In a few minutes Kjeld approached her, and laid his hand gently on her arm.

"Where is my husband?" she asked, impatiently.

"He is dead," replied Kjeld.

"Dead! dead!" exclaimed Christine, in a voice faint and trembling from agitation.

"Yes! He fell at the very moment that he ordered us to return to our boats, when the Englishmen had set fire to the corvette, I did all I could to save him, dear Christine; I posted myself at his side, and defended him to the last. But it was all in vain; it was impossible to rescue him from death."

"Why did you not go with him at first ?" asked Christine, abruptly. "Because he insisted that I should not. He knew all that we, too, have felt and thought; he desired me to remain behind, and carry a message to you, but I was not to deliver it until to-morrow.'

"It will be needless," said Christine, "To-morrow I shall be gone to my aunt at Kjærup."

She stretched out both her hands to him, and struggling with her tears, she added, in a tone of deep emotion,

"God be with you, Kjeld! my dear, my only friend!"

"You are not going away, Christine?" exclaimed Kjeld.

"Yes," she replied. "I made a vow to the Almighty that I would do so when I offered up my prayers to Him to bring you back unhurt."

"But still why must you go away?" he asked, in a voice of alarm and anxiety.

"Because we two must forget our hopes and our dreams; because we must separate from each other, never more to meet again !”

THE CATHEDRAL-THE CRUCIFIX-THE CONFESSIONAL.

BY EDWARD P. ROWSELL.

WITHOUT any leaning towards the Roman Catholic faith, we admit the plausibility of some of its views and practices. We acquiesce, for instance, in the view that the edifice in which the Creator is to be worshipped should be noble and costly in proportion as the purpose to which it is devoted is beautiful and holy. It is true we may go amongst many a Dissenting congregation, and find within four bare and unadorned walls a manifestation of piety and an apparent absorption in prayer and praise, which may very seldom gratify our eyes in the magnificent church or the gorgeous cathedral. Still, it is not only legitimate, but commendable, to seek to rouse, or at least to facilitate, the entrance of religious emotions through feelings which, though not identical with, are closely akin to them. For ourselves, it is not in the church that we are most inclined to devotion. It may be that the fact of paying nineteen shillings per annum for our seat may have something to do with our lukewarmness. It may be that everywhere our eyes light upon holiday attire. It may be that we are confident that the pious gentlemen-wor

shippers are perpetually glancing at and whispering about the ladies, and that the pious lady-worshippers are perpetually glancing at and whispering about the gentlemen. It may be the comical arrangement whereby the preacher looks down from an enormously tall box into a shorter box, where sits the reader, who looks down into the shortest box, where sits the clerk. It may be our commiseration for the huge mass of charity children, who, perched up and huddled together in two galleries close to the ceiling, shout lamentations and entreaties, and sing praises for the whole congregation, stimulated by the stern eye of the schoolmaster, and inspired with a wholesome dread of the schoolmaster's cane. It may be a misgiving we have that the thoughts of nine out of every ten persons in this congregation are divided, so to speak, into two bodies, which are set against each other "army against army." These thoughts are on the prayer, and those thoughts rest upon Susan Smith's bonnet. These thoughts join the thanksgiving, and those thoughts are occupied with Jones's bill of costs. It may be the unduly lengthened prayers, it may be the sermon, which, though it begins at twenty minutes past twelve o'clock, has no beginning, and though it finishes at one o'clock, has no end. It may be that in our immediate neighbourhood sit-But no matter. We fancy we have furnished explanation enough of the reason why our most devout moments are not those which we spend in church.

Our heart never turns so perfectly to the great First Cause and Father of all, as when we are away from the dwellings of men, and in silence and solitude we can gaze on that vast canopy beyond which, in some sense, specially dwelleth the Universal King. Those eloquent blue heavens speak to us more touchingly of peace and purity than any preacher to whom we have ever listened. There is no aspect under which a happy hereafter is so persuasively presented as that of a deep, unbroken calm. Somehow, all of us love the thought of perfect rest. Perfect rest-perfect and enduring peace. The idea is inexpressibly delightful even to the most favoured and fortunate labourers on this earth. And this absolute and eternal repose it is which those blue heavens whisper. "Within us is peace. He who made us is here. Those whom you loved when they were with you on earth, and who loved Him, are here. Within us is neither storm nor strife. Shadows never darken, sorrows never enter this bright kingdom. Accept the place herein which is offered for your acceptance; accept it now, lest, continuing to reject it, in a later day not your most earnest entreaties may avail to secure it for you."

