every emotion, and they felt that God Himself had strung and tuned it."

Let us not overlook, or despise, then, the fugitive records of a generation in the history of the Church. They have their value. They subserve the glory of the Redeemer, by exhibiting His manifold grace; and they encourage or quicken some hearts, by the hints or comparisons which they suggest. Yet, let it not be thought that an indiscriminate biography is advocated by these remarks. There should be something worthy of note, something sharply defined, something calculated to arrest the mind and to elicit self-enquiry, in order to commend the portrait to the consideration of others; which, with all this, need not be above our reach. The reader of this little memoir will judge how far the selection of the example which it offers, will be justified by these remarks. And the writer ventures to trust that it will not be found without its use. The subject of this narrative was not a person of commanding character or position; but her history, physical as well as spiritual, was singular in its circumstances. Not that there was anything striking in her conversion, like the change from a life of impetuous sin; nor that her after-life was one of striking activity: for such

a thing was not possible. But as we form the truest estimate of a force by calculating the resistance which it overcomes, the point of the following memoir lies in what the sufferer learned and did in spite of obstacles. She whose memory is for a season reflected in these pages, was a timid, shrinking girl, who was seized, at the age of sixteen years, with an illness, which terminated her noiseless career at the age of twenty-four. In developing the nature of her unparalleled disorder, we shall be brought to see and admire the dealings of Him who is infinite in wisdom and love, as He is infinite in power. We shall see the efficacy of Divine grace sustained under the greatest disadvantages. We shall learn to justify the wisdom of God in His treatment of His own people. And we shall be taught the possibility of usefulness under any circumstances, if only we are willing to be useful. This memoir, therefore, comes from a parish minister, as an offering to the sick and the whole: to the sick, as an example for their consideration; to the whole, as a criterion of their lives.

E. M. was "The Light of the Forge," by whose side for seven years she lay for her light was always burning, and by it others learned to

see and believe. The Forge remains; but she is gone. And as the reflection of the sun's rays continues to illumine the evening sky for some time after the orb itself has disappeared, so may her light be prolonged, for this generation at least, and then it will not be in vain that these pages were written.

CHAP. II.

"Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought."

LONGFELLOW.

As the traveller journeys from the venerable town of Colchester to that of its rival neighbour of Maldon, after passing over some five miles of ordinary-looking country, with pretty bits of woodland scattered here and there between, he comes to a spot where the road turns at a rightangle down a sharp pitch of a hill. The ground over which he has been passing is probably commemorated in the pages of Tacitus; and the two towns just mentioned, claim respectively the honour of having borne the ancient title of Camulodunum, an honour, however, which most antiquarians seem disposed to assign to Colchester.

On reaching the foot of this hill, and ere he begins to ascend another, he must pass through a stream of water which runs merrily over a bed of shingle and gravel across the road. This stream is dignified with the high-sounding title of "Roman River." It takes its rise some few miles further up the country, and flows through a rich and grassy valley, where in spring and summer time the bright eyes of many a wild flower enamel the carpet of green. Onwards it runs, sometimes faster, sometimes more slowly, like the uncertain wishes of our hearts, until it joins the river Colne, and, with it, loses itself in the sea. In its way thither it is joined by the contributions of many springs. Among others, there is one which, emerging from the bosom of the opposite hill, trickles down at the back of a cluster of buildings, and mingles itself with the waters of the river close by the side of the road. The traveller might not notice this, but for its eddying round the walls of the lower range of buildings which contain the blacksmith's forge. The scene is both pretty and striking. The walls of the shed stand very near the water, separated only by a railing, and, on the other side of the road, the stream is crossed by one of those old and simple wooden bridges for