I dare not attempt it, not even the language given me in that hour. O, what views of God and heaven filled my amazed soul. It was what one has elsewhere called, "a vision of glory," such as perhaps none of us ever had before, nor may ever have again, till "mortality is swallowed up of life."

The service was closed, and every countenance wore a calm heavenly expression, as if each was saying in his or her heart,

"There is a world where winter comes not,

Where a farewell enters never,
Where no clouds the atmosphere blot,
And no changes our friendships sever.
That world is the home of the soul,
And oh how swiftly it flies to the goal.
There sorrow's note is never heard,
No storm a rose-leaf ever stirred,
But strains on harps of heavenly sound,
And songs ecstatic breathe around."

The last Sabbath night this holy man spent upon earth, was in Abbey street Chapel. The crowd was great, and he stood with his eyes fixed upon me, during the whole sermon. At the close of the prayer meeting, he stood upon a bench, and gave the people his last exhortation, and sang that verse which I believe was his favourite,

"When Jesus makes my heart his home,

My sin shall all depart;

And, lo! he saith, 'I quickly come,
To fill and rule thy heart.""

Next Sabbath night, about that time, he was in the "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." I visited him a day or two before he died. On approaching his bed, such an influence came upon me, as melted me into tears in a moment. I felt God was there, and that a warrior of our Israel had entered upon his last battle with the enemy. He

reached out his hand, and said, " tell the congregation, the following is my experience,"

"He breaks the power of cancell'd sin,
He sets the prisoner free,

His blood can make the foulest clean,
His blood avail'd for me."

One day when sitting together in his little parlour, a few weeks before he was taken with his last sickness, he said to me, "I have often stood upon yonder bridge, and looked at the figure of Hope, on the dome of the Custom House, leaning upon her anchor, with her face turned towards the troubled sea, as if in anxious, but confident expectation of the lingering ship; soon after, I have seen the weatherbeaten vessel entering the harbour, badly shattered by the storm, rigging disordered, and sails riven into shreds; and it is thus, I have thought, that hope cheers the soul on the stormy ocean of life, and calmly encourages the billow-tossed Christian to hasten into the harbour of glory; when lo, the weather-beaten servant of God, shattered by time and storms, dashes into the port, where hope had so long had her anchor cast within the veil." He little thought he was just then sailing so near the coast of heaven, nor that he should so suddenly dart into the harbour of eternal rest. Mr. Haughton also informed me, that in the little parlour alluded to, Mr. Wesley had often taken breakfast with the Dublin preachers, and that when a boy, in the same place, he had often swung upon the knees of that venerable saint.

It will be interesting to my American friends to know, that this is the famous little room, where the Rev. John Summerfield was converted to God. The spot where he obtained remission of sins, and the hearth-stone upon which he stood, when giving his first exhortation, were pointed out to me by Mrs.

Haughton, who was one of the praying company, to whom the address was delivered. Ah! I thought, in this humble room, arose that " burning and shining light," who became the wonder of America, the glory of Christ, and one of the brightest ornaments of the Methodist Episcopal Church. Hundreds of thousands were enraptured by his eloquence, and many, very many, were the seals of his ministry.

As I have written an account of Dublin, to Mr. **** and intend giving him a further description of the public buildings, I shall omit such things in this; as, doubtless, you will see both letters. I had an awful time the other night, in one of the chapels, on this text, Rev. xiv. 9-11, and, just as we were singing that verse,

"Ye virgin souls arise,

Oil in your vessels take."

the whole of the lights went out, with the exception of a couple of candles on the side of the pulpit. Twelve brilliant gas lights extinguished in a moment. The effect was really awful, as the minds of sinners were predisposed to strong sensations, by the text, sermon, and hymn. Many trembled, but there was no confusion. Afterwards nine or ten sinners were converted to God in the prayer meeting.

A very remarkable conversion, in answer to prayer, has lately taken place, which I know will interest you. A young lady, a few weeks since, arrived in this city from England, on a visit to her friends. Shortly after, she was induced to attend the services; the word reached her heart, and after a severe and deep repentance, God spoke peace to her soul. In the simplicity of her heart, she wrote an account of her conversion to her mother, in Liverpool, and desired liberty to unite herself with the Methodist Church; little suspecting the natural enmity of the

unrenewed heart. Her mother, a high spirited unconverted woman, felt an instant indignation against her daughter; wrote to her immediately-ridiculed the revival, forbade her joining the Methodists, reproached her for her weakness of mind, and ordered her home. The young lady, alarmed at the tone of the letter, sent a note to the pulpit, stating, in a delicate way, the case, and requesting my prayers, and those of the congregation, for the conversion of her mother. We fell down before God; faithful and united prayer was offered, in which, I believe, every pious soul joined.

On

A few days after, a letter arrived from Liverpool, giving an account of the mother's conversion. the night, "the prayer of faith" was offered to God,

she was awakened to see herself a sinner on the brink of hell. "During the night," said she, "I felt as if I was in a furnace of fire.' The next morning, God converted her soul. In that letter, she humbly asked forgiveness of her daughter, and the same from me, although she had never seen me; but it was on account of what she had said against the revival; and concluded by giving her liberty to join the Methodists as soon as she pleased, as she intended to do the same herself. I must now close, by subscribing myself your brother in Jesus Christ.

J. C.

P. S. As to "the mystery of believing," there is no mystery in it at all; put the same confidence in the promise of Christ, as you would in that of a friend;-go to your Lord just now for entire purity; for he alone can give it; and tell him, while you spread Mark, xi. 24, before him, that you will be as much disappointed, if he fail to fulfil his promise, as if an earthly friend should do so, who had thus promised. Do this, and see what he will do for thee; but see that thou fulfillest the conditions heartily.

LETTER XVIII.

Dublin, December 17, 1841.

Dear Sir,

Your kind letter arrived in due time, pardon the tardiness of the reply. I shall not fail to procure the seeds, but why did you not mention the particular kinds? It is not unlikely I may obtain a variety, which shall be new in America. As to the roots, I dare not promise, I tried the experiment once on a long voyage, but they nearly all died, probably through my bad management.

That I have attended to the other matter, the following, which I wrote to a young lady, will be sufficient proof. She gathered me a great variety of flowers from her own garden, pressed, and attached them to blank leaves, with their names, and some excellent poetry beneath them. I thought I could do nothing less than present her with the following soi-disant bouquet. I send the same to you across the Ocean, as a pledge that the flowers shall follow ;— when, is a difficult question.

You bade me pray the prayer again

Which clos'd the friendly note I sent thee,

I see by that, it pleas'd thee then,

And may the Spirit now be lent me ;

A garden was the favour'd spot,

In which I pray'd the Lord to plant thee;

And truer than the 'forget me not,'

A spirit he would kindly grant thee.

I wish I had the wondrous fire,

Which wrapt the soul of Virgil over;
Even that which thrill'd the comic lyre,
Of him who sang the cliffs of Dover.