CHAPTER XXVII.

AS Lefevre drew near the shores of the new world, he employed himself in writing letters to his friends. To his mother he first devoted his pen. He said every thing that affection and humility could suggest, to soothe and satisfy her; and enclosing it to Mr. Palmer, solicited it as a favor, that he would prepare her mind for intelligence from him, before he gave her the letter. He then addressed himself to his uncle, to Wallis, to Douglas, and to John Graham. The letters written to the two last named persons are so descriptive of his sentiments and disposition, at this time, that it will be proper to introduce them, with the exception only of a couple of paragraphs, which notice the events already described in the narrative.

Mr. Lefevre to Mr. Douglas.

Off Cape Breton,

On board the

"DEAR DOUGLAS,

"Believe what you see! This is indeed my hand writing. I am still in the land of the living. Will this news give you any pleasure! Yes, it will! I have first abused your friendship, and then cast it away, but you are still my friend. O, Douglas! my folly has caused those, who were most fit for friendship, gradually to forsake me; but you will not be of that number. me have the consolation of thinking, that I have one friend left to me; and that that friend is he, whom of all others, I have loved.

Let

After the lapse of so much time, I hardly know whether I should have written merely to inform you, that I exist; but, since I hope I can say I live to better purpose, it is my duty to inform you of it, as some compensation for all you have suffered on my account. Yes! I trust I may

assert, that the awful visitation of the Almighty, which you witnessed upon me, was not in vain! I resisted it as long as possible, but at length my proud heart was compelled to yield. It was softened, I hope, into penitence; and, I would believe, I am an instance of the truth of your maxim, that every returning penitent shall be forgiven.

"Forgiven! O, blessed be that mercy which forgives me!--but I can never forgive myself! The very sense I have of the divine forgiveness, aggravates every transgression I have committed. Have I, with a knowledge of the will of God, refused to do it? Have I, professing to regard religion, grossly dishonoured it? Have I opposed the preventing hand of Providence, till my: obstinacy made it necessary to that hand, in saving me, to shake my reason and my life, and give me for a season to "the buffeting of satan?" Have I pierced the bosom of the best of fathers, with the arrows of ingratitude and rebellion? Have I despised the gentle voice of a pitying, bleeding, dying Saviour?O, what

a sinner am I!-As perverse as Cain--as treacherous as Judas-as profane as Esau -as apostatizing as Peter-as worldly as Demas-And am I forgiven? Yes, I must believe, that the grace which has changed my heart, has pardoned my sin-but I cannot forgive myself! O that my head were waters, and my eyes a fountain of tears, then would I weep day and night for my transgressions!

*

"How wonderful are the ways of God! It was when I had put myself beyond the entreaties of friends and the ordinary means of grace;-it was when he had permitted me to weary myself with my own folly, and to taste the fruit of my own doings;-it was when my heart had settled down into an awful state of sullen indifference to time or eternity-that, with a naked and outstretched arın, he did the work alone! What grace!-What love!What forbearance! What wisdom!-I never think of it but I weep, and it is

scarcely ever absent from my thoughts. Surely his paths are in the sea, and his footsteps are not known.' 'He hath brought me up out of the horrible pit and the miry clay; and hath set my feet upon a rock, and hath established my goings; and hath put a new song into my mouth, even praise to my God!' O, if I am saved it must be as 'the very chief of sinners.' I have merited the lowest place in hell, and I desire nothing more than the lowest place on earth-the lowest place in heaven!

"Ah! Douglas though I have so long neglected your friendship, it is still natural to me to tell you all I feel; and you will not be in danger of concluding, from the disclosure of my sorrows, that I am really unhappy. You know, as much as any one, what is the joy of grief;' and that joy is now mine; the only joy, perhaps, that is suited to one, who has sinned as I have done. I grieve, and shall ever grieve, over my past course; but it is not the grief of chafed pride and desperate despair; it is, I trust, grief flowing from love, from faith, from hope. In the midst of such grief, I