these or her other productions, but simply to record, for the benefit of our readers, an actual example of the good and beautiful. The subject of this memoir terminated her earthly course at the age of twenty-four. There was small space, therefore, for the development of striking and prominent incident; and her retired life, as the daughter of a village curate in a country parsonage, was equally unfavourable to everything of the kind. It is not, therefore, of events, but of character, that her brief, simple, but instructive biography must consist. The "Home Stories," like everything written by their author, reflect her mind exactly. Their temper is love, quiet, thankfulness, happiness, hope; and the frequent poetical quotations, as well as the whole style and character of the papers, reveal a mind saturated to overflow with the spirit of poetry. Such was Annabel C- -; she was a faithful, practical Churchwoman, but utterly untouched by the asperities of controversy. Her teachers were the Bible, the Church, the book of nature, and the very poor themselves, whom she visited and taught, and from whom she drew the beautiful lessons with which she has adorned our pages. Even as early as eleven years old, she would sometimes occupy a part of the Sunday in the voluntary composition of a sermon! We have one of these little childish efforts now before us, which, however, viewed from the present point of time, is sufficiently remarkable. The text is S. Matt. xxiv. 50, 51, and the little discourse concludes thus:-" How dreadful would be the misery of all human beings, if CHRIST had not died for us! Our gratitude, therefore, as well as our interest, should lead us to watch. We must live as if we expected to die directly. We should then be ready at whatever time the LORD comes. Happy is that man who is ever ready! He may then well rejoice! He will, like the good servant, be made a ruler over his house. The time is near when we shall all be called before our Judge, to answer for all we have done on earth. Again I say, 'Watch and pray,' for ye know not the hour when He shall come. Do not let another day pass without being prepared." Though gifted with beauty, intelligence, and accomplishments, it would be too little to say that Annabel C was contented with rural privacy-it was her joy and happiness. Her poems, her journals, her letters, overflow with this feeling; it appears in her description of her "sweet home," as she termed it, in the "Home Stories ;" and those who knew her can attest from all they wit * "Where this village exists, it matters little; it is enough that it really does exist, as a sweet country village should, hid among old trees, clasped round with half wooded, half heath-covered hills, with one large break where the sea peeps through, and where the old grey tower, the guardian of the place, looks calmly down upon the homes clustering round it—just such a spot that no one who knew could help loving."-Home Stories. nessed, how genuine these expressions were." Her delight was in the country, in the beauties of nature, in the pleasures of rural life; and never was she seen more animated than when defending, against some lover of the town, the superiority of their 66 peace divine, Who day by day arise To look on clearer heavens, and scan This characteristic love of nature was a part of a temperament essentially poetical. From earliest childhood she took enthusiastic delight in the pleasures of the imagination, and was familiar with some of the best English poets. Afterwards she took great interest in Spanish poetry and romance, and translated various specimens, which she contributed to Sharpe's Magazine. Her poetical studies were continued until her last illness. Her poems were the natural outpourings of her heart, at once revealing its purity, cheerfulness, and hopefulness. There was indeed nothing by which Annabel C was more distinguished than her fixed conviction at all times that all was for the best, and the serenity and trustful hope consequent on her true and happy creed. It appears not only in what she has written, but in the many passages in her favourite authors which she has dashed with her pencil.† * The following little fragment, found among her papers, is illustrative :"We were two sisters, and we lived Christian Year, 20th Sunday after Trinity, (triply marked.) This custom of Annabel C- has illustrated her character, and made her little library at once precious and consolatory to survivors. She was devotedly fond of the writings of Keble, and we may specify the following pas It seems scarcely necessary to add, that a disposition like that we have been describing was eminently domestic and affectionate. She was devoted to her parents, family, and friends with no less tender love than that which she received from them. Surrounded by the persons and objects dearest to her in existence, after an illness mercifully involving no great amount of pain, on the 17th of June last, in her own expressive language, "Then, as changed the night for day, Gently passed her soul away; Thus the maiden died.' This beautiful life and quiet sleep have their consolations even for the stricken mourners, and must, to those who knew her not, present a vernal evening picture of pensive calm and hope, alike profitable to study and to copy. The flowers which the hand of affection wreathes into crosses and crowns to brighten her grave every "first day of the week," are symbolical of the beauty and serenity which her life displayed, and of the hopes which attend her fair resting-place beneath the walls of the "holy and beautiful house" which she loved so well, and where she so often communed with her SAVIOUR in prayer, and in His sacrificial feast. sages of the "Christian Year," marked by her, as descriptive of her disposition. Piety and love of nature: "Thou Who hast given me eyes to see And love this sight so fair, Give me a heart to find out Thee, Love of the country : "Say, when in pity ye have gaz'd On the wreath'd smoke afar, That o'er some town, like mist uprais'd, Then, as ye turn'd your weary eye To the green earth and open sky, Were ye not fain to doubt how faith could dwell Love of home: "Sweet is the smile of home; the mutual look Sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook, Comfort for mourners left: "Snatch'd sudden from the avenging rod, How wilt thou then look back, and smile Instances of this kind might be multiplied to a very great extent. *"A Legend of S. John's Eve," a poem in Sharpe's Magazine. We conclude this brief notice with some verses on the subject with which we have been favoured, from the pen of a mourner : There's a shadow on the roses The month of June, like a mournful tune, I cannot feel the summer, I know not when it came- Coldly the morning sunshine Lies on her chamber floor; A fair young face, with its winning grace, Bright face-so true, so loving, Sweet voice, like water flowing, From her earnest soul its music stole O might I hear her singing From room to room, so clear, Her blithesome song as she passed along- I turn to seek my darling To tell her aught of idle thought To look upon the brightness Of her face-to hear her say Till it seemed to flee away. I long to call my darling Alas! I know the deep June woe She lies beneath the ground. Yet not her soul so lovely, No grave its beauty keepeth Through Him Who came, through CHRIST's dear Name, "She is not dead, but sleepeth." She is in peace we know not, Her eyes shall never weep; Her rest is sweet at her SAVIOUR'S feet “He gives His beloved sleep.” Yet I, on earth so wounded, Softly I heard my SAVIOUR'S Word, "Follow, take up the Cross." A. H. T. SEQUENCE OF ADAM DE SANCTO VICTORE ON EASTER DAY. The following Sequence, written by Adam of S. Victor, one of the greatest divines of the twelfth century, and considered by many the first in rank of mediæval poets, will serve as a specimen of the wonderful depth of mystical meaning which the earlier Church discovered in the Old Testament; and how completely CHRIST was by it made the end of the Law. Purge we out the ancient leaven, On to-day our hope stands founded: Ye in ancient lore may read. This day Egypt spoliated: From the bondage and the chain : They had known in Zoan's plain, Now the voice of exultation, Free and wide its tidings flings: This is the day the LORD hath made; the day That bids our sin and sorrow pass He, the Dragon, that devouring All their malice and their might; By the fiery serpent's bite. He, the Hook, that, hid awhile, He, the Child that laid His hand They, whose scorn the seer offended, Feel his wrath, and vainly flee; And the sparrow, are set free. Alien wedlock first despising, Thousand Philistines hath slain; To the mountain from the plain. Sleeping first the sleep of mortals, Of the grave hath borne away; |