ber at Richard Webb's, preparing for London, she would ask, and earnestly too, Had I done what I could?—had I not sometimes consulted my own ease?—had I labored to the extent, with hands, feet, money, tongue, pen, and influence, to do, by little or by great means, what my Master had required?—had I not sometimes, when condemning the whisky-drinking and wine-bibbing of the clergy and gentry, spent a penny on some little relish to take with my bread, when that penny would have given a poor laboring man a pound of meal, and my bread could have been taken without it? had I not burned a candle an hour, when neither reading or working, or put an additional piece of turf on the grate, when the poor, sick, dying cabiners had not either?—had I not paid a shilling for riding, when my feet were able for the journey? But above all, that trunk of clothes! When packing it to leave, the question was suggested, Is not this laying up treasures on earth? and should "moth corrupt," or "thieves break through and steal," my hoarding would be justly rebuked. I had often thought, as the last alternative, of selling everything for bread to give the starving, that could possibly be spared, without leaving myself in a suffering state. This had not been done, the clothes were hoarded, and the virtual thieves—the pawnbrokers—had taken if not stolen them. This was followed by the startling passage, "If thine own conscience condemn thee, God is greater than thy conscience, and knoweth all things." Oh! what searching of heart is there contained in the Holy Scriptures. Then again—
