"Yes, I heard of his having been at your chapel, and I must confess that I was astonished. Why, no man has talked more against your irregularities than he has; but now, such is the inconstancy of man, he is become an advocate of your opinions. But I am too old to change, and too much attached to consistency to deviate from the course I have followed for so many years. Even the eloquence of Mrs. Stevens, and that eloquence I know is powerful, would fail in producing any effect on my mind. I have many objections against educating the children of the poor, and more against worshipping in any other place than the Established Church, and I think that no force of argument would be sufficiently strong to overpower them." "There are," said Mr. Lewellin, "the objections of prejudice, and there are the objections of reason; and though it is not always in our power to draw the line of distinction between them, yet we should attempt it. I lay it down as an axiom, which is founded in the very constitution of the human mind, that a child cannot discharge his duty till he knows what that duty is; he cannot know it till he is taught it; and the earlier the information is communicated, the sooner shall we secure his obedience, and the more uniform it is likely to become. Hence the necessity and utility of Sunday-schools." I had hitherto sat silent, but now I related the conversation I had had with the little boy[7] whom I accidentally met in one of my morning rambles. [7] See page 43. "The shrewd intelligence of this boy may be a solitary instance," said Mr. Roscoe; "but I fear that the plan will be found productive of fatal consequences. Our poor population will grow genteel in their habits; proud and discontented, and unwilling to discharge the duties of their station; and by being taught to read, will become either religious disputants or avowed infidels." "No, this is not a solitary instance of the utility of Sunday-schools. I can give many others." I then described the scene which I witnessed in the woodman's cottage, narrating, at the same time, the conversation which passed between myself and his dying child.[8] As I was telling this tale, a tear dropped from the eye of Miss Roscoe, and her countenance beamed with delight. [8] See page 105. "Ah! how I should like to have witnessed such a scene--a little girl languishing into life." "Indeed, my Sophia," said Mr. Roscoe, with a tone somewhat harsh, "I should not like for you to have been present. This artificial excitement of the passions--this effervescence of feeling in the bosom of a child in the near approach of death, is no recommendation of the plan by which the effect is produced."