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And standing at night-time by the broad ocean, how solemn is the sermon to which we listen! We hearken not now to a whisper of love, but to a voice of stern remonstrance. "Miserable atom!" murmur the rolling waves, "if there be within you one spark of pride, extinguish it now and for ever. Do seek fame and fortune? Know, even, should you accomplish your purpose, and should not, like the multitude struggling in the race, be defeated and disappointed, that pain, and sorrow, and wearing anxiety will be your perpetual companions while you run, and that when the goal shall have been reached, a sense of unsatisfied longing will still cleave to and torture you to your life's end. And how soon will that end arrive, and how powerless to keep the spirit within worn-out frame will be all your honour and all your wealth!

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A gasp and a groan, and you will be gone. You will be in a world wherein all your greatness here will be counted as naught, and where, remember, perpetual night may await him whose life in this world was one long day of grandeur and of luxury. Is it what is termed quiet happiness which you seek? Do you look for peace and pleasure in the love and support of friends and relatives? Miserable delusion! Know that hollowness and insincerity are in all around you, that self-interest taints even the nearest relative and the closest friend. Your affections will be trifled with, your confidence betrayed, your candour derided, and when your eyes have closed in your last sleep, with what complacency will your departure quickly be regarded. The ordinary business of life cannot be interfered with because you will not be here to share it: avocation will be resumed, cheerfulness will return. You will be rotting in your grave, but the sun will shine; you will be in the churchyard, but the bells will ring a merry peal at your daughter's wedding; the snow will lie thickly on your tombstone, but the mirth of the Christmas party gathered within your former home will be unchecked by the thought.

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Why, it might happen this very night that by a false step you might come within our grasp, and we might bear you away to a home beneath us, which you might never leave until that day when we shall surrender the vast multitude we cover; and the stars looking down would be sole witnesses of your death-struggle, and we alone should be listeners to your dying groan, but morning would come again, and on the very spot from which we might have snatched you would be gathered laughing men and women, buoyant with life, not even knowing that such a creature as you had ever drawn breath. Turn from this cold, unsatisfying, and heartless world-turn from it now, for next year, next week, next hour, the power of choice may not be with you."

And as the blue sky preaches, and the waves preach, so we say that the solemn influences of the cathedral preach. It has been our custom for some years to attend the afternoon service on Christmas-day at Westminster Abbey. It must be a very unimpressible spirit, indeed, that is not moved on such an occasion. A few faint rays of the declining sun struggle through the gorgeous windows, a solemn calm pervades the noble edifice, one more Christmas-day-yes, one more, one more to the many, many Christmas-days the light of which has rested upon these ancient walls, is coming to its close. Once again is herein heard the sound of prayer and praise. How many generations of worshippers in this sacred place have passed away? Even so is it certain that on a future day not one of the mass now assembled will be a dweller upon earth. All of us will be silent then. Songs of praise may again, on that day, resound through this building, but our songs of praise, if they ascend at all, will fill a heavenly, not an earthly temple.

Thought of the illustrious dead is with us. The great and noble, the wise and learned and eloquent with whom these walls are associated, and whose ashes repose within them, pass in stately march before the intellectual eye. And as inwardly we see them, and recollect how large a page they occupy in history, the wondrous deeds they performed, the marvellous discoveries they effected, the burning words they uttered, and then remember that but for a few years only they walked the earth, so that looking back upon them now they seem almost to have shone forth with such dazzling lustre only to illustrate how short and fleeting is all

earthly glory, does not our spirit bend low in humility, and acknowledge that indeed the dead can speak ?

The mind is a mysterious thing. A mere trifle sometimes fastens in the memory with remarkable tenacity. We have all heard those touching tales of criminals who have drawn nigh to the end of their career suddenly remembering the words of some prayer learned in childhood, but utterly laid aside during long years of sin and guilt. Thoughts of dead parents who were ardently loved, for all that their advice has been so wretchedly disregarded, have started up in minds which have seemed utterly impenetrable, and have laid low the boasting spirit which it has appeared nothing could quench. But we go further than this. Much lighter circumstances may effect a strange lodgment in the memory. The recollection of experience of solemn emotion will remain long after the emotion itself shall have died away. The impression created by the Cathedral's "dim, religious light" will be stamped on the memory, ready to give force to any fresh influences to good, and in quiet moments to present itself to and plead with the heart in favour of piety and truth. Nay, the peal of the organ, or even the parting ray of the setting sun faintly seen through the painted window, may become as sermons printed on the hearts' tablets, never to be erased.

