light, sitting down on the ground, and clasping her hands, uttering in a voice of such passionate earnestness, as even startled herself: "I would gladly die this moment to solve that problem." That girl could be no cipher in the world. She could be no mere unit. For good or evil she was destined to exert considerable influence.

Her love for poetry, for flowers, for everything beautiful in nature or in art, amounted to a passion. Of course the books she read left deep traces on her mind. With a retentive memory, and a vivid imagination, she became almost a reflection of the writers she loved. It was easy, at that period, to discover her literary companionships.

One illustration of her high spirit is well remembered. She was a pupil, and not beyond her eighth year. In the master's temporary absence one day, some occurrence had transpired which kindled his displeasure. He deemed Eliza's younger sister to be chief culprit, and ordered her into the "naughty corner." Eliza, knowing her sister's innocence, rose from her seat, marched boldly forth, brought away the victim, and with defiant majesty exclaimed: "My sister shall not be put into the corner." Acquiescence was deemed prudent, however unmagisterial.

Her sensitive nature could not fail, under ordinary circumstances, to secure exquisite enjoyment; neither could it fail to induce occasional despondency. She had large experience, during one period of her youthful history, of the truth of Burns' well-known lines—

"Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

Thrill with deepest notes of woe."

A glance at that pale countenance was enough to

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:

satisfy any intelligent observer that the activity of the brain was morbid. For many successive nights sleep refused its visit for hours after her retirement. Instead of acting as a check to the pernicious practice of late study, this unhappily promoted it. Rapid growth contributed to physical debility, and caused her to suffer much from tic-doloreux at one period, whilst the remedy employed was almost as mischievous as the disease, from the nervous irritability it caused. As a natural consequence many occurrences, domestic and providential, wore a chilling and gloomy aspect. Mentioning, later in life, some unwelcome experiences of which she was the subject, she says to Mrs. W"All this may seem very strange to you, but it would not, if you could read my mental history—if you knew what formed and educated my childhood—the utter want of companionship I experienced-the delicate and sickly form which for many years was the tabernacle of a shrinking, sensitive spirit, whose aliment was the sublime but mysterious images of Revelation, the allegories of Bunyan, and such poetry and fiction as came in my path. I spoke of want of companionship, but mine was with the deep woods, or beside a lonely pond under a large ash tree, whose music, as the wind swept it, I can now recal-shunned by and shunning those of my own age, whose kindness was almost as offensive to me as their ridicule or contempt. At an age when most children are revelling in the sunshine of their own joyous natures, I was revolving, in my unnaturally excited and fevered mind, such themes as the existence of God, the strange enigma of my own being and destiny, and sometimes, I could weep to remember it, whispering in the depths of my dark heart, 'There is no God.' And when the fearful lie

was returned to me, I added, 'but He cannot be just and good, or He would not see me suffering and oppressed without avenging me.'"

It must be confessed that her parents had an onerous charge. And yet it was a highly interesting one. One of the most interesting spectacles on earth is that of a mind in a state like hers-full of deep questionings and lofty aspirations-eager after truth, but unwilling to accept it without scrutiny. Should not such minds excite our deep sympathy? Should not their inquiries be judiciously excited, rather than frowningly depressed? Should not we, who are parents, encourage our children to confide to us the strange, perplexing thoughts, which often haunt them, but which they shrink from disclosing? Who can estimate the number of melancholy moral wrecks occasioned by the chilling repulses with which sincere, though adventurous, inquirers have been met? No wonder that immediately after the paragraph just quoted, Miss Hessel should have added: Since I have grown up I have had an intense sympathy with Byron's childhood." It makes one almost tremble to think what might have been the issue, had she been similarly treated. It is not without solicitude one asks: What will the issue be? Shall those mental and moral materials be one day formed into a noble structure, or shall they become a mis-shapen and repulsive mass! Hope pronounces favourably, and faith endorses the reply.

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The circumstances amid which she was placed were, on the whole, highly favourable. Retirement was essential to the right formation of her character. Catterton, her birth-place, furnished it. It is a small hamlet, lying at the distance of three miles north of

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Tadcaster, consisting of ten or twelve houses, four of which were occupied by labourers. The society of such a place presented nothing of peril to her nature. Additional stimulus to her social powers would undoubtedly have been beneficial, physically and mentally. Many an hour of gloom would have been exchanged for sunshine. But the evil of town-residence to most young persons is, that the social faculties are stimulated to excess. Hence the dissipation and frivolity which so generally prevail, and which cannot be sufficiently deplored. Would she not, however, in the event of such a residence, have been spared those perplexing doubts-that long mental disquietude? Probably she would, but the benefit of that may be justly doubted. The discipline through which she passed, every person must more or less experience who would have a faith alike intelligent and firm. Truly is it said by the biographer of the late Rev. John Smith: “No one was ever distinguished, except by successful engagement with difficulty." Anything that would have prevented her from prosecuting those inquiries would have been a calamity rather than a benefit. The doubts and perplexities of a truth-seeker are the stimulants wisely provided to increase mental vigour, as well as secure joyous and abiding satisfaction. Had Miss Hessel resided in a town, she would have been the life of many a gay circle, but would not have been the well-informed and useful woman she became.

Powerful as are the influences of society in moulding youthful character, those operating silently and unconsciously in the domestic circle, are still more so. What, then, was the moral atmosphere she breathed at home? One fact will be a sufficient answer. The whole five children-two sons and three daughters

became truly pious. Both the sons were called to the Christian ministry. The elder went down to his grave at twenty-four, lamented by many, to some of whom he had been a blessing; and the younger, now also deceased, occupied for some years one of the most important positions in the Wesleyan church in Australia. Her father, Benjamin Hessel, was a man of strong mind and sterling moral excellence, a worthy descendant of ancestors who had occupied a farm at Althorp, in the neighbourhood of Howden, for about five hundred years. Her mother, Hannah Hessel, was a genuine Christian, born of parents who bravely shared the reproach which assailed the early Methodists. To her pious example and fervent prayers all her children feel an incalculable obligation. Their youthful hearts were drawn to seek the Lord in a voluntary gathering for prayer, on a Sunday afternoon. From her infancy Miss Hessel was the subject of the strivings of the Spirit. 'Happy parents," some mother may be prompted to exclaim, "to possess such children." Happy children," with no less appropriateness it may be said, "to possess such a mother."

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In August 1842, an interesting domestic occurrence transpired, which exercised a potent influence on Miss Hessel. Her elder sister, Mary Ann, became the wife of the Rev. Thomas Brumwell, a Wesleyan Minister. To her great joy it was arranged that she should spend a few months with the wedded pair at MeltonMowbray. She now fairly entered upon social life, and her open-heartedness, and rapidly unfolding mental powers, won for her warm attachments. Besides the books in the possession of her friends, many of which were new to her, of course she had access to her brother's library, and the famishing man does not