ject. That such reflections are not of a nature to inspire vanity,' is true indeed. No, I desire to be humbled by the thought; a consciousness of unworthiness makes it hard for me to indulge the hope of being instrumental of the smallest good."

Having a leisure evening, the last probably before our removal, I devote it to fulfilling my promise to write you once more from Colchester. Yes, we are really going, and in a few days the place that has so long known us shall know us no more. Before I quit the scene of the varied interests of my childhood and youth, I ought to give my mind a long leave of absence, and send it back leisurely to revisit the past; but in the hurry of the moment the feeling of it is lost. And even if I could afford to send my thoughts on this retrograde excursion, I ought not to ask you to accompany them; for they would stay to contemplate scenes and gaze on faces unknown and uninteresting to you. I can invite my friends to sympathize in my present interests, and to survey with me my future prospects; but of that fairy land they could only discern a line of blue distance;

while to me 'here a cot and there a spire still glitter in the sun.' But a melancholy retrospection is an unprofitable indulgence—a kind of luxury which perhaps I have no right to allow myself. Let me rather, if I have time for contemplation, take a more humbling and painful survey; and, reviewing the sins and follies of childhood and youth, resolutely say: 'The time past of my life shall suffice to have wrought them.' But I want energy to commence a new career. Whether my mind will recover vigour under new circumstances, or will faint under the exertion I have in prospect, remains to be seen: it is a fearful experiment. Here I sit in my little room. It looks just as it always did; but in a few days all will be changed, and this consecrated attic will be occupied, how shall I tell you?—by an exciseman; for his wife observed to me, when surveying the house, 'Ah! this room will do nicely for my husband to keep his books in.' Well, I shall take with me all that has rendered it most interesting; and as for the moon and sunshine that will still irradiate its walls, I would not withhold them from my successor."

CHAPTER VI.

A WINTER BY THE SEA.

R. TAYLOR received a call from a Dissenting church at Ongar, and the family removed thither, the change gratifying them all in one respect,-it was near London, only twenty miles off, northeast, in the county of Essex.

"MY DEAR E

66

'ONGAR, September 23, 1811. This is the first time I

have dated from our new habitation. Having at length restored things to something like order, I sit down in my new room to address an old friend. At present I scarcely know where I am or who I am; but now that I find myself at the old favourite station, my writingdesk, and suffering my thoughts and affections to flow in an accustomed channel, I begin to

know myself again. And were it not for this, there are certain cares and troubles bearing my name and arms which will never suffer me long to question my personal identity. It is, however, by a pleasure that I ascertain it this evening; I ought not, therefore, to begin by complaining.

"But, my dear friend, you are looking forward towards a change so much more important than a merely local one, that it may well appear to you comparatively trifling. That you are about to undergo is of all changes the greatest and the most interesting but one; and that one, if brought into comparison, makes even this appear insignificant. A recollection of the certain and speedy termination of every earthly connection is, at such a season, likely rather to tranquillize than to depress the spirits; it is calculated to allay anxiety, not to damp enjoyment. When marriage is regarded as forming a connection for life, it appears indeed a tremendous experiment; but in truth it is only choosing a companion for a short journey, -yet with this difference, that if the fellowtravellers become greatly endeared to each

other, they have the cheering hope of renewed intercourse and perpetual friendship at their journey's end."

The marked success which attended these sisters in their efforts for the young, made their friends not only suggest but urge their opening a school. The plan had its lights as well as shades; and under their shining Anne and Jane spent the following winter in London, to perfect themselves in some higher accomplishments which had been overlooked or neglected in their early education.

The winter had its pleasures, but obstacles crossed their projects. The school was given up, and the sisters joyfully returned to Ongar in the spring, loving better than anything else the sweet seclusion of their happy home.

Several of Jane's friends entered upon married life at this time, and among them her dear Luck, to whom she thus writes :—

"ONGAR, March 24, 1812. "MY VERY DEAR LUCK,-Though in much uncertainty whether this letter will reach you amid the bustle of preparation or after the grand event has taken place, I shall venture to