We proceed to our second subject. There is no denying that there is a terrible tendency to wander during prayer. Let it be owned at once that there is extreme difficulty in completely withdrawing the mind from all thought of external objects, and thoroughly fastening it (if the expression be allowable) on the Divine Being whom we address. There is a sense of vagueness, a feeling as though the Creator were too far off to be addressed as we address Him in church. It is no easy matter to carry thought far beyond the poor building in which we are met, to lift it to the Heaven above, to draw aside the curtain which hides the mysteries of the Eternal World and the splendour of the Everlasting Throne, and bring the heart close to the Fountain of Wisdom and the Source of Love. Who is sufficient, except for a brief space, for this effort? Dim as is our mind's eye, cold and lifeless as is our faith, poor and wavering as is our devotion, we very soon miserably lose the thought of Him before whom we bow. The most petty trifles find entrance into the mind, the lips move mechanically, a little warmth rises occasionally, decorous attitudes are preserved-it is all very respectable and very decent, it is all pleasing enough to the eye, but it is not devotion, it is not love.

Now, undoubtedly, if our eyes, instead of resting on the hassock were fixed on a splendid representation of the Saviour, there would, at the least, be very much greater difficulty in the mind wandering than is now the case. With that absorbing object before us, commanding our gaze, and almost controlling our thoughts, there would be an obstacle to the withdrawing influences of mundane frivolities which does not exist now. Anything turns us aside now. The drawing up of a blind will cause half the heads in the church to rise from their bowed position; the beadle beating a boy will form matter of exciting interest for full ten minutes; the accommodation of late comers with pew sittings delightfully varies the general monotony. But if all these formal boxes were dashed to pieces, and if slowly and solemnly the great gathering drew near and knelt, with their pastor at their head, and not fronting them, or at their side, or behind them, in sight or out of sight, as may chance now-before

the representation of Him upon whose countenance in the flesh man in former time was privileged to look-we can scarcely believe that the prayer would go out of feigned lips, or that the praise would be mere empty sound. We admit to the full that there is something deplorable in our requiring such an aid to devotion. Of all the glorious and thrilling thoughts connected with the great first cause, His omnipresence is the most entrancing. That at one and the same time He should be upon the storm-lashed ocean and in the still cavern-in the blood-stained battle-field and by the Christian's death-bed-in the council hall, where vast intellects exhibit all the majesty of mind, and among the humble cottage family, addressing to Him their evening prayer; this thought fills the mind with deepest wonder and admiration. But it is only in a certain frame of mind that this thought can be entertained and grasped. At periods, the best among us may have more of earth than heaven within us, and when we draw nigh in body we do not draw nigh in heart; nay, if difficulties in the shape of cold formalities and damping ceremonies intervene, we turn back in heart from commune with our Great King.

And now with regard to confession to priests, we can understand that at first sight the practice may appear advantageous. If we ask ourselves whether the circumstance of our being, in measure, compelled once during each week to detail minutely, before a truly pious, wise clergyman, all our sins and follies of thought, word, and deed, during that week, would not operate as a useful check upon us, would not be as a constant monitor by our side, we are inclined to answer that for a period we certainly think it would. Of course it is a wretched admission; that we should need, so to speak, the frown of a fellow-man, as an intervening obstacle between us and sin, is a deplorable confession of weakness. Yet, consider, reader, for a moment. What would be your own feeling? We are assuming that the person who should receive the confession should be in every way suited for his office. He should not be an empty-headed, stiff, formal, undiscriminating catechiser-a man who would like to look on weaknesses merely for the sake of looking upon them, and without the least knowledge how to cure them-but he should be a sincerely devout, rightminded, intelligent Christian minister. Now, consider whether, if tomorrow you two had to withdraw into a silent chamber, and there, humbly kneeling, it should be your duty to lay bare your heart, to tell all the thoughts it had harboured during the week past also to recount deeds which, however plausible before the world, might well be related in this quiet chamber with a faltering tongue; and, further, to repeat words spoken rashly, angrily, perhaps falsely, would you not wholesomely dread the coming of the terrible task? On the last occasion it might be a particular sin had been confessed, and in language glowing with affection, but very earnest and very solemn, the pastor had urged upon you its enormity, and besought you against its repetition, and you had promised him, vehemently promised him, the transgression should never again be committed, and you had joined in prayer, perhaps, that might be enabled to keep your word. Now, if this day, the day before that upon which, in ordinary course, you would again visit that quiet chamber, there should come a very strong temptation to repeat that particular sin, do you not think that the mental picture of the look so kind, and yet so sorrow-stricken, which you must encounter to-morrow, should you have to confess that, notwithstanding the earnest pledge and solemn

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