repose, a holy calm, so pure and tranquil, it did not look like earthly rest. I never shall forget the heavenly peace shed over that dear face-upon the brow and round the mouth; a sort of beaming smile, such as it never wore before. It seemed as if the angel who had come to call the spirit into bliss had left that radiant trace upon the breathless clay.

But O, to part from her 'twas dreadful! And dreadful was the struggle in those first writhing moments of bereavement. Faith trying to raise her streaming eyes to heaven, and still bowed down even to the very dust by the load of grief, too heavy almost to bear while nature's voice, that strong and bitter cry, would not be silenced, refused to be comforted.

And then to see the absent ones arrive, summoned to pay the last sad rites. How different from their wonted visits to their childhood's home! No bounding footsteps now flew towards them with a joyous welcome; no dear and graceful form stood on the hall-door steps, watching with anxious love, eager to press them to her mother's heart ere they had gained the threshold. Sadly and slow they crossed it now. Heart-rending it was to see those manly frames bowed down with sorrow, and the soldier's eye that had gazed on many a battle-scene, now quenched and sunk in anguish. No greetings were exchanged— no words were said, but bursting sobs, and silent, agonized embraces. Each knew too well what filled the other's heart. It was a mournful meeting.

But why dwell on these harrowing scenes, as though there were no gleams of light in the dark picture. Blessed be God there were! The beloved and honoured parent, who had seen two generations grow up around her, went down to the grave full of years,

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and exempted, by the merciful kindness of her heavenly Father, from the infirmities that usually attend the evening of life. She had nearly come to fourscore years," but, thanks be to Him, her strength was not "labour and sorrow." Age had not blunted affections the warmest and most enduring that ever throbbed in woman's bosom, or quenched the playful vivacity and intelligence of an ever active mind. Her step was light, her dignified and graceful figure preserved its youthful symmetry-no faculty of mind or body was impaired-the lamp burned brightly to the last.

And is not this consoling? Oh yes, it is a blessed thought, that our beloved one was spared the often lingering and painful forerunners of removal. Sickness and suffering cast no cloud over her latter days —“ wearisome nights" were not appointed her. But one short hour elapsed from the moment when her dear voice broke on my startled sleep, until these unwilling arms resigned their lifeless burden.

And there are holier sources of consolation far than this. High over every earthly solace rises the Christian's hope, the Christian's blessed prospect concerning them which are asleep-the dead in Christ. This it is that takes from death its sting, and from the grave its victory: this is the only balm that can soothe the mourner's wounds.

The life of faith, unceasing charity, and good works of her we weep, her deep-felt and unobtrusive piety, these are delightful to look back upon. She was indeed the poor man's friend. The burst of sorrow that arose from the assembled tenantry and poor, when the remains of their adored and generous benefactress were borne down the steps where she had

stood so often to listen to and relieve their wants, was a touching tribute to her unfailing kindness. It was suppressed, for there were breaking hearts within that could not have borne that sound. But when the melancholy cortège had passed the gates, and the tide of feeling was no more restrained,—long, loud, and bitter was the wail. The widow and the orphan whom her bounty had fed, crowded around the grave, and one who then stood near, said he never witnessed any thing so heart-rending as their grief. Poor creatures! unmindful of the multitudes about them, and of the rain which fell in drenching torrents, they pushed their way through every obstacle, to take one last despairing gaze of affection and regret, at that which enclosed the mortal relics of their honoured patroness, before it was hidden for ever from their eyes.

A touching anecdote of one of these humble mourners was related by a person who kindly visited her in her affliction. The poor woman was loud in her lamentations. 'Many's the heart that's sore this day,' she said,' and well they may. They'll never see her likes again. She was a good friend to the poor-her hand was always in her purse.'

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Yes,' said the visitor, but notwithstanding all her good works, it was not in them that Lady C— put her trust. Her Saviour's merits were her only dependence at the last.'

'Aye, that they were,' said the poor woman. 'Well,' she added, ‘if her hand was in her purse then for the love she had to Jesus, her hand is at his side now for the love he has to her.'

How consoling are these simple words from the lips of one of the poor of this world, rich in faith!

Why then their loss deplore that are not lost?

Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around,
In infidel distress?

It is a blessed thing, in the hour of nature's agony, when our hearts are torn with partings from those we love, to be able to look to Him who bore our griefs and carried our sorrows, and who having been tempted himself, can be touched with the feeling of our infirmities. Oh! it is at such moments we feel indeed the unutterable consolation contained in those two words," Jesus wept." He who was the resurrection and the life, even when he was about to exercise his almighty power," wept."

Unchanged that voice-and though not yet
The dead sit up and speak,

Answering its call, we gladlier rest
Our darlings on earth's quiet breast,

And our hearts feel they must not break.

Far better they should sleep awhile
Within the church's shade,

Nor wake until new heaven, new earth,
Meet for their new immortal birth,
For their abiding place be made,

Than wander back to life, and lean
On our frail love once more.
'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.

Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on,
Through prayer unto the tomb,
Still, as ye watch life's fading leaf,
Gathering from every loss and grief
Hope of new spring and endless home.

Then cheerly to your work again,
With hearts new braced and set,
To run, untired, love's blessed race,
As meet for those, who, face to face,
Over the grave their Lord have met.

M. F. D.

THE CONFESSIONAL.

THE following remarks were elicited from that undaunted champion of truth, the Rev. Hugh McNeile, by the publication of Mr. Nolan's recent pamphlet. We give them as they appeared in the form of an extract from his discourse.

'The consequences of this claim to judicial power in the sacrament of penance, have invested the Romish priesthood with the terrible authority which they exercise over the people, the supernatural position which they are supposed to occupy, and the attributes of God himself with which they are supposed to be invested. And to give to the sacrament of penance all the awful power which the objects of the Romish confederacy require, it is shrouded in the most inviolable secrecy. I here open a digest of the evidence taken before the Committees of the Houses of Lords and Commons, on the doctrines and discipline of the Roman Catholic church in Ireland. In vol. i. p. 271, I find the examination of Dr. Doyle, the celebrated Roman bishop.

'Would a priest think himself justified, in case he received in confession a knowledge of an intended crime, to take any measure by which he could prevent the execution of that crime?-No, he cannot. 'Could he warn the person against whom the crime is intended to be committed? -No, he cannot.

If it