tism; and its circulation at the present juncture cannot fail to be productive of beneficial results. We may also state in this part the great debt of gratitude we owe to the Metropolitan Church Union for a valuable pamphlet on the present state of the education question. It contains some excellent articles, which have appeared in the English Review; and, besides other matters of interest, the noble speech delivered by Lord Stanley in the House of Lords in 1839. To the Clergy these statements will prove of the utmost value; and we would venture to suggest to the same "working" body the necessity that exists for preparing some plain and concise tract, which may be disseminated throughout the length and breadth of the land. The time has now come for Churchmen to act, not to think; to dare, not to hesitate. True, the hope of the Church is in quiet and confidence, but not in that quiet which will allow sacred principles to be violated; not that confidence which will lead to sluggish inactivity. We cannot and must not part with our birthright for a miserable mess of pottage. It is no common crisis that has come upon us. The spiritual character of the Church must be contended for. The sinuous movements of the Committee of the Privy Council-the establishment of Kneller's Hall-show us, beyond question, that an attempt is being made to palm upon the country a rationalistic, secular education, in the place of that religious training which the Church's children have a right to demand at the Church's hand. It must be borne in mind, that in the correspondence with the Privy Council no pre-eminence was demanded. We simply claimed to be on the same footing, and to be permitted to establish and govern Church schools on Church principles. This has been denied us. Chains are being forged which we can never wear; for we cannot receive State assistance to compromise our principles, and betray our Church. To no other feeling than this can we attribute that grand meeting which was held in London during this month, and on which occasion burning words were spoken, the effect of which will be seen many days hence. An appeal will be made to Parliament, and we trust that thousands of signatures will be affixed to the petitions that will be sent up. But to effect this object, the minds of the people must be influenced-the real state of the case shown them-the real danger laid before them; and we know no means by which this may be better accomplished, than by the circulation of some short, nervously written tract, containing a succinct account of all the circumstances of the case. Again, then, we beg most strongly to urge this subject upon the consideration of the Union. The Cabinet. "THEY WHICH PREACH THE GOSPEL SHOULD LIVE OF THE GOSPEL." -For the right of the Christian ministers to an honourable maintenance, S. Paul assures all Christians that the LORD Himself ordained, "that they which preach the Gospel should live of the Gospel." And therefore, when we tell the people of the great sin of defrauding the ministers of GOD, and denying them the rights the laws of GoD and man have appointed them, we are doing our duty as faithfully as when we set before them the sin of stealing, of adultery, or of any other breach of the com mands of GOD, which will be followed with a curse in this life, and, if not repented of, with damnation hereafter. -BISHOP WILSON. PRAY FOR YOUR CHILDREN.-The first and most necessary duty of parents is, to pray for their children. Parents should know, and they should consider, that their children have from them a corrupt nature and prone to evil; and that if they are not hindered by the grace and providence of GOD, they will ruin themselves as sure as they live; and when they die, they will be lost for ever. Wretchedly careless, therefore, and wicked are those parents who do not carefully beg the blessing of GoD upon their children, and earnestly pray that GOD's grace may prevent and follow them all the days of their life. It was the observation of a very good man, That the children of muny prayers and tears do not often miscarry. I would to GoD that every parent would remember this.-IBID. As to sincere and faithful breast, A whispering sigh, ""Tis found, S. Valentine, 1850. C. A. W. Poetry. HEART'S-EASE. IN Eden's sinless sunny bower There bloomed a simple modest flower, Purple and white with golden streak, Scentless, low couched in grass, and meek; But exiled thence by Adam's fall, Seek for it not in yonder throng, But "Love in Idlesse" called when seen! Behold the pallid hoary Sage At white-veiled Altar low he kneels, * An allusion to the reply of a holy bishop to Monica, the mother of Augustine. Miscellaneous. AN INCIDENT IN A CHURCH CHOIR. When we reached the church, all the singers were there collected to practise in the choir, where the organ was. That part of the church was the only part lighted; all the rest was dark, which gave a very beautiful effect to the interior. While they were in the midst of their chanting, one of the boys suddenly turned to Montague, with his face as pale as ashes, and said, "Please sur, there's a sperut;" at the same time pointing to the end of the church, where there certainly was a dark figure moving. Montague immediately went down towards the tower, and found that it was one of the villagers, who had come in to listen unobserved. When he returned to the choir, he said to the boy," Now then, Harman, you see that it was not a spirit after all. But if it had been, you need not have been frightened, for what sort of a spirit must it be?" "A good angel, sir," said the tallest of the boys, directly. "And why, Newton ?" said Montagne. "Because bad spirits cannot get in here, sir." "Why cannot they?" "The Bishop has been here, sir." "Yes, quite true." "And bad spirits, sir, could not stop here if they got in," said little Harman, "because they can't abide Church music, can they, sir?" "No, my boy, they cannot. And if a bad spirit should come to you, as they can, you know, and do in other places, you need not fear, need you, unless you are a bad boy?" "No, sir, for they can't hurt me, because I am GOD's child."