ELL me, my dear Reginald,-said Ann Warlingham to her brother, as they sat together in the little study at Yateshull Vicarage, "tell me what you are writing. The question is not a very discreet one, I confess; but then a sister who has travelled so many miles of cross-country road to visit you in your solitude has a right to extraordinary privileges. I have been sitting at my work till I am quite wearied with it, and have not spoken a word for fear of interrupting you: but now I see the pen laid down, and the folio volume closed, and locked,

B

my feminine curiosity can contain itself no longer. May I not know the subject of those closely written pages? Is it divinity, or history, or a novel, or a tragedy, or your own confessions, or what?"

"No, Ann," said Reginald smiling, "you must guess again; for it is none of these things. And yet," he added gravely, "it partakes of all of them. Probably there is more divinity for every-day life here," continued he, laying his hand on the book, "than in many professed treatises on the subject,—more truth than in many histories,-more thrilling incidents than most novels will supply,-deeper scenes of tragedy than would be tolerated on the stage, and for confessions, believe me, I never look into it without confessing my own deficiencies and errors of judgment, and the utter inadequacy of human weakness to a right discharge of the pastoral care. But, not to raise your curiosity, only for the purpose of disappointing it, you must know that the volume which excites your interest is, in fact, a sort of daily register of conversations with the various members of my flock, under all the eventful circumstances of weal and woe, in

which ministers and people are brought together: but chiefly, its narratives relate, as I have intimated, to scenes of doubt, and mental difficulty, of sin and sorrow, of sickness and of death."

"It must be, in truth, a painful record, then," said Ann Warlingham; "so painful, that I wonder you have courage to keep it."

ago, when I was a

"There is something, perhaps, in habit," was Reginald's answer; 66 for the volume before you is but one of many. I pursued the same plan as steadily ten years curate in a large town, as now in my quiet vicarage of Yateshull: but, no doubt, I have often gone through scenes which it would have been far more pleasant to have forgotten than to have remembered, if, at least, I could have felt justified in discharging the record of them from my memory; but this, upon principle, I could not do. My opinion is this: if souls are committed to my charge, for every one of which I must give account, (if not for the success, yet at least for the diligence and faithfulness of my labours,) I cannot but feel that every single case which is brought under my notice, ought, in so far as it increases my experience,

and gives me a further knowledge of human nature, to make me somewhat more efficient in the discharge of my duties as a parish-priest than I was before. If, then, each case as it arises is noted down with such clearness and precision as recent recollection will supply, it can scarcely fail, when similar circumstances again occur, to prove a valuable monitor, whether by warning me against former errors in judgment, or by shewing me how a difficulty has been already met successfully. In ordinary life, the best physician is the one who sees and marks the greatest number of cases. He is so, because his science having at the outset afforded him general rules, his experience and observation of many particular instances enables him to classify and apply them with propriety as each emergency arises. The acutest observer of symptoms is best prepared to meet them. And this, which we all admit in the case of those whose profession it is to minister to the diseases of our bodies, can hardly be less true in the case of those who are physicians to the soul. My habit, therefore, is to set down upon paper every morning the occurrences and conversations of the day

before. And this, my dear Ann, was the employment which excited your not unreasonable curiosity."

"Well, at any rate," said his sister, "I shall cease to wonder when I see you so much absorbed in your task, as you appeared to be just now; but how comes it that so few of your brother-clergymen follow your plan?"

"Oh," replied Reginald smiling, "that is begging the question. What right have you to assume that their numbers are so few? As you cannot know that such is the case, the only inference that can safely be drawn on the subject is, that there are not a great many sister Anns in the world, boiling over with curiosity, and possessed of brothers weak enough to betray their own secrets. But to be serious. There is proof positive, that I at least am not the only clergyman who has adopted this system. The publication of the late Dr. Warton's papers since his decease establishes this fact: and I am sure that his Death-bed Scenes is a work which must afford instruction and delight to every reader."

"But do you consider it quite fair, Reginald, by your parishioners, to form such a re