let the voice of parents, or, in the want of them, of some judicious friend, be solicited; and let them advance not a step further until they have the sanction of those whose authority they are bound to respect, and possess an exact understanding on the ground of their intercourse. If these proprieties of conduct are not thought of by the suitor, there is much the greater need that they should be regarded by the person solicited.

Where the judgment has once decided, be severely jealous of any after-pleading of feeling. From no loose ideas of honorable intentions-suitable connection-difficulty of resisting-sentiments of humanity-invincibility of passion-or a thousand other imaginings-allow yourself to hesitate or to trifle. You are on enchanted ground. The inclination that leads you there is likely to leave you there till you are fascinated and ensnared. In such temptation your safety is in flight, and the flight is for your life! Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away." Let not the thoughts revert to the forbidden object. There are some objects, which, like the Geysers of Iceland, while we admire them, scald us.

It must be conceded, that the kindest parents, in the very exercise of their kindness, sometimes err in the treatment of this delicate subject. From the manner in which they have too often seen it held up to young and innocent minds, as the end and scope of all education, of all hope, and of all effort, they have turned away in disgust, and have not stopped till they arrived in the opposite extreme. They have wholly proscribed the subject in conversation; they have exercised a visible jealousy over every thing that led to it, without assigning their reasons; and if the feelings connected with it have, in general life, at any time, risen to their view, they have submitted them, at once, either to ridicule or to condemnation.

Now, there may be much more of good principle and feeling in the one case than the other; but it may be doubted whether, in their consequences, both are not equally injurious. Certainly the determined avoidance of the subject cannot prepare the young and unsuspicious to meet it with prudence and wisdom; and the slightest knowledge of the human heart will convince us that such a mode is not likely to exclude it from the thoughts. To our nature, alas! the forbidden fruit is ever the most inviting.

It will be well, too, if, when the hour of trial comes, such a method do not dispose our child to withhold her confidence. She would, no doubt, violate her duty in doing so; but if, with every thing to encourage her, there is so much to be overcome before she can commit her secret thoughts to her dearest friend, what must be the power of filial devotion to enable her to approach a subject which has always been made inaccessible, and to reveal sentiments which have never been regarded with sympathy? Is it wonderful if, under such circumstances, the young heart has shrunk from its duty for the first time; and thus lost, in its deepest need, the advice and confidence of the most natural and valuable of friends?

May not the better course be, in this case, as it is allowed to be in almost every other, that which is most direct and open? Since the thoughts will run in this direction, more or less, is it not better to provide them with a safe and proper channel, rather than, by vainly resisting their progress, to cause a most dangerous accumulation? Let not the subject become a topic of usual discourse; but let this be avoided, not by a formal probibition, but by the general tone of parental authority and character. On the fit occasion, let it be met with candor and seriousness. Let it be stripped of all mystery, that

curiosity may have no nourishment. Let it have its fair weight among the events of life. Balance against its fascinations, its responsibility, and against its promises of happiness the hazards to which it exposes that happiness. Let there be sufficient familiarity on the subject between the parent and child, that she may feel the way to it accessible whenever she may desire to use it. Let her just sentiments be approved, her extravagant ones qualified; and her every sentiment, how foolish and trivial soever, be sure of a patient hearing, and a sympathizing heart.

Particularly it is of moment that this confidential intercourse should not be postponed to too late a period; the young mind has often thought and felt much on the subject before the guiding hand has directed it to those reflections which may fortify it in the hour of attack. It is needless to say it has been premature; then its affectionate guardian must condescend to be premature likewise. Wisdom will always prefer the means of prevention to those of cure; but in this case they have a stronger claim to preference than in almost any other. The remedy may be applied to the wounded spirit with hope; but the lessons of wisdom, falling on a heart still at rest, shall distil as the dew, and reward the strongest confidence.

