at, which beautifully provides at once for the purity of the Apostle and the utility of his example, in the injunction to come out of the world; _yet_, while avoiding its contagion, not to mistake a local removal, or a cold abstraction from its concerns, for that holiness which the Great Founder of our religion urges on his followers. Mr. Stanley is a practical illustration of the precept intended, I am convinced, to be understood, as he enacts it.--Cheerful, elegant, informed, and pleasing, there is no society which is not rendered more agreeable by his presence; but there is none in which it would be possible to forget his sacred calling. Religion seems to have its rise in the centre of his heart, and to send forth streams into every action; yet not such as dash and foam, and startle by their impetuosity, but the existence of which, within the soil, is discovered from the verdure and fertility of the surface. His opinions seem, as far as I can judge in a short time, to be purely those of Gospel truth, equally remote from the lifeless formalism of what is now, by a strange and melancholy distinction, designated _Orthodoxy_; and, on the other side, those peculiar tenets so seldom honestly avowed, but sometimes defacing the Christian scheme, which derive their name and character from Geneva. Your friend, Alfred, realizes my idea of a faithful messenger. His piety is evangelical, but he is not a _Calvinist_--he is--what was I going to say? I had just begun a sentence when Fanny came flying into my room to tell me that the packet which sails on Monday is to waft us from the British shores. My uncle, it appears also, has received a letter stating, that the repairs of the parish church at Swainton, where Mr. Stanley is to officiate, cannot be completed under three months. In consequence of this intelligence, a warm invitation to accompany us on the Continent has been made and accepted; so we shall take our _chaplain_ with us, and I have no doubt that we shall find him a great acquisition to our party. The concluding week of our sojournment at Marsden was marked by some extraordinary events. Sir Christopher Cromie, the most pudding-headed puffin that ever was destined to take his seat in the House of Commons, has now the privilege of franking in such a _claw_--for hand-writing you cannot call it--that if he should doze away, per force of segars, the recollection of his own name, as I have been assured that a gentleman, equally enlightened with our baronet, once did, Sir Christopher’s autograph has this advantage over all others, that it may stand for any, or for every thing, according to the skill employed in deciphering his pot-hooks and hangers. He was duly returned--chaired--feasted; and gave a foretaste of his Parliamentary eloquence at a great election “_feed_,” as Mr. Bolton told us, in a speech which, though evidently conned over long before it was spoken, proved such a desperate failure, that even