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mind of Roger Williams was impulsive, erratic, and unstable, compared with theirs; and in what respect has the work they left behind them proved, after the testing of two centuries, less solid or durable than his ?

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These men were stern even to cruelty against all that they held evil-Satan and his supposed emissaries, witches, Quakers, Indians, negligent parishioners, disobedient offspring, men with periwigs, and women in slash apparel. Yet the tenderest private gentleness often lay behind this gloomy rigour of the conscience. Some of them would never chastise a son or daughter, in spite of Solomon; others would write in Greek characters in their old almanacs quaint little English verses on the death of some beloved child. That identical "Priest Wilson" who made the ballad at Mary Dyer's execution attended a military muster one day. Sir," said some one, "I'll tell you a great thing: here's a mighty body of people, and there's not seven of them all but loves Mr. Wilson." "Sir," it was replied, "I'll tell you as good a thing: here's a mighty body of people, and there's not one of them all but Mr. Wilson loves him." Mr. Cotton was a terror to evil-doers, yet, when a company of men came along from a tavern, and said, "Let us put a trick upon Old Cotton,' and one came and cried in his ear, "Cotton, thou art an old fool!"-"I know it, I know it!" retorted cheerily the venerable man, and pungently added, "The Lord make both me and thee wiser!" Mr. Hooker was once reproving a boy in the street, who boldly replied, "I se you are in a passion; I will not answer you!" and so ran away. It contradicts all one's notions of Puritan propriety, and yet it seems that the good man, finding afterwards that the boy was not really guilty, sent for him to apologize, and owned himself to have been wrong.

There was such an absolute righteousness among them, that to this day every man of New-England descent lives partly on the fund of virtuous habit they accumulated. And, on the other hand, every man of the many who still stand ready to endorse everything signed by a D. D.-without even adding the commercial E.E., for Errors excepted-is in part the victim of the over-influence they obtained. Yet there was a kind of democracy in that vast influence also. The Puritans were far more thorough congregationalists than their successors: they recognized no separate clerical class, and the "elder" was only the highest officer of his own church. Each religious society could choose and ordain its own minister, or dispense with all ordaining services at will, without the slightest aid or hindrance from council or consociation. So the stern theology of the pulpit only reflected the stern theology of the pews; the minister was but the representative man. If the ministers were recognized as spiritual guides, it was because they were such to the men of their time, whatever they might be to ours. Demonax of old, when asked about the priest's money, said that if they were really the leaders of the people they could not have too much payment, or too little if they were not. I believe that on these conditions the Puritan ministers well earned their hundred and sixty pounds a-year, with a discount of forty pounds if paid in wampum-beads, beaver-skins, and musket-balls. What they took in musketballs they paid back in the heavier ammunition of moral truth. Here is a specimen of their grapeshot:

people of New England, but religion. And if any man among us make religion as twelve and the world as thirteen, let such a man know he hath neither the spirit of a true New-England man, nor yet of a sincere Christian."

"My fathers and brethren," said John Higginson, "this is never to be forgotten, that our New England is originally a plantation of religion, and not a plantation of trade. Let merWhat need to speak of strength and courage, chants, and such as are making cent.-per-cent., the disinterestedness and zeal, with which they remember this. Let others who have come bore up the fortunes of the colony on their over since at sundry times remember this, that shoulders, and put that iron into the New-worldly gain was not the end and design of the England blood which has since supplied the tonic for a continent? It was said of Mr. Hooker, that he was "a person who, while doing his Master's work, would put a king in his pocket;" and it was so with them all: they would pocket anything but a bribe to themselves or an insult to God or their profession. They flinched from no reproof that was needed: "Sharp rebukes make sound Christians" was a proverb among them. They sometimes lost their tempers, and sometimes their parishes, but never their independence. I find a hundred anecdotes of conscientious cruelty laid up against them, but not one of cowardice or of compromise. They may have bored the tongues of others with a bar of iron, but they never fettered their own tongues with a bar of gold-as some African tribes think it a saintly thing to do, and not African tribes alone.

