452 THE GREAT THIRST LAND. 



strolling up the gentle incline of St. James's Street. 

 "But will they a' come back again? "and, doubtless, 

 may be added, " And mithers grat as they marched 



awaV 



I met many friends and received the offer of much 

 hospitality when at the Fields, but from the state of my 

 health I was compelled to consider myself an invalid. 

 In consequence of the rumour of my illness, an Episco- 

 palian clergyman called upon me. He was a most 

 charming person, very young, very earnest, and a de- 

 lightful conversationalist. During my intercourse with 

 him quite a little episode took place so improbable 

 that I would fail to tell it if I could not present the 

 testimony of the following letter. It occurred in this 

 way. Mr. Balfour (for I do not hesitate to give his 

 name, when what I narrate only proves how earnest, 

 sincere, and self-denying he is in his labours) casually 

 inquired of me if, in all my trials and struggles, escapes 

 from death, where life was all but sacrificed, I ever felt 

 serious ? 



" Yes," I replied ; " I do sometimes." 



"When, and where ?" were his further queries. 



"I will tell you I don't mind doing so to you, 

 but it is a subject I usually taboo. In one of the 

 Midland Counties of England there is a little church, 

 in my opinion the most perfect place of worship I 

 ever entered. Of a calm summer evening, when all 

 nature lies in repose, when the husbandman plods home- 

 wards from his toil, and the happy-hearted children, 

 released from school, laugh and sing, and scamper 

 about in excess of enjoyment, I used to mount my 

 horse (for it was some miles off) and ride to this holy 

 place, and there seek and receive comfort for my past 



