Though not young-though poor-though absent to the point of putting a shoe instead of a prayer-book into his pocket, when he set forth to admonish Mrs. Froggatt-Mr. Vavasour has all his life been an object of great anxiety to the females of his congregation; and a good wife for him" has been wished by so many, that it has evidently meant (when a Lady was the speaker, and single,) a good wife of my choosing. Few men pass through this ordeal without giving due offence: not so, however, Mr. Vavasour: too innocent, and too honourable to be charged with a moment's coquetry with any mentionable woman: whether before or after dinner (there is much, dear Ladies! in this "whether")-and the solitary objection made to his admirable conduct, took the form of Miss Dripps-who has always been serious about Papistry-saying that she was confident Mr. Vavasour must have taken a vow of Celibacy; and that she could not "stand by, were he ten times the favourite he was." But there are some who assert that Miss Dripps was a disappointed woman; who maintain that a certain sermon "about over-confidence in expectation," preached about the time of her censure, by Mr. Vavasour, might, obliquely, touch her case. But that cannot be : there is no obliquity in any of the proceedings of the Curate of St. Simon's.

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You will judge, however, of the consternation of all our Ladies, when, one fine Tuesday, the fact broke out, that a widow gentlewoman, and her daughter, had arrived, on the preceding evening, at Mr. Vavasour's lodgings-to live with him? Perhaps Truth, when naked, is always less dangerous than when it hath a cocked hat and a walking cane. And the monstrosity of the announcement so stunned us all, that nothing was left to learn. The Curate made no mystery of the fact, though he was in a wondrous bustle, and, as he confessed himself, 'truly taken by surprise. An old friend-who had been in trouble-and who thought the air of Pewterer's Passage would agree with her . . . . And then there was always such a danger of single men growing selfish—and her little girl was just the charge he should like. ... of such clauses was made up Vavasour's incoherent explanation to my Mrs. Bell; who, being in an eternal state of civil war with the Ladies of our Row, stopped him point blank on the causeway, to learn what we were to think." Quite right! like yourself, dearest Mr. Vavasour," was my wife's reply-delighted at having the first confidence. And then he went, bubbling on, to tell how

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every body in the house was so delighted! "Plush," this was his own peculiar dog of dogs, "had been aware, for some days, that odd things were going on; and had never failed to pull the postman's coat-tail every morning; and, what was more extraordinary, he had declined taking his daily walk-not to be out of the way! And Plush had expressed his willingness to take a part, by giving up his little luxuries too! I, my pipehe his liver-Ah! Mrs. Bell, these dumb creatures might set some of us an example-and had jumped without invitation (having first wiped his paws very clean) into Mr. Meckell's lap!" &c. &c.

"And when is the day to be, dear Mr. Vavasour?"

"THE DAY?" was his reply, in a tone of terror more unaffected, my wife assures me, than ever she heard from man, woman, or child. "O, I hope people won't fancy that! It would make her so uncomfortable, poor thing!" and down the Row shuffled the Curate of St. Simon's, chased, as it were, by some painful thought.

It was his old love the Bishop's Daughter! Years and years before that time had her gold become dross. Her manufacturerhusband proved unfortunate in business, and from being unfortu nate, became unkind to her. His vast fortune had melted away -and with it his little love. And her prosperous sisters had declared it, according to Prosperity's fashion, to be all her fault -some (these were the serious ones) speaking of "judgments -others (these were the worldly) deducing it from "the horrid political opinions" of the man she had married-and Saints and Sinners alike, agreeing, in the easy and soporific quietus to their own benevolence-that "as she had made her bed, so she must lie in it! " Mrs. Vicar Dartmouth could not have any communication with one "who would bring Unitarians about the house." Lady Soley "must think for the Earl, as well as herself." So those who would take her in, might. And as she fulfilled the Johnsonian definition of being "ugly, and sickly, and foolish, and poor"—no one would have compassion on the luckless Rhoda, save He who had walked through the window to get rid of her sister the Curate of St. Simon's! Of course they were not married; but in his lodging she died, after slowly wasting for many years. The bodily privations to which he was reduced thereby will never be known; but week by week his spirit became more and more that of an Angel; and I used, without knowing

why, to look out for him, as he passed, during the last months of his inmate's life; little guessing what it was that put into his face the smile which did my heart so much good! He is bringing up the little girl we think, for my second boy-but, naturally, do not wish this divulged.

Now tell me, friendly and affectionate Reader-whatsoever be the complexion of your creed-have I not kept my word, and treated you to "A RELIGIOUS SUBJECT?"

POEM TO LEIGH HUNT ON HIS SIXTIETH BIRTHDAY.