KNOWLEDGE. When God created the world, the first fiat of his omnipotence was, "Let there be light!" So it is in all human enterprises, "Let there be knowledge!" This, after all, is the most essential distinction between man and man. It is the

first and most essential element of power; it is the germ of all prosperity; it is the means of all enjoy

ment.

SEEING OUR FRIENDS.

BY SHIRLEY GERARD.

Anyone who has had the pleasure of reading in "Blackwood's Magazine" the excellent series of stories entitled "The Chronicles of Carlingford," will have had placed before them in very graphic descriptions a succession of pictures of society in a country town. Country towns, as far as our experience goes, have a remarkable resemblance to each other. The houses, it is true, may not all have been built upon the same plan: the church in one may have a Norman tower, and in another may be in the Renaissance style; but the people worshipping in each are strikingly alike-given a bit of country-town gossip, and it may have been spoken by Mrs. Smith of Mrs. Brown, in Muckleburg, or by Mrs. Jones of Mrs. Robinson, in Stopford-Regis.

In many respects the people of Carlingford are exceptional, and yet so natural, that we are quite satisfied if, in any Carlingford of our acquaintance, were to appear a high-church curate like Frank Wentworth, a gentlemanly Dissenter like the hero of Salem Chapel, and a doctor, to whom fate had given a brother like Fred Ryder, and a sister-in-law like Nettie Underwood, events similar to those related so charmingly, and with such quiet humour, by Mrs. Oliphant, would have been not only probable, but certain to take place.

The inhabitants of Carlingford, the people who pay rent and taxes, and carry on the trade of the little town, and represent the nobility and gentry, are possible inhabitants for any country town of our acquaintance. Take Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, the new Rector of Carlingford and his wife, for example, in the "Perpetual Curate;" can anything be more natural than Mrs. Morgan's suppressed disappointment-if we may use the term-in the husband who had been perfection in her eyes during the ten long, weary years of her engagement, and also her regrets that they had not braved fortune and married when the illusions of youth were fresh and strong? And then her disgust at the glaring carpet in her drawing-room, which was not of her choosing, and her sensitiveness with regard to her own looks, which had waned sensibly during the long term of waiting, and left her, when she at last achieved the honours of matronhood, merely a plain, middle-aged woman. Mrs. Oliphant is perfectly at home in sketching these little traits of character, and we enjoy and appreciate them thoroughly.

But those who know country-town society will, we are sure, agree with us in thinking that Mrs. Oliphant has been scarcely so successful in her descriptions of the gaieties which, under the auspices of Miss Majoribanks, en

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livened the dulness of Carlingford, as she has been in describing the persecutions endured by the refined Vincent from his vulgar colleagues, and by the much-enduring perpetual curate from his worthy aunts. However, Miss Majoribanks is not by any means an ordinary young lady, and the entertainments which she introduces into Carlingford are of a very novel description. We are startled at the cool selfpossession of a girl who tells everyone that she wants gentlemen at her parties who can flirt; still we would have preferred a young lady for a hostess whose aim was not to be a comfort to dear papa," according to the fair Lucinda's definition of the term, and we feel assured that the style of parties which actually do take place in country-towns described by Mrs. Oliphant's graphic pen would have been a rich literary treat.

But, for our own part, we confess that, were we obliged to live in Carlingford, we should hail with gratitude innovations of the Majoribanks type, while at the same time we have grave doubts that her evenings were less stupid than the evenings of other people, and we suspect that after their first curiosity was satisfied, her guests would grow tired of accepting invitations when they knew that a duet between their confident young hostess and the defiant young plebeian Barbara Lake would be the principal amusement of the evening.

