these impressions. Last Saturday night I was much interested and affected by what he said. In the middle of our usual exercise, he stopped, and said very earnestly, 'eternity, Mr. Urquhart, eternity, I have had a thought of that which I never had before.' Unwilling to interrupt his feelings, I paused; and fixing his eyes on the fire, he said, in a little, with a tone of deep earnestness, Well, I never was impressed till now, with the necessity of believing immediately on the Lord Jesus Christ.' Such impressions may wear off, but I trust they will return. I am not without the hope that the Lord will raise up this child to be eminently useful in his church. He is a very original thinker, and pursues science and literature with an ardour that is not common at so early an age. I am not sure whether to address to Edinburgh or Kirkliston. I enclose this to our mutual friend W. Scott, who will know where to find you. Write soon, and be particular in telling your doings and your plans, to your ever affectionate," &c.

66

Dysart House, October 9, 1826.

My very dear sister,

I have been long expecting to hear how my father arrived, &c. And I suppose, from this long silence, you expect me to write first. I do not remember what arrangements my father made about writing, when I saw him; but I certainly had the impression that as I had more to excite anxiety than you, I had the best claim to have my

anxiety first relieved. How did my father arrive? How are you all in regard to health? &c. How is David, the person about whom I am most anxious? These, and a thousand other such questions, I should like much to have answered. I beg that a letter may be sent soon, as, for aught I know, we may leave Dysart in a few days. I was much pleased with your letter, my dear Anne, and hope for a frequent renewal of the pleasure I have in hearing from you. You ask me to write to you about religion; and I believe the request proceeds from your heart; for I cannot think you would allow any motive whatever to make you trifle with sincerity on a subject of infinite importance. You know the absolute necessity of decision in this matter. Persons of amiable dispositions are apt to be moulded into the sentiments of those around them, almost without the consciousness that the opinions they have adopted, are not their own, and never had any solid foundation in their own judgment; and, probably, have never made any serious impression on their own heart. We must think and feel for ourselves, as every one of us shall have to answer for himself to God. I have nothing new to write you, my dear sister, on the subject of religion. All my little experience of a deceitful world, and a still more deceitful heart, tends only to confirm me in the belief of those grand truths which the Lord has permitted us to know from infancy. When the heart is overwhelmed with guilt, there is nothing can give comfort but the consideration that Christ

has made a full atonement; and the repeated declarations of Scripture, that if we believe on the Lord Jesus Christ we shall be saved. The gospel cannot be believed, till we feel that we are guilty. It is one thing to think of the death of Christ, when we have no apprehensions about our state in a future world; and a very different thing indeed to catch a glimpse of this way of escape, when justice has shut up every other avenue, and the wrath of God seems ready to burst upon the soul which feels itself to be accursed. Ay, then we can estimate, in some degree, the value of a pardon which the Son of God had to leave heaven to procure; we can then tell something of what is meant by having peace with God,-we experience the blessedness of the man whose iniquities are pardoned.' Now this guilt and exposure to the wrath of God, is not an imaginary case, into the belief of which we may work ourselves. It is the plain matter of fact. The Bible describes it most plainly as the state of every son and daughter of Adam. Why then will we shut our eyes to it, and rest secure and contented, without applying to the remedy that has been provided?

It is the great evil in letter writing, that we can scarcely enter on a subject, when we are compelled to leave it. Nothing worth notice has occurred since my father was here. I have seen a little more of the folly of the world, and have experienced more of the weakness and worthlessness of my own heart. I have written to John Adam about Madras, but have not yet received an answer."

"Tennoch Side, October 26, 1826.

My dear sister,

I believe you owe me a letter; but as I am not very punctual in paying my debts in that way in general, it may perhaps atone for some long delayed epistle, to have sent one, at least, before it was due. I often think that my letters are too abstract to interest you, and that this discourages you from writing freely to me. I have seen parts of the country you have never visited, and have sometimes thought of sending you some descriptions of scenery, &c. But really, I have no head for description. Trees, and fields, and rivers, occur every where; and were I to tell you what I have seen in that way, it would only recal the scenes you yourself are familiar with; for I have not the tact of classifying and arranging these elements of natural description, so as to form any distinct picture of a particular landscape. But I have made a journey lately, where there were no trees, no fields; there was a river, indeed, beside us, but fish never swam in it; and in the air, far around, a bird had never been known to fly. After this mysterious introduction, I feel obliged to apologize for my subject. But after all, I can assure you, though you may hear people talk with great contempt of a coal pit, you may travel many a mile in this world of light and sunshine, without seeing any thing half so wonderful as the coal mines at Dysart. But this I should have left you to guess after my descrip

tion; for I fear, after having said so, I shall fail to make you think as I say. Well, to fall upon the subject, without further preface. Having made an engagement the day before, with my good friend Mr. Barclay, who conducts the work, and who promised to equip me for the expedition, I repaired to his house early after breakfast. I found only one dress had been procured, which they insisted on giving to me. I wish you had seen us as we set out. You can fancy my slender body wrapt in a sailor's jacket and trowsers which had been made for a stout man, and crowned with an immense old hat which had an irresistible tendency to rest upon my shoulders. After half an hour's walk in this fantastic attire, during which time I afforded some merriment to the natives, and felt now and then a little hesitation on the subject of personal identity, we reached the place of descent. It is a perpendicular shaft, with a wooden partition in the middle, reaching to the bottom. On one side of this partition are placed short wooden ladders, in a zig-zag direction, from top to bottom of the pit. Having each lighted his candle, we addressed ourselves to the work of descending, and were right glad, after some fatigue and no little wariness, to find that we had reached the bottom. At this spot, we were about half a mile from the shaft where the coals are taken up. Mr. Barclay led the way with a lanthorn, and after we had followed for some time, we began to perceive that we had entered a spacious gallery: the roof about twelve feet high. By the glimmer of our