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that time, which looked so fair to her that trusted me, should have been false and treacherous to her best interests in the sight of the Most High. Juliet loved she was beloved—this was now her past, her present, and her future; all memories, all hopes, were centered in this one engrossing theme; and, now that my suggestions flattered the wishes of her heart in this dearest instance, she no longer hesitated to follow them in all besides. You have heard that she was then an orphan under the guardianship of her brothers; from their estranged and haughty spirits she had little indulgence to expect; but to me she looked, to stand in the place of parent, guide, acquaintance, and, in gratifying her affection, I reaped my own reward.

“She was joined unto idols—she worshipped in their gorgeous temple, their incense was wreathed around her, their pealing chaunts vibrated on her ear, she knelt to a fellow creature, from his lips she received absolution, and from step to step the victim was hurried, until the sacrifice was complete. No time for hesitation, not a moment for recollection, her heart so full of earthly happiness, that she even looked up to heaven and saw no cloud : and thus amid smiles and acclamations, soft regrets, sweet parting words, her bridal hour came and quickly vanished, and she departed to another land, with another name, to return to us no more.”

“She was gone—was I happy ? did my heart enjoy its triumph? Ah no! it soon suffered a re-action in its blank loneliness. I missed her, so long a paramount object in my thoughts and plans, and the past rose up, as if to mock me, when I would congratulate myself on what I had done. And then came a sad, a desolate conviction of the imperfection of human goodness, the weakness of its best resolutions, the instability

of its fairest plans; and I asked myself with bitterness, was there anything to be relied on, anything perfect, or genuine, or durable, on this ever-changing earth? Here had been a creature, innocent, earnest, and sincere, her heart already winged towards heaven, her foot lifted from the earth ; and was she thus to turn back at the first breath of human passion ? were hopes that thus seemed to pierce eternity, to be satisfied with a world that passeth away? I looked only to secondary causes, both as accomplishing my own work, and that which I had overthrown; and was ignorant of that higher influence which regulated each for His own wise ends.

THE JUDGMENT OF A FOE.

[The following is a short extract from the chief Romish newspaper of London.]

“ It is only by cherishing in her clergy and her actions a portion of the spirit of Luther, Wesley, and Whitfield, that the Church of England' can secure the continuance of friendship and support. The more religious portion of the community will yield her their approbation on no other terms. She cannot be Catholic, and therefore, she must be Lutheran, or she will lose the friends that still remain. The good old days are gone by-the days of sinecures and pluralities, of exclusive royal and noble favour. The days of reality, of struggle, of action, of competition, are come ; new and mighty powers are in operation ; infidelity is not, as formerly, offensive and blasphemous in its langnage and professedly hostile to Christianity; it uses the name of Christ-it advocates His divine laws – it is hardly conscious that it is not itself truly Christian ; and thus it has gained a mighty inwrought influence in the hearts of tens of thousands who have taken it for their faith, in good earnest, with almost an honesty of purpose and a most determined will. The Catholic religion, too, knocks at the very doors of the established body : it is no longer a by-word among men: the possibility of England's becoming Catholic once more is already contemplated by those who, till lately, scouted the idea as the most preposterous of absurdities: already the

echo of the distant chant seems to swell along the vaulted roof of Westminster, and the crowds who throng the solemn pile in the spirit of sight-seeing almost anticipate the day when the clouds of incense shall float on high from the purified sanctuary, and the cross be carried aloft in stately procession along the solemn aisles (!!)

“Nothing less, therefore, than life of some kind can save the tottering fabric, which hitherto has been called the National Church. But where is life to be foundsuch a life, we mean, as can commend itself to the great body of an independent people--save in the principles which are held by the Evangelical party in the Establishment, in common with the Wesleyans, Baptists, and Independent Dissenters ? The theory called “ Anglo-Catholicism” can never make its way with the people. It has not even the semblance of the true Gospel in the eyes of the multitude. It finds here and there an advocate, or a conscientious disciple, among the educated and the refined. Clergymeu will accept its principles, sometimes through disgust with the popular religion—sometimes because it is the nearest approach to the Catholicism with which they are acquainted—sometimes becauseitfurnishes a ready weapon with which they may combat the claims of the Dissenting preacher. But for the philosophical and religious mind, unbiassed by professional ties-for the energetic man of business

for the hardworking mechanic-it has no charms. It is essentially a clerical religion, unfit for the poor, unfit for mankind.”

THE MIDNIGHT MEAL. *

The moonlight coldly glimmereth upon that granite

height, Coldly glimmereth on the sea with an uncertain light. "Tis silent,--all is silent,—but the Atlantic's roar ; Yet crowds come at this midnight ebb, and spread along

the shore. There's no boat for the deep sea fishing, no pearls

among the stones ; No vessel stranded on the rocks; no shipwrecked sai

lor's groans.

Alas, the hungry people, that for a hungry meal
Gather the ocean's meanest spoils—the echin, and the

eel! Alas, the dying people! for that unwholesome food Makes sore the pang it lengthens out-sends fever to

the blood. Oh! but the land is weary, and pineth sore for bread ; And it's hopeless,-all but hopeless,—that her thousands

should be fed. Oh ! look, ye southern countries, what crop the northern

yields; The barren sand lies to our hand, but rotten are our

fields ! 'Tis six long months, God help us ! to the ripening of

the grain ; And death will have his harvest first, ere harvests be

again.

* From the Edinburgh Witness, Feb. 17, 1847.

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