I went up stairs. She said, she was wounded to the soul, although having given expression to a very opposite sentiment; and that, in a few minutes, in the anger of her heart, she crept softly up stairs to see if she could discover me in any mischief; when, peeping through the key-hole of my bedroom door, she saw me kneeling by the bed, and, attentively listening, heard that her soul was the subject of my petitions. This she could not stand; but, opening the door, she snatched me up in her arms, and weeping upon my neck, promised never to wound me again, but for the future to listen to all that I should say to her. Thus ceased the persecution. She related to me, that, after her arrival in London, she had been very ill; and, remembering the instruction so long ago received, and finding a friend to read to her the Bible, as her only comfort, she had thus "come to the knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus!"

Moreover, at this period of my visit to London, I was in great danger of being led away from my first love, by the sudden glitter and glare that are met with in this emporium of evil recreations and

indulgences. But the tears and prayers of Charlotte were the means, in my heavenly Father's hands, of restraining my wandering feet. Thus did He return the care of her soul into mine own bosom with abundant interest.

It was about this period of my life also,-viz., when I was about eleven years of age,-that another incident occurred, which I have been urged to introduce here, as at once illustrating my mother's character, and exhibiting what I cannot but regard as a remarkable interposition of Providence in my own behalf, and one which had a most important bearing on my future history.

My mother was a devoted admirer of the Drama, and a great frequenter of the theatre; so much so, that she eagerly cultivated the acquaintance of the more respectable class of performers-many of whom were, consequently, frequent visitors at our house. With one of these, a Mr. S- —, who was a frequent guest in our family, and a stage manager, I became a great favourite; and as he discovered -or fancied that he discovered-in me a peculiar aptitude for his profession, nothing would satisfy him but my coming out upon the stage. If my mother at first offered any objections to this proposal, these were speedily removed by Mr. S.'s repeated assurances of the certainty of my success, and his confident predictions that a brilliant career awaited me; and she soon entered into his views with cordiality and zeal. My father and myself were opposed to the thing; but advantage was taken of my father's absence from home on a long journey; my scruples were overcome by the persuasive arguments and coaxings of my mother and Mr. S.; and, in short, matters were actually carried so far that I had learned my part—a suitable dress was prepared for me by a London tailor-and I was about to make my début on the stage, in the

character of the young Duke of York, in the play of King Richard the Third,-for which, it seems, I was deemed sufficiently "too shrewd."

I well remember how, on the evening preceding the last rehearsal of the piece, I retired to my room in my ordinary health; with my thoughts, of course, occupied about the work I was to be engaged in on the succeeding day. I was quite familiar with the idea of frequenting the theatre as a spectator, and probably did not at that time think that there was any great harm in so doing; but the thought of appearing on the stage as a performer-and thereby committing myself to the life of a stage-playerhad never presented itself so forcibly to my mind as it did on that evening. I tried to banish the thought from my mind, together with the painful feelings to which it gave rise but I could not. I knelt down to pray as usual, but I could not pray. My conscience told me that I was about to commit myself, on the coming day, to a course of life, which I knew to be incompatible with the practice of holiness and the principles of godliness, and inconsistent with my professions of love and obedience to my Saviour; and how could I then address myself in prayer to that blessed Saviour who died to redeem me from all iniquity! I knew and felt that I had done wrong-very far wrong-in yielding to the persuasions of my mother and her friends, and consenting to their proposal; but I also felt that I had gone too far to draw back-I could see no way of escape. I was in an agony of remorse, and knew not what to do. At last, my feelings of shame and sorrow found vent in an outburst of sobs and tears; and after weeping long and bitterly, I then prayed-O! how fervently, "I prayed and made my confession." I acknowledged my sin in yielding to the solicitations with which I had been assailed. With the simplicity and sincerity of a

child, I poured out my heart before the Lord, describing to Him the difficulty of my positiondeclaring that it was no longer in my power to prevent the evil I dreaded, and beseeching Him to prevent it, who alone could-to prevent it by any means which to Him might seem best, though it should be by sending severe illness, or even death to myself,-only to prevent it, by some means!

I rose from my knees with my spirit soothed; I retired to rest with a calm and tranquil mind, and slept soundly during the remaining hours of the period devoted to repose. In the morning, when I awoke and arose from my bed, I experienced something like a disappointment on feeling myself as well in health as ever I had been in my life. But lo!-on attempting to say something to the servant who answered my bell, I found that I had no voice! I could not utter a word beyond the merest whisper, and had the greatest difficulty in making myself audible at all. I was not prepared for this -I was completely taken by surprise; and it was some time before it occurred to me, that this must be the answer to my prayers of the preceding night. When I went down to the parlour, my mother immediately perceived that there was something wrong, and anxiously inquired what was the matter? I pointed to my throat, and shook my head. In great alarm, she now sprang towards me, exclaiming, "Martha! speak; and tell me what's the matter ?" "I can't, mother; I can't speak," I replied, in a hoarse whisper. Her alarm now gave way to anger, and in a very determined tone and manner she exclaimed, "Martha, I see how it is. You have got into one of your Methodistical fits again and this is a trick-your hoarseness is feigned, in order to get rid of your engagement to Mr. S. But I'm not to be imposed on. You must give up this. You must speak to me. I insist

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upon it." In the best way I could, I endeavoured to convince her that my hoarseness was no pretence, but reality. But she was hard of belief; she continued to represent in the strongest light the disappointment this would cause to Mr. S., and the most awkward position in which it would place him; and, in short, she tried every plan she could think of, to induce me to speak. Among other means, I remember, she took half-a-crown from her pocket, and, laying it on the table before me, said, "Martha, I will give you that, if you will only speak six words to me distinctly."

But it was all in vain. I could not speak, however willing I had been. When, at length, my mother was convinced of this, she sent immediately for Mr. S., to communicate the matter to him-to condole with him on the disappointment this would cause to them both-and to consult about the best means of relieving him from the awkward position in which he was placed by my failure. Mr. S. seemed to feel no less annoyed about the matter than my mother kerself-but there was no help. At last-after some consultation about what was to be done-Mr. S. proposed that my mother should allow my younger sister to appear in the character allotted to me, and thus to fill up my part in the play-with the exception of the little speaking belonging to the part, which must necessarily be omitted. This was finally arranged-the black silk velvet dress prepared for me was hastily altered, to suit the smaller figure of my sister-and she actually went through the part in dumb show as my substitute!

I soon recovered my voice again. My father returned home from his long journey; and, notwithstanding all the persuasions and entreaties of my mother and Mr. S., he put his most determined veto on the proposal of my appearing on the stage. And thus was I rescued from what might have been