In conclusion, what shall be said of those young persons who, bounding fresh on the novel scenes of life, and intent only on their own gratification, trouble the peace of many a happy spirit, by successively offering such attentions as nothing could justify but their continuance and rightful consummation? The least that can be said is, that such a course begins without honor, and ends without satisfaction. Is it to be pleaded that the intentions were honorable, that no promise was violated, and that the most that can be censured is thoughtlessness? Let the plea have all the weight it deserves; but let it be remembered, however, that many a promise may be made, such as heaven will sanction, and every honest mind consider binding, where not a line is written-not a word uttered. If honorable intentions are to be urged, let it be understood that these only exist as they are sustained by honorable conduct; and that he who can pay flattering attentions to one person which he would not to any other person in like circumstances, and carelessly transfer them to a second, may indeed possess good principles, but in this instance is not actuated by them.

Can it be endured, that on so serious a subject utter thoughtlessness is to be pleaded in extenuation? Because I judge myself secure, am I to be careless of the danger of another? Because I can trifle, am I to trifle on, indifferent to the wounds 1 may probably inflict on a mind less gross and more susceptible than my own? Thoughtlessness! Inconsideration! Let him who, in reckless inconsideration, wantonly wounds a tender and innocent spirit, and eventually seeks his connubial happiness elsewhere, enjoy it as he may! There is a Hand above him that registers in fearful characters the deed of folly and of negligence. And O, if there be any sorrow natural to our suffering state that makes its way direct to heaven, it must be that pure, deep, unutterable sorrow of the virgin heart, which scorns to tarry on earth, and which arises from insincere professions and inconstant attachments!

CHAPTER VII.

MENTAL EXERCISES. 1810-1811. SENSIBILITY has had her honors done by a thousand hands, and her praises sung by a thousand voices. With her admiring votaries she is the substance of every virtue, and the soul of every grace.

Were such expressions simply extravagant, they might pass; but as they are hurtful, it is necessary to correct them. Let her young and fond admirers know, then, that sensibility is a gift, like some we read of in Arabian story, of doubtful character, and which will benefit or injure us as it is used. As the handmaid of an enlightened mind, she bears the key which commands the richest treasures of earth and heaven; as the mistress of a weak and enslaved judgment, she "shows the path and leads the way" to chambers of vexation, anguish, and despair. Without sensibility there can be no enjoyment; without something more and better, our very enjoyments are poisonous.

An excess of sensibility was the weakness of Martha's character; but she was not yet aware of it. Already we have seen something of its unfavorable and dangerous influence, and we must continue to trace it in more serious connections.

The distress of the heart is not limited to place or subject; wherever it may spring, it spreads itself over the whole soul, and all its engagements. Happy as Martha had recently been in her religious enjoyments, her happiness was deeply affected by the present state of her mind. She could no longer engage in the most sacred exercises with her accustomed pleasure. She had lost her earnestness in prayer, her quietude in meditation, her joy in the house of God, and her elasticity in performing the works of love and mercy. Her thoughts were distracted; her will was fluctuating; her imagination was wayward and rebellious; and her heart was restless. The restlessness of her spirit was communicated to every service of the closet and the sanctuary, and she became growingly weary of exercises which her conscience could not approve, and by which her mind was not tranquillized.

So painful a state of mind was dangerously aggravated by Martha's susceptibility. This temper obscured the lights that still remained on her path, and made the darkness such as could be felt. It exaggerated the dangers of her situation, and discouraged her from seeking deliverance. It magnified the character of her offences, and forbade her to lift her hands for pardon. It debilitated her resolutions, resisted her hopes, and multiplied her sorrows. It made what was perplexed, inexplicable; what was gloomy, terrible; what was bad, worse. This very temper, which in her happy moments had disposed her to dwell unduly on the Divine mercy, now, when its consolations were wanting, presented to her only distorted and hopeless images of the Divine justice.

kept her unwillingly awake to a sense of her exposure and unhappiness.