-Sharpe's Magazine, vol. V. p. 272. *This incident is a fact, and the conversation given as near as possible verbatim. ON Thursday morning Henrietta began to awake from her sound night's rest. Was it a dream that she saw a head between her and the window? She thought it was, and turned to sleep again; bur at her movement the head turned, the figure advanced, and Mrs Geoffrey Langford stood over her. Henrietta opened her eyes, and gazed upon her without saying word for some moments; then as her senses awakened, she hal sprung up. "How is mamma? Does she want me? Her aunt made an effort to speak, but it seemed beyond her 66 Why?" power "O aunt, aunt!" cried she, "what is the matter? What ha happened? Speak to me !" "Henrietta," said her aunt, in a low, calm, but hoarse tone. "she bade you bear up for your brother's sake." “But—but—” said Henrietta, breathlessly; “and she—” "My dear child, she is at rest." Henrietta laid her head back, as if completely stunned, and unable to realise what she had heard. "Tell me," said she, after a few moments. Her aunt knelt by her, and steadily, without a tear, began to speak. "It was at half-past twelve; she had been asleep some little time very quietly. I was just going to lie down on the sofa, when I thought her face looked different, and stood watching She woke, said she felt oppressed, and asked me to raise her pillows While she was leaning against my arm, there was a spasm, a shive and she was gone! Yes, we must only think of her as in perfec peace!" Henrietta lay motionless for some moments, then at last broke out with a sort of anger, "O why did you not call me!" "There was not one instant, my dear, and I could not ring, for fear of disturbing Fred. I could not call any one till it was too late." "O why was I not there? I would-I would-she must have heard me. I would not have let her go. O mamma!" cried Henrietta, almost unconscious of what she said, and bursting into a transport of ungovernable grief; sobbing violently, and uttering wild incoherent exclamations. Her aunt tried in vain to soothe her by kind words, but all she said seemed only to add impulse to the torrent; and at last she found herself obliged to wait till the violence of the passion had in some degree exhausted itself; and young, strong, and undisciplined as poor Henrietta was, this was not quickly. At last, however, the sobs grew less loud, and the exclamations less vehement. Aunt Geoffrey thought she could be heard, leant down over her, kissed her, and said, "Now we must pray that we may fulfil her last desire; bear it patiently, and try to help your brother." Fred, O poor Fred !" and she seemed on the point of another burst of lamentation, but her aunt went on speaking-"I must go to him; he has yet to hear it, and you had better come to him as soon as you are dressed." "O aunt! I could not bear to see him. It will kill him, I know it will! O no, no, I cannot, cannot see Fred! O mamma, mamma!" A fresh fit of weeping succeeded, and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, herself feeling most deeply, was in great doubt and perplexity. She did not like to leave Henrietta in this condition, and yet there was an absolute necessity that she should go to poor Fred, before any chance accident or mistake should reveal the truth. "I must leave you, my dear," said she at last. your dear mother bowed her head to His will: FATHER in heaven, Who alone can comfort you. your brother, and when I return I hope you will posed." "Think how pray to your I must go to be more com The pain of witnessing the passionate sorrow of Henrietta was no good preparation for carrying the same tidings to one, whose bodily weakness made it to be feared that he might suffer even more; but Mrs. Geoffrey Langford feared to lose her composure by stopping to reflect, and hastened down from Henrietta's room with a hurried step. She knocked at Fred's door, and was answered by his voice. As she entered he looked at her with anxious eyes, and before she could speak, said, "I know what you are come to tell me." "Yes, Fred," said she, "but how?" "I was sure of it," said Fred. "I knew I should never see her again; and there were sounds this morning. Did not I hear poor Henrietta crying?" "She has been crying very much," said his aunt. "Ah! she would never believe it," said Fred. "But after last Sunday-oh, no one could look at that face, and think she was to stay here any longer!" "We could not wish it for her sake," said his aunt, for the first time feeling almost overcome. "Let me hear how it was," said Frederick, after a pause. His aunt repeated what she had before told Henrietta, and he then asked quickly, "What did you do? I did not hear you ring?" "No, that was what I was afraid of. I was going to call some one, when I met grand papa, who was just going up. He came with me, and—and was very kind—then he sent me to lie down ; but I could not sleep, and went to wait for Henrietta's waking." Frederick gave a long, deep, heavy sigh, and said, “Poor Henrietta! Is she very much overcome?" "So much, that I hardly know how to leave her." "Don't stay with me, then, Aunt Geoffrey. It is very kind in you, but I don't think anything is much good to me." He hid his face as he spoke thus, in a tone of the deepest dejection. Nothing but prayer, my dear Fred," said she, gently. 66 I will go to your sister again." "Then "Thank you." And she had reached the door when he asked, "When does Uncle Geoffrey come?” "By the four o'clock train,” she answered, and moved on. Frederick hid his head under the clothes, and gave way to a burst of agony, which, silent as it was, was even more intense than his sister's. Oh! the blank that life seemed without her look, her voice, her tone! the frightful certainty that he should never see her more! Then it would for a moment seem utterly incredible that she should thus have passed away; but then returned the conviction, and he felt as if he could not even exist under it. But this excessive oppression and consciousness of misery seemed chiefly to come upon him when alone. In the presence of another person he could talk in the same quiet matter-of-fact way in which he had already done to his aunt; and the blow itself, sudden as it was, did not affect his health as the first anticipation of it had done. With Henrietta things were quite otherwise. When alone, she was quiet, in a sort of stupor, in which she scarcely even thought; but the entrance of any person into her room threw her into a fresh paroxysm of grief, ever increasing in vehemence; then she was quieted a little, and was left to herself, but she could not, or would not, turn where alone comfort could be found, and repelled, almost as if it was an insult to her affection, any entreaty that she would even try to be comforted. Above all, in the perverseness of her undisciplined affliction, she persisted in refusing to see her brother. "She should do him harm," she said. "No, it was utterly impossible to her to control herself so as not to do him harm." And thereupon her sobs and tears redoubled. She would not touch a morsel of food; she would not consent to leave her bed when asked to do so, though ten minutes after, in the restlessness of her misery, she was found walking up and down her room in her dressing-gown. |