venly Father intended the religion of the Redeemer for men of all ranks in life, but chiefly the poor, and for those of weak as well as of strong intellects, he has taken care that those things which are necessary to be known should not be difficult to be learned, where there is a willing mind and I believe the instances are rare, where the obvious meaning of Scripture is not the true meaning. I said this once to a learned friend of mine, and he was unwilling to agree to it. The most obvious meaning, said he, of our Lord's words, Take, eat; this is my body, which is broken for you, is that which the Catholics affix to it; yet that is not the true meaning. No, Sir, replied I; neither is it the obvious meaning. The Apostles were accustomed to hear our Lord speak in metaphorical language, which is used in all nations. When, therefore, he called himself a vine, and his disciples the branches, and spake of himself as being a door, and a shepherd, the dullest of his followers, in the darkest age of the church, never misunderstood his meaning. And when he said, This is my body, which is broken for you; this do in remembrance of me, his meaning would have been equally obvious, if the wise men of this world had not darkened it by their comments; for our Lord, in calling himself the living bread which came down from Heaven, alluded to the manna with which the Israelites were fed in the wilderness, and which was undoubtedly a type of the Messiah. Well, Madam, cried he, suppose I give up this passage, you must acknowledge that when our Lord says, My Father is greater than I, the most obvious meaning is that held by the Arians, to wit, that our Lord was inferior to the Father. This inferiority, Sir, replied I, referred not to his nature, but to his state of humiliation upon earth compared with his heavenly glory, as appears by the connexion: If ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I said I go unto the Father: for my Father is greater than I. I sometimes dread the arrival of your friends; but when I consider that every new event is a link of that providence by which the universe has always been, and will be for ever governed, my fears are calmed, and I am enabled to say, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. I am, with the sincerest affection, My dear Miss Neville, your friend and servant, LETTER XIII. From Miss Eusebia Neville to Mrs. Worthington. DEAR MADAM, I RECEIVED your kind favour, and am very sorry to hear you have had so great a loss. My father and sister, and father Albino, arrived from Bath three days ago, which is a week sooner than I expected them. My father told me yesterday, as we sat by ourselves in the parlour, that he wished I had gone with them, as he could not be happy without me. The letters, said he, you sent while I was at Bath, were scarcely any thing but answers to what I asked you: there was neither life nor spirit in them. Tell me, my dear love, what is the matter; for before I went, I narrowly watched you when you little thought of it, and every now and then saw a tear stealing down your cheek: indeed, my Eusebia, that is not the index of a mind at ease. I apprehend you have received some impression which your modesty will not suffer you to mention. Take care that your affections do not stray beyond your judgment. You may depend upon it, my dear father, said I, that I shall never enter into any engagement of that kind without your knowledge: I should think myself culpable if I made any advances towards it even in thought. I could expect no less from your prudence, my father was pleased to say; but I have known many that in other respects have passed for wise people, who, in the comedy of love, have acted the silliest parts. Sir, replied I, nothing of that kind, I assure you, has at present affected me: at the same time I must confess, that my mind has been many times much agitated. I consider that in a few years at most I must leave this world, and appear before the bar of Him whose eyes are as a flame of fire, and who trieth the reins and the heart. He will ask me what I have to plead why judgment should not pass against me. Pray, my dear father, what can I say; or what could you answer in the same case? for your case it must be as well as mine. My dear Eusebia, cried my father, it is wrong to give way to such melancholy thoughts: you have always becu very good, my child; and if such a one as you is not saved, I may justly say, Wo be to thousands! You have every thing to hope, and nothing to fear. You were washed from your original sin, and regenerated, at the laver of baptism; and you, in evil times, have been nurtured and brought up in the bosom of the church; and Christ has promised that the gates of hell shall not prevail against his church. Now a promise which is made to the whole, must also be made to every member: therefore we have reason to believe, that even the worst who have died in the bosom of the church, although they have not made atonement for their crimes by true repentance, will be delivered in due time from the fires of purgatory, through the intercession of good angels and the prayers of the faithful. O my child, how many promises are made to the church of God, from the benefit of which those persons exclude themselves who leave the society of the faithful! No promise is made