noon the next day. She then comes round, moaning for some time, and then takes a little brandy and water; then takes something to eat, having taken nothing nor spoken, and having been quite unconscious, from 2 o'clock one day till half-past 12 the next. At half-past 1 (generally before 2) she is gone. again, and begins leaping on her knees once and standing on her feet, leaping very violently, and this continues till 6 in the evening, when she leaves off standing and leaping, and jumps up on her knees all night till 7 or half-past 7 in the morning; but in the night she does not jump so often. When she comes round she begins springing at the post, and jumps out of bed four times on to the floor, a bed being laid for that purpose. [The manuscript is here torn, but continues thus.] When quite sensible, sometimes she seems cheerful, but has not so much lately sprung at the post. At times she takes refreshment, and reads her book, and amuses herself till the same time I began, which is 2 o'clock, being the two days and two nights. Thus ends the detail of one of the most distressing afflictions that few people have ever seen or heard," &c. &c.

The foregoing account was given to a medical gentleman of Colchester, by Emma's father, and is transcribed, with very little alteration, from the original. One singular feature in this illness will require to be made clear. There were two, and only two, intervals of rest, in forty-eight hours, granted to her. The one took place at

about seven o'clock on the alternate morning, and the other at twelve o'clock of the same day. In this way she had four hours of consciousness and three of bodily quiet, but the consciousness of these two intervals was not communicable; that is to say, she could not remember at twelve o'clock what she knew at seven, although, on the day but one following, she could remember what took place at those hours in the corresponding hours. During the last five years of this singular visitation, they who watched her could never discern when she slept. Nature, of course, demanded the restorative agency of slumber, and without doubt it was obtained; but by day and by night her eyes were open and moving. It is probable, however, that the state of insensibility which followed each fit, and which lasted till the next began, may have supplied the place of the more natural refreshment. Still there were no intervals of pain. Mitigations there might be of the agony which she habitually suffered, but entire freedom from pain was unknown to her.

Yet these were the seasons allotted by an Allwise God for the development of a character of no ordinary standard, and for the display of no common measure of grace. What many might

have thought a useless incumbrance to herself and to others, the Spirit of God turned into a blessing. Out of this chaos of physical evils He created a world of spiritual beauty, and planted a garden of Eden where before there was nothing but a wilderness. He made a house, that was hitherto without light, radiant with the beams of His own presence. And thus, an illness which looked almost like a mysterious possession, entailing upon a whole family trouble, anxiety, ceaseless watching, broken nights, and constant fatigue, was so hallowed, by the shining of the Divine grace, as to make its removal an evil, not to be contemplated without sorrow, nor realised at last without anguish of spirit. In short, it was good for herself, and for others, that Emma had been afflicted; for she became the teacher of her family, the counsellor of her parents, the instrument of conversion to her father, the reprover of sin in others, the guide of the younger members, and a lesson to all around. Nor is there one who had the privilege of knowing her, who would not acquiesce in the justice of her claim to the title of "The Light of the Forge."

CHAP. III.

"Affliction then is ours;

We are the trees whom shaking fastens more,
While blustering winds destroy the wanton bowers,
And ruffle all their curious knots and store.

My God, so temper joy and woe,

That Thy bright beams may tame thy bow."

GEORGE HERBERT.

MANY persons are apt to attribute too much or too little to the dispensations of God. Some look for speedy, or, at least, very definite results of good from them; while others admit of no design in them. Thus in the eyes of many, sickness acquires an exaggerated efficacy or it is treated as a merely natural accident, from which the sooner the victim can make his escape the better. All this confusion may be traced to a want of real faith, of which there is as little in the implicit submission of credulity, as there is in the

cold rejection of the things which are not seen. Yet were it better to expect too much than too little from the dispensations of God, and more especially from that of sickness, when it comes in a severe and lasting form. The mind of the sufferer becomes irresistibly sobered, and is thus brought into a state of preparedness for the reception of those truths and spiritual approaches, which, in a time of health, would never have been tolerated. This, however, is all that the trial in itself can effect. If more is to be accomplished, grace and faith must make the instrument efficient.

It will not surprise the Christian reader to find that E. M., afflicted as she was, did not immediately profit by the burden which her Heavenly Father thought good to lay upon her. Two years, indeed, passed away before she attained to that apprehension of a Saviour, and that surrender of the heart, which are both necessary elements of a real conversion. Yet was God all this time teaching the very truth which has just been touched upon. He was showing, that without His blessing and the preventing grace of His Spirit, no means, however powerful, could subdue the heart. That there was a secret preparation going