It is not that the usual style of evening-party in a country-town, at which the same people are always meeting the same people, is more lively than the festivities designed with a view to the special comfort of Dr. Majoribanks, but still they would be preferred to those festivities simply because the majority of people like that to which they are accustomed. And is it not wonderful, if we look into it, the amount of boring which the people who give evening-parties, and the people who go to them, endure? Let us consider the trouble, the actual manual-labour, which a lady of the middle-class, moving in the "best set" in her town, has to undergo before she can a few friends" as it is called?

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She has not much difficulty about her invitations, for, of course, she must ask all her friends in the town; that is, the friends who visit her, and whom she visits. But if she omits one, that one will have a grievance; people will talk, and the whole place will be in a small commotion. So the young ladies, her daughters, write the invitations for mamma; nice friendly little notes, just saying, "We expect a few friends to tea," on such an evening: "will you and Arabella and Lucy, and your son, join us? and tell the girls, please, to bring their music."

66 You know

"Those tiresome Tomkinses, who always come so dreadfully early!"

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If the town happens to be a garrison-town, | composed of the least interesting of the exand if papa has not been coaxed or worried into pected company. leaving a card at the barracks, as you ought to do, my dear: consider the girls!" great are the expedients resorted to, both by It is shabby not to order tea when they apmamma and the girls, to secure the presence of pear; but it is very hard to be obliged to expend the officers; yet, if the truth were but known, its first freshness and fragrance upon only the it is not by any means a great achievement, Tomkinses." Fanny tries to catch mamma's after all, to induce a few bored warriors to ex-eye, to learn what she is to do from that intellichange the monotony of the mess-room for agent orb; but mamma does not choose to have carpet-dance and a little flirtation with the belles the responsibility of either rudeness or cold tea of their country quarter. upon her shoulders, so her eye refuses to be caught.

The Misses Tomkins are large shy stupid girls, with red wrists and ill-fitting gloves, and a tendency to fidget. They are miserably uncomfortable in their white gowns and sashes of the Stuart tartan; they know all the photographs in all the albums by heart, but they go heroically through them once more just to pass the time, and say, "How like!" and "That's a good one!" to the pictures of people whom they see in the flesh every day of their lives. They giggle when they come upon themselves taken in light muslins, very short in the front, and with black lace shawls spread over one shoulder.

When the invitations have been duly accepted, the next subject for consideration is whether the supper shall be regularly laid out in the dining-room or brought in on trays, there being always a marked difference in the opinion of mother and daughters touching the merits of these two arrangements. The latter triumphantly bring up occasions upon which the tray plan was a signal failure-" don't you remember, mamma?"-at Mrs. So-and-so's, while the former prudently reminds her imprudent children that a laid-out supper is much more expensive than" only refreshments;" but the expected presence of the officers is suddenly brought to bear, and the trays are finally vanquished. Then the materials for the supper are Then in due time more guests appear, princidiscussed. One sister declares for lobster-pally women, and, if there is a gentleman, he salad, the other that no supper is perfect with- looks intensely miserable; and, after shaking out tipsy-cake; while both insist upon Paganini- hands with everyone in the room, he subsides tarts and a gorgeous dish of trifle for the middle upon a chair very near the door, from which he of the table. is presently dislodged to hand tea and cakes to those ladies who will not come to the table.

But if mamma is worsted about the supper, she has her own way about tea, and that she resolves, like a sensible woman, shall be made in the drawing-room, upon the round table, which is to be wheeled into a corner. Then the position of the piano is determined, after much discussion, and the places selected from which the lamps and candles (there is no gas) will give the most effective light, and be in the least danger from awkward elbows. The young ladies are, however, unmolested in their opinion when the great subject of "dress" comes before the house; they even take "mamma's cap" in hands, and declare that she shall not make a 'Guy" of herself.

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And when the eventful day at length comes, how much still remains to be done! Such dusting of the "best china !" such brightening of the "company glass!" such running hither and thither! until the givers of the feast are thoroughly weary, if they would but acknowledge the fact. Dinner is eaten in the store-room, on the stairs, anywhere, nowhere, and it is nearly time to dress, when Maria remembers that she has not cut the bread-andbutter, and Fanny that she has not put the "tucker" upon her dress.

