REV. MR. CLAP.

THE late Rev. Mr. Clap, of Rhode Island, was asked by a member of his church, whether he thought it right to engage in dancing? His reply was, "I should think that those who are out of Christ should have no heart to dance, and those who are in Christ will have enough else to do."

REV. DR. WADDELL.

THOSE who have read Mr. Wirt's fine work, the "British Spy," will remember the graphic and touching description of the preaching of the blind Presbyterian preacher, as already narrated in this volume. It is no fancy sketch; the scene actually occurred as it is described. A descendant of his has lately published a letter which was originally addressed to Mr. Wirt, but not printed by him. It will be read with great interest.

To the Author of the British Spy:

The distinguished notice you have taken of the Rev. James Waddell, of Virginia, in the character of the "Blind Preacher," has induced me to give you some account of an event unnoticed by you, and which forms an era in his life. I refer to the restoration of his sight. I do this with less reserve, since it is generally understood that the "British Spy" had been long a warm friend of the subject of this notice; and that his removal from the vicinity of the "Blind Preacher," in whose hospitable mansion he had received many and warm greetings, had left him uninformed of the event to which I have alluded,

and of the circumstances which I propose to detail. You have described him as blind, and, while occupying the rude enclo sure of a forest pulpit, addressing an unseen multitude in strains of eloquence which might captivate cities and win the admiration of grave senates. The incidents to which I refer were more private; in his own house, and in the midst of his family. For eight years he had been blind-a stranger equally to the cheerful light of day and the cheering faces of kindred and friends. It will readily be supposed, that in this lapse of time great changes had taken place. The infant had left the knee to rove amidst the fields; the youth had started into manhood, and, bidding adieu to the haunts of his childhood, had gone forth to act for himself upon the theatre of life; with the hope, indeed, of again and again looking upon his venerable father, but without hope of that father's ever looking upon him. A calm and patient resignation had settled over the mind of this man of God, as a summer's cloud settles over the horizon of evening. Peaceful, hopeful, and reclining upon the bosom of heaven, every painful solicitude about himself had fled away. This personal peace and Christian submission were calculated, however, to concentrate his reflections and solicitudes upon the destinies of his family, here and hereafter. His eye could not now see for them; but he had a heart to invoke the watchfulness of an eye that neither slumbers nor sleeps; that neither grows dim with age nor infirmity. His palsied hand could guide them no longer, but patriarchal counsel was freely given, and enforced by the tremendous realities of a future existence. The thread to be followed through the labyrinth of life, it was taught, had its fastenings in eternity; time and all sublunary things should be viewed in the light of eternity. But, although the mental vision was acute and wisely circumspect, the dark curtain still hung over the organs of sight, and seemed to rise no more.

And what if it should be otherwise; that hope of sight

should take the place of resignation to blindness; and, more than this, that hope should be turned into fruition; that, after the darkness of eight years, he should be presented with a broad daylight view of every thing around him! And this, I assure you, was almost a fact; for, after an operation for cataract, which, in the progress of years, had rendered light sensible, and then objects faintly visible, a strong and well constructed convex lens, procured by the kindness of a distant friend, enabled him to see with considerable distinctness. At this juncture, I happened to be at his residence-called by himself, long before, "Hopewell," and now fulfilling, in happy reality, the import of a soft and cheerful name. The scene, without dispute, was the most moving that I ever witnessed. The father could again see his children, who riveted his attention and absorbed his soul. Among these, emotions of intense interest and varied suggestions were visible in the eye, the countenance, and the hurried movements. The bursts of laughter-the running to and fro-the clapping of hands-the sending for absent friends—and then the silent tear bedewing the cheek in touching interlude-the eager gazes of old servants, and the unmeaning wonder of young ones-in short, the happy confusion from the agitation of joy-all taken together, was a scene better adapted to the pencil than the pen, and which a master's hand might have been proud to sketch. How I regretted that the mantle of some Raphael or Michael Angelo had not fallen upon me; then had my fame and my feelings each been identified with the scene, and others should have been permitted to view upon the canvas what I must fail to describe upon paper.

The paroxysm produced by the arrival of the glasses having passed away, and a partial experiment having satisfied all of their adaptation to the diseased eye, behold the patriarch seated in his large arm-chair, with his children around him, scanning with affectionate curiosity the bashful group. There was a

visible shyness among the lesser members of the family com munity, while undergoing this fatherly scrutiny, not unlike that produced by a long absence. The fondness of a father in contemplating those most dear to him, was never more rationally exemplified, or exquisitely enjoyed, than on this occasion.

And now, the venerable man, arising from his seat and grasping a long staff which lay convenient to him, had pro-. ceeded but a short distance, when the staff itself seemed powerfully, but momentarily, to engage his attention: it had been the companion of his darkest days, the pioneer of his domestic travels, and the supporter of a weak and tottering frame.

He next proceeded to the front door, to take a view of the mountains; the beautiful south-west range stretching out in lovely prospect, at the distance of about three miles. All føllowed, myself among the rest; and the mountain scene, though viewed a thousand times before, was now gazed upon with deeper interest, and presented a greater variety of beauties than ever. Indeed, this mountain scenery ever after continued to delight my unsatisfied vision: whether my attention had not before this been carefully drawn to its beauties, or that the suggestive faculty, linking the prospect with the sympathetic pleasures previously enjoyed, had thrown around me a pleasing delusion, I am unable to decide. Delusion apart, however, this sunny base of the south-west mountains is a delightful region, distinguished not only by the natural advantages of a fertile soil, salubrious climate, and beautiful scenery, but by a race noted for the social virtues and for a higher order of intellect. But to return to the individual whom I had left exercising a new-born vision upon the external world. The book-case interviews I had looked for with solicitude, and presently had the pleasure of witnessing. Watts, and Doddridge, and Locke, and Reid, with a host of worthies, had been the companions of his best days: there had been a long night of separation. The meeting and communion was that of kindred souls, and

complimentary alike to his piety, scholarship, and taste. The sight of his own handwriting, upon the blank leaves of his books, was in itself a small circumstance, but seemed to affect him not a little, associated no doubt with varied circumstances of past days.

I left the house, full of reflections. I had been always awed by the solemn sanctity and personal dignity of the "Blind Preacher." The yearning solicitude which I had just witnessed, of such a father over his children, seen now for the first time after the dreary blindness of years, had melted my feelings. My imagination took flight, and, passing rapidly through time, was conducted by the incidents of this day to the resurrection morning; when the saint of God, throwing off the trammels of the tomb, with quickened vision and more than mortal solicitude, looks around for the children of his pilgrimage.

REV. MR. SPENCER.

THE Rev. Mr. Spencer, of New York, has furnished the following statement :

A poor minister once called upon me, saying that his horse and carriage were under a mortgage, which was soon to be foreclosed, and he had no money to pay it. During the night on which he stayed at my house, I was much disturbed in thinking over his case. I felt that I must help him, though my circumstances, at first view, seemed to forbid even the idea. On parting with the good man, in the morning, I presented him with five dollars, which was all the money I had. He hesitated when he saw the amount, and said that so large a donation might embarrass me. "No," said I; "it is, indeed, all I have, but you should have more if I had it. I consider