Towards the close of the year, Martha revealed her distress to me, most carefully avoiding any re. mark which might have led me to what she was determined to conceal. We had not been much together since we parted at B—; and the contrast of her present with her former appearance struck me painfully. Her feverish hand, her flushed complexion, and her agitated frame told me that disease had renewed its influence; and that her mind was robbed of that serene joy which possessed it so fully, when it was our privilege to hold daily and free communion. I have no distinct recollections of our converse on this occasion; but the substance of it is on my memory, and as far as it is to my purpose, I shall bring it under notice.

It will immediately be seen, that in giving advice to my sister, I was in similar circumstances with the medical attendant prescribing for a patient who purposely withholds one-half of his case, and yet expects relief. I was likewise discouraged by my limited acquaintance with the changes and trials of Christian experience. The most I could do was, not to apply the best remedies with the greatest skill but to apply, with a gentle hand, those remedies which I had lately found effectual to my own healing.

I soon perceived that Martha's chief sorrow arose from the serious doubts which possessed her on the reality of her religious professions. She had incautiously mingled her hopes with her enjoyments; and now that these were gone, she was tempted to think nothing was left; that she had been deceived herself, and had deceived others; and that her religion had been superficial and transitory as the morning cloud, which passes away and is seen no more.

Without offering any distinctions between the joys that are false and those that are real and Scriptural, which might have perplexed her, I attempted at once to.show that her present desponding conclusions were not authorized by her existing state of mind. To accomplish this object, it was my concern to illustrate the Christian course as a course of inward warfare. I saw that, with most young disciples, Martha, while she admitted the doctrine of a continued conflict in the Christian life, had not fully realized it to herself. When, therefore, this portion of her creed was reduced to experimental certainty, her faith and hope were unsettled; she was led to imagine that some trial had happened to her which was not common to the saints.

Martha, in the first reverse of her experience, was little disposed to favor the struggles of this living and irrepressible principle within her. She discredited its suggestions; she questioned its nature; and was inclined rather to yield herself to the calm of despondency, than continue in the agita-¦ tions of conflict. Her heart had been paralyzed by fear which her sensibility had nurtured; it was worn and exhausted by ceaseless warfare; and she seemed resolved to seek rest somewhere, though it should be on the ground of an enemy. The utmost that hope could do for her was to make her state less dangerous, without making it more easy; it

the body, but that it was a deep inward, unceasing warfare against ourselves-our original and strongly-rooted principles, desires, and propensities. I supported my remarks by the masterly and admirable exposition of the subject in the 7th of Romans; and maintained, with the apostle, that a constant and decided conflict of the spirit against the flesh, of grace against sin, of the new nature against the old, painful as it may be, is both a more afe and accessible evidence of Christian character than the most assured hopes or abounding joys.

My next effort was to prevent her anxious search into the past for the proofs of her sincerity, when her thoughts might he profitably directed to her present duty. I urged that it was really of little moment whether she could or could not obtain this satisfaction, compared with believing now on the Son

I pointed out, with earnestness, that if these views were important in every state of the Christian life, they were particularly so to her under her present darkness of mind and perplexity of evidence. I enforced the necessity, without seeking for obscured evidences, without waiting for an improved experience, of her simply acknowledging her felt demerit and sin, and pleading the unfailing promises of mercy to the unworthy; and I assured her, with the confidence of proof, that this would greatly assist in baffling her adversaries, and breaking the spell which her distressing fears had cast upon her. In conjunction with these observations, I referred her to some parts in Newton's Letters, Stafford's Sermons on the 7th of Romans, and Gurnall's Christian Armor, which I had recently read with advantage, that she might peruse them at leisure.

Martha's doubts, however, were not entirely confined to her personal interest in the blessings of revelation; they were sometimes extended to the truth and genuineness of revelation itself. When her enemies could not succeed in wholly driving her hopes from their hold, they sought to shake the very foundations on which they rested. Hitherto, Martha had given her faith to revelation on the force of its internal and experimental evidence. It had revealed her thoughts, and given her the express image of her character; she had tasted and felt its proposed blessedness. This was the most efficient of all evidence, and she had been satisfied with it. But now, when she was tempted to doubt the reality of all she had felt and enjoyed, she was led occasionally to ask, whether the very truths themselves on which she had built might not also

be illusive and unauthorized.