By seven o'clock the sound of busy feet upon the stairs has ceased; the girls are dressing in their rooms, and a pungent smell of coffee per

vades the house.

At eight punctually (the hour named in the invitation) the first detachment of guests arrives. Pity the sorrows of the first detachment! It is, you may depend,

ladies thaw somewhat, and five or six of the younger ones gather upon a large ottoman in the middle of the room, and talk away themselves; for it is strange with what obstinacy the young men keep about the door. Then perhaps after a time there comes a sudden and awful pause, and one of the Tomkins's girls who had been making quite a long speech collapses, covered with confusion. That is the moment for "music" to have "charms to soothe the savage breast!" and the eldest daughter of the house, at a sign from her mother, reluctantly pulls off her gloves, and, going to the piano, plays either" Ecoutez-moi" or "The Maiden's Prayer," and when she has finished she selects a victim from the ottoman, who plays whichever of the above-named pieces her predecessor at the piano had not played; but before she has got through it the quick ears of Maria and Fanny have caught the sound of wheels drawing up before the door, and they know by instinct that the officers have driven from the barracks, and are at hand.

Under the influence of tea and coffee the

The sisters exchange a look, which says 'At last!" and like lightning the bell is rung for the fresh supply of tea and coffee which the outrazed cook has been obliged to make for these fashionable and gallant guests, who are nothing very wonderful when they do appear. There Three very young and are four of them. verdant ensigns, who, nevertheless, think them

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selves blazé men of the world, but who are in bondage to their exceedingly narrow white ties, and who add to the already formidable group about the door; and one audacious Lieutenant, who, having seen something of the world, boldly charges the group of petticoats in the middle of the room, and makes as much fun as is possible for himself under the circumstances. This bold warrior is a great talker. He talks during the playing and during the singing, and pays no attention to the warning glances of his fair companions who are divided between their dread of scaring him from their side, and their dread of affronting the performer by indifference to her efforts.

If a dance can be "got up," an evening of this kind drags less heavily. Woe to the party condemned to the pastime of "squails!" To be sure, if the room is small the furniture (although it is rolled into corners) and the people who do not dance are dreadfully in the way. It is really piteous to see an aggrieved matron sitting up against the wall, and trying to believe that she enjoys looking on while the muslin skirts of her own daughter, or the daughter of her neighbour, are whirled into her face as the young lady and her partner fly round and round in a galop! Then peradventure there is a crash. Some flying petticoat has caught the fire-irons, and dragged them from their place with a hideous noise. One of the partnerless young men at the door rushes forward to pick up poker and tongs before some one is tripped up, two of the dancers galopping along the reverse way come bump up against him, and narrowly escape a fall; the young lady, much aggrieved, stops at once and says, panting, "How awkward!" And all this happens a dozen times during the night.

The supper is decidedly the most successful part of the entertainment, although the jelly is made at home and is neither very clear nor very stiff, and the lobster-salad is badly mixed, and the officers secretly turn up their nosesconnoisseurs as they are at the sherry. So the whole thing comes to an end, and there is nothing left for the hostess who had worked so hard, but a dismantled house and a general impression that her guests did not thoroughly enjoy themselves.

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And the guests discuss the party, and decide that "Mrs. Smith did her best, as she always does, poor woman!" but that Fanny was stuck up" and Maria "neglectful," while the officers vote the whole thing "A dossid boar!" and wonder," by Jove, where Old Smith gets his sherry!"

MEETING AND PARTING,

BY ADA TREVANION,

Leaf-laden was the swollen stream,
Through knotted boughs fell eve's last gleam;
The moist wind breathed as in a dream,

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RAMBLES AND REVERIES OF A MODERN MORALIST.

