dignity and even solemnity of literature, that not comprehending concealed wit, or delicate irony, I thought Sir Roger de Coverly and the Rev. Mr. Primrose rather silly and simple personages. That acute political satire, "Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea," I perused with some interest, but little edification, from ignorance of the local history of England at the period of which it treats. Harvey's "Reflections among the Tombs," and Gesner's "Death of Abel," supplied the imagination with pleasant food. Whatever was plaintive I considered eloquent, and graduated my admiration of literature by its power to draw tears. Bishop Sherlock's "Six Sermons on Death," were my models for theological writing, though "South and Seed" were diligently perused. The largest volume in my father's possession was a heavy folio of more than eight hundred pages, containing the works of the Rev. Matthew Henry, Discourses, Essays, Tracts, and Biographies. I believe it was the size of the book alone, that inspired my ambition to master its contents. Yet in patiently bending over those pages, instinct with piety and baptized by prayer, methought a secret influence sometimes stole over me, moving to lowliness and the love of God.
The sanctity of the Sabbath, as I saw it observed by those whom I most loved and respected, had an efficient and salutary power upon the forming character. There was under our roof no young or light-minded person to tempt me to "think my own thoughts, or speak my