A sense of ignorance produces timidity. Martha was aware that she had neglected the general evidences by which the Christian religion commends itself to our judgment; and the suggestions of doubt were the more frequent and troublesome. Her memory, too, took the color of her mind, and quickened into activity some common place objections of infidelity which had been uttered in her hearing at a considerable distance of time for her annoyance, but which had been so dormant, that she scarcely thought they had a place in her recollection.

It was of vital importance to her peace of mind that from this subject at least all doubt should be excluded; and as it was simply a sincere and just decision on the weight of testimony supplied that was necessary, nothing seemed required except a clear and combined exhibition of those external evidences by which revelation has been sustained against all attack, and has gathered confidence from examination, while human creeds and carnal religions have perished by the very hands that wove them.

As far as conversation would admit, I touched on the leading and most tangible proofs which the subject affords, carefully dwelling on those which had most impressed my own mind. I then put into her hands successively, Doddridge's Sermons on the subject; Halyburton on Natural and Revealed Religion; Skelton on Deism; with two or three anonymous articles on the truth of revelation, that her thoughts might continue some time in one line

Martha was much interested in this intercourse. I did not expect her to be suddenly relieved; but her countenance was somewhat clearer, and her heart evidently lighter, than at the moment of our meeting. I had a stronger conviction than formerly, that an indulgence of excessive feeling was likely to be a snare to her; and indeed I could not avoid ascribing her present distress principally, if not entirely, to this undue sensibility, operated on by a growing perception of human frailty and sinfulness. It was a favorable opportunity, and I resolved to acquaint her with my impressions.

Martha had said she wished to know the worst of herself.

"The worst I know of you," I replied, "is that you have too much feeling."

"O brother, I wish it were !" she said, incredulously; "surely we cannot have too much feeling if it is right feeling."

"But my dear, if right feeling, as you term it, is excessive, it becomes wrong feeling."

"But one cannot always govern one's feelings," she continued: "and is it not better to have sometimes an excess of feeling and suffer for it, than to sink into indifference and selfishness ?"

"Yet why," I replied, "should you determine on choosing one of two extremes, when there is a middle path of safety and comfort open to us? I do not commend indifference; I do not blame sensibility; I condemn the excess of it.

"I beseech you," I continued, with greater earnestness, in these words, or words to this effect; "I beseech you, my dear, not to trifle with this evil. I consider it to be your natural infirmity; and if you nurture and indulge it, innocent as it appears in your eyes, it will be as a viper in your bosom. I cannot help ascribing all your present uneasiness and sorrow to this source-indeed I cannot!"

Martha heard a voice in these words which I could not hear; they sank into her heart, and she became thoughtful. I knew not that they bore so large an application as she was making; but I considered that her reflections, once fixed on the subject, would be of abundantly more advantage to her than any additional remarks I could offer. That her thoughts might not be prematurely disturbed, I left her to the meditations she evidently courted.

Martha's reflections were not those of an evening; they ran through several days and weeks of this period. All our conversations had been interesting to her; but her attention was especially arrested by the closing one, which, from her peculiar situation, fell like a sudden gleam of light, on a weakness of character which, until then, she had considered an excellence. She found it difficult to receive the unpleasant truth; and her pampered feelings had innumerable specious pleas to urge in their own favor. But Martha was always ingenuous with herself; and her indulgence passed into jealousy, her jealousy led to watchfulness, and her watchfulness to detection. She saw how easily an ungoverned sensibility might mislead the judgment, betray the heart, and undo the character which, in all things else, may be truly admirable. More than this, she saw that a sensibility, refined and noble as it may appear, which is not under the rule and di- rection of high religious principle, is only another name for that gross selfishness which it professes to scorn and reprobate.

With this discovery arose a sense of duty. A disposition which was evil in itself and injurious in its consequences was not to be tolerated in a mind set against all known sin. Martha therefore declared hostility to it in all its excesses. But, on a review of her conduct, or rather want of conduct