to sectaries and schismatics: on the contrary, they manifest what they are by their breach of the unity of the church. The apostle St. John says, They went out from us, but they were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would no doubt have continued with us: but they went out, that they might be made manifest that they were not all of us. My dear Eusebia, continued he, you have been moping here by yourself, which naturally nourishes melancholy. I was desirous that you should accompany us, but was unwilling to press you contrary to your inclination. Your sister was as cheerful as a lark; and so we were all. Bath is truly a most agreeable place, and there was a great deal of good company. I told my father, that with his leave I would go and see my friend Miss Barnwell, as I had heard she was just come from London, where she had been nearly nine months. By all means, replied my father. I wish, my child, you may become as brisk and as cheerful as Miss Barnwell; and I see no reason why you should not. Indeed, Madam, I am a sad coward; I do not know how I could suffer martyrdom for Christ. I fully intended, when we began this conversation, to inform my father that I was a protestant; but I was just as if my tongue was tied. My dear father is a most tender parent, and his compassion and benevolence to the poor scarcely know any bounds; but you perceive what his hope of eternal life is built upon. My dear friend, join your prayers with mine, that the foundation of his hope may be the rock of ages; or that work of the Redeemer, which he declared to be finished, when he bowed his head, and expired. I was lately conversing with Thomas, about my leaving the church of Rome, and the probable consequences of my father's displeasure. My friend, said he, if there be a God whose power and wisdom were exercised in our creation, and whose gracious providence watches over us every moment, let us endeavour to dismiss every disquieting fear, and to put our trust in Him who careth for us. But if there be no God, or if he take no notice of his creatures, let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. The hearts of all men are in the hand of him who made them; and how perverse soever they may be, they never fail to bring forward the execution of his purposes. God has been unfolding and accomplishing his designs concerning you every moment of your life; and he will exercise his care over you during the endless ages of eternity. You have no reason, therefore, to be distressed, unless you think, either that his purposes concerning you are not wise and good, or that he will not be able to accomplish them. O Thomas, replied I, that neither of these is the case I am abundantly convinced; but you must grant that the servants of Jesus Christ have undergone many dreadful trials. I am terrified at the consciousness of my own weakness. You are afraid, answered he, that when God formed his plan, he did not consider the smallness of your strength. I am indeed a foolish creature, Thomas, cried I; but God is all-sufficient. I desire, therefore, to be as clay in his hands, that he may fashion me as he pleases, and do with me whatsoever seemeth good in his sight. I think it a great mercy, Madam, that I have learned to spin, which I did for my amusement Either that or my needle would, with the divine blessing, procure me the necessaries of life, if I could not obtain a servant's place where I could be useful. Time will soon pass away :that time which God has allotted for the trial of his servants. Pray for me, my dear friend, that I may endure as secing him who is invisible, and that I may come out of the furnace like gold seven times refined. Thomas and his wife desire their dutiful respects. How cheerful and happy they are with their scanty pittance! Their bumble dwelling is comfortable and clean. I think I could be very happy in as humble a situation, if it were provided for me by my heavenly Father. I am more and more convinced that riches are not so valuable as mankind in general think them. When a wise man considers the pride and idleness, the voluptuousness and diseases, commonly attendant upon them, and also how difficult it is for the rich to enter into the kingdom of heaven, he will endeavour to moderate his desire of that deceitful mammon. Thus speaks my better judgment: but I find, with Paul, a law in my members warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin. When I would do good, and when I wish to think of divine things, I too frequently find evil to be present with me; so that I also am obliged to cry out, Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I bless God for the gospel, which alone gives a satisfactory answer to this question. I am, dear Madam, Most sincerely yours, LETTER XIV. From Miss Barnwell to Mrs. Worthington. DEAR MADAM, THROUGH the kind providence of God I am safely arrived at Barnwell: I can scarcely say at home; for never was there a parent more altered than my father. The cause which is assigned is, that I am so different from what I was; but in truth, though that may be some, it is only a small part of the reason. All the way upon the road my father did nothing but talk to me upon the subject of marriage. He was determined, he said, to have me married, as that, he had no doubt, would cure all my religious |