No. IV.-AMONG THE TOMBS.

"E'en in our ashes live their wonted fire."-Gray.

out, are here ended, and for ever. Little, indeed, matter ambition or pride, or hope and despair within these solemn resting-places of the dead; the little drama of the lives of those who lie around us has been played out long ago, and the curtain has long since fallen for

ever.

I am passing through the "dim religious light" of Henry VII.'s Chapel. Dim shadows of royalty seem rising amid the banners of the Knights of the Bath which decorate the chapel. Many a great actor on the eventful stage of English history is slumbering here. Close by me is the monument of the first of the Tudors, the conqueror of Bosworth field; the unloved, cold, selfish, yet eminently politic and successful Henry. Near, is the grave of the " boy King," Edward VI., so early cut off from his high place, though not, as we may safely believe, as we recall that period of intrigue and blood, before he had learnt that " uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." As I look at these time-worn tombs I can picture the men as they lived and spoke: cold Henry seems standing by my side, and smooth-faced gentle Edward is shuddering at the execution on Tower Hill. But they are but shadows, and " come like shadows, so depart." Another page in the Tudor's history is opened to us as we stand by the adjacent tombs of the fairest, most accomplished, most unhappy, and would that I could add most innocent of the Stuarts, and of her powerful enemy Queen Elizabeth. At our feet rests the bride of Bothwell, the murderess of Darnley, the lover of Rizzio, the prisoner of Lochleven, and the fugitive of Pinkie.

It is pleasant sometimes, for us who live amid at rest! All these conflicting passions of the the rush and roar of this busy, noisy, money-heart which are agitating the living world withgetting world, to retire to some of those quiet haunts which are found in the midst of London, and there to rest awhile from the engrossing thoughts, the whirl of anxious speculations, and the round of hopes and fears which beset us in the turmoil of life without. There are, as everybody knows, in the very heart of the metropolis, little out-of-the-way nooks, quiet city churches, and long-disused burying-grounds, where one may ramble and ponder with little fear of interruption; and yet within five minutes' walk the stream of noisy humanity rolls on, bringing to our minds the sad, truthful words "in the midst of life we are in death." Not long ago, filled with such thoughts as these, I rambled to the venerable Abbey, within whose quiet precincts repose the ashes of so many of the great and gifted ones of our land. Westminster Abbey, as a show place, is common enough to the stranger and holiday-seeker in London; but it was not with any intention of hurrying through the various chapels or enduring the greatest of social inflictions, a conventional guide, that I entered the Abbey. The day was dull and sunless, few people were abroad and the Abbey was almost deserted, so that I was free to roam about unmolested, to examine the different monuments after my own fashion. How different a scene, I thought, from that without! There, all was noise, hurry, and excitement; there, were men and women struggling along in the rude current of daily life, their minds agitated by a thousand conflicting emotions; there, were politicians, whose deep-laid schemes were brought to light not many yards from where I stood; there, were anxious, money-getting men, whose souls were chained to the great golden Calf of Mammon, hoping and fearing, grinding the poor, pressing the miserly, growing rich yet still dissatisfied, always, like poor Oliver Twist, "asking for more;" there, were the proud and the ambitious, building up bright futures or raising themselves to imaginary pinnacles of greatness; and there, were the young, full of hope and expectation for the years to come, careless of the days that are; and there, too, were the ruined and lost ones, full of despair, tired of the present, shuddering at the past, hopeless of the future. All this is in the world without, but here, how different! Here, all is peace; here, the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are

"Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!"

Hers was a sad, chequered life, a cruel and unjust death. Little did she dream, on that 8th of February, 1587, when she was led forth to die at Fotheringay Castle, that the author of her doom should one day rest quietly beside her in the calm precincts of the Abbey. Surely it had been better for the fame of Elizabeth had she been less inveterate towards her erring sister in royalty; but she could bear no rival near her throne, she desired all the power and homage for herself, to shine with unrivalled splendour

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