THE spirits of immortal friends-long passed
To realms beyond the echo of Time's foot
Marking the years and hours on earth-this day
Regard thee-Shelley from his radiant sphere,
Which with his spirit's poetry maintains
A silvery symphony; and finds its strain
Enriched in tone 'bove that of sister-stars,

And grown the voice of Freedom, Truth, and Love..
Keats from some Planet with a mythic name,
Hyperion's Bard received into his shrine.
Lamb from an orb that like Memnonian lyre
Sings in th'eternal sunshine of his soul.
And Byron from a world with music jarred
As by internal earthquake:-he thee hails
Victor o'er private woes more stern than his,
'Neath which he wailing drooped-a sun-blind Bard.
They view the fountain of thy spirit, still
Ever-fresh springing from the earth, as when
They drank its waters here; which make the air
Around them buoyant, morning-like; inspiring
With a new youth their spirits quaffing them.

Thou sittest in thine age upon Time's shore,
Watching that bark of Truth surmount its tide,
For aiding which in storm her wreckers black
Smote thee in deadlier days: thy fortunes bear
The scars of bloodless honour to thy tomb.

The birthdays of the men baptised in blood,
Who call gore glory, and name horror honour,
Blinding man's conscience which they cannot kill,
Beget the birthdays of her fatal foes,

Truth's sentinels, -as storms the rainbow bear.
Who pass her watch-word down the path of Time;
Who keep alive her beacon-fires, which show
Her true face; countermarch dark Falsehood's arms,
And tear the chaplet from her veiled brow ;.
Proving a nightshade her misnomered laurel ;
Cutting the gordian net around men's souls.
But for them, Good, might die out of the world.
As many a hearth-that sanctuary blest
From th' outer world-is smileless made by them
Who lure men from it in false Glory's name;
So many a home thy heart and fancy bless
With their outpourings:-turning passive things
To enchanted ministers of Delight and Love.
The childhood of men all-is poetry.
But 'tis an amaranth of unfading bloom

In oh, how few!-the wintry world-blight clings,
With all the canker-worms that eat the heart
To hollowness. Its spirit of delight
And wonder at all Nature's simplest forms,
And her sublimest,-sickens from the soul:
By parents chilled who have outlived the sense,
Poisoned by weeds of earthy care and wrong,
Cut by the whistling hail of scorn and slight.
The heart-filled, open hand of brother love
Closes at meeting no returning grasp;
Till self-defence begets self-love alone.

Lo! the Leigh Hunts arise !-whose beings have

A constitution, in delight and love

Too vital to be killed in childhood's growth,

Or take the world's contagious blight when men.
A natural religion in their souls,

A sense of lovely mystery in all life,

Of a spirit in all nature kin to man's.

With all the strength of manhood's utterance
They pour their natures into weaker hearts.

:

But oh! they have their guerdon and thy life
Has doubled been in thoughts and feelings great;
In acts to bless thy age's memory late;
As who ascends at eve the mountain's height,
Shall yet bask radiant in the sun's last light
When men in plains below grow dim in night.

FRANCIS WORSLEY.

THE REVOLUTIONARY FIREBRAND.

We live surrounded with terrors: volcanoes are boiling beneath our feet; the lightning is darting above our heads; every day, something on which we had reposed in security is suddenly discovered to be but a thin plank thrown across the bottomless abyss ;-so heedless are we of the fearful mysteries of our existence, till some penetrating eye detects them, and some voice of warning betrays them! We dance heedlessly on the green sward, quite unconscious of its being the soft covering of a grave. denly a kind and anxious spectator, or, probably, some "vested interest" makes us aware of the fact, and our dance ceases-our merriment is chilled. How much we owe to those attentive alarmers to those sensitive appreciators of the hidden evil-to the warning voice which checks our laughter with the sudden revelation of the grave!

Sud

As if there were not horrors enough, another horror has been detected; as if our social existence were not sufficiently perilous, another danger has been discovered. There is though many know it not a fearful pestilence stalking abroad. There is a Firebrand flashing in the air, and on the eve of being hurled into the powder-magazine of the State. The horrible scheme of the Gunpowder Plot is paltry, in comparison-sinks into an insignificance of which Guy Fawkes, hoisted on dirty boys' shoulders, is the only adequate symbol.

"God bless me ! exclaims the alarmed reader, "I was not at all aware of this. I have heard of the Church in danger,' so long, that it has become like the cry of The wolf,' and I settle my fears with the proverb, creaking doors, &c.' But what is this Firebrand ? "

You may accuse us of paradox, if we answer truly; and yet we must not prevaricate. Know, then, that it has been discovered, aye and demonstrated, that the great Revolutionary Firebrand, which is to make our "Glorious constitution" an inglorious heap of blackened ruins, is no less a thing than this: the earnest Protest against Wrong!

If you see millions suffering from injustice, and you protest