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No. of Clergy

Population. with cure of Population

souls. Clerkenwell, St. John


1 in 8,500 St. Luke, Old Street .......


1 - 7,500 4 St. Barnabas ....

Das ............ 14,000 Newington, Surrey .......

1- 14,000 60,000

1- 8,570 Christ Church ......


1 – 7,500 St. Anne, Soho .........


1- 8,500 Stepney, St. Dunstan's .


1- 8,300 At page 13 he thus proceeds :“ A thousand labourers, therefore, would find ample employment in the places of extremest need alone; and to me our deliberations about new ecclesiastical arrangements, and all our efforts for Church extension, and other good things, seem to be miserably below the mark, while this grand desideratum is kept out of sight, namely, living men to speak, where liring men will hear them, of God and Christ, of judgment and salvation, of repentance and holiness.

“You must excuse me, my Lord, if I speak strongly; but I am indeed grieved to find that responsible persons, occupying the watch-towers of our city, and having great influence with rulers and with people, remain satisfied, while nothing is being attempted on any large scale to redress evils like these. It may be that they will baffle us when we rise up to meet them; for our sins the Almighty Ruler may have let this host of untaught citizens grow and grow, till we can cope with it no longer, and Christianity possibly must now surrender to the powers of evil the ground which they have held so long. But who would dare to come to such a conclusion till remedies were exhausted ? New methods should be tried, if old ones have failed. A searching investigating spirit should be at work. Devotion to precedents should not pass for the highest wisdom, nor enterprise in a high and holy cause be regarded as wickedness and folly. If need be, something should be ventured for God and souls.

“ For the Church to stand still, while all the world is astir and busily adapting its institutions to its wants, is, I make bold to say, at least as dangerous as the experiments of the rashest ecclesiastical innovators, and much more full of hazard than anything which I shall venture to suggest in the following pages.”

Mr. Kingscote then suggests that if objections exist to having lay deacons, then lay readers may be substituted, an auxiliary force, thankfully received by many of the clergy. The Bishop of London and the Bishop of Winchester placed themselves at the head of such a movement two years ago. “And under their sanction and approval of every step which has been taken, the Society sent out some fifty men with the Bible in their hands, and the love of the Saviour in their hearts, to rouse the slumbering masses of our fellow-townsmen to some thought and care about their souls' salvation.”

After pointing out various instances in which incumbents had borne high testimony to the efficiency and usefulness of this class of men, he thus further proceeds, p. 26:

“Men are much more likely to cling closer to the Church in which their zeal has found vent and occupation. There are numbers born in our communion, and growing up in it, who have warm hearts, and a ready tongue, who long to be made useful to their fellow-men, but who have no chance to become clergymen. Is it wise to tell them, “ If you ever become teachers of babes, and instructors of the foolish, you must first cross the parting-line between Churchmen and Dissenters; we have no room or place for you, go

over to the other side, and preach as actively as you please?' This is what the men do say, practically, who object to schemes like ours. By persisting obstinately in their ill-judged career for a long course of years, they have driven forth crowds of men, whose talents might have strengthened the Church in many ways; and now when others, alive to the evil, propose to employ them, under judicious guidance, in the wide field which wants every Christian agency that can be brought to bear upon it, the timid, precedentloving, nineteenth century Churchmen denounce the plan as tending to train up preachers for the sectaries !”


(Continued from page 404.)

We will now return to the castle, from which we have long been absent, and resume the history of Clara, at the completion of her seventeenth year, when we shall find her the delight of her fond father, the favourite of all who knew her. The tears which had so freely flowed at her mother's death had long been dried-sorrow since then had been a stranger-all that the love of a devoted parent could devise had been done to make her happy ; and hitherto his care bad been well repaid by the warm affection and unbroken happiness of this idol of his heart. But as childhood gave way to youth, Clara was conscious of an undefined feeling of restlessness ; the pursuits which had hitherto occupied her lost their power to interest; the days seemed to pass in one unwearied monotony. She read, she walked, played on her harp, sung her favourite songs, read the papers to Sir Hubert, listened to the advice of Father Joachim; yet she wearied of all these. There were none who could understand her feelings. Nay, she could not understand them herself ; but she felt no longer happy, and vainly imagined if she were in a gayer sphere she should then be at the summit of all her wishes. She tried to dismiss these feelings of discontent ; but it was far easier to persuade herself she had no cause for unhappiness than really to feel happy. This change in Clara soon attracted the notice of her parent, who ansiously inquired, why she met him without a smile; or, if she smiled at all, why the smile was so soon followed by a sigh.

“I know not, my father, but I am tired of all my pursuits. I arise in the morning without energy, and retire to rest, feeling I am useless in the world and a burden to myself. If I try to reason I have but self-reproach to comfort me, since I clearly see I ought to be happy."

Sir Hubert gently chid his daughter. “Of no use, my Clara, when a fond father looks to your affectionate love as the solace of his declining days ; but if you are weary of the old man's society, and long for gayer scenes and younger companions, your desire shall be gratified.”

“Dear father, think me not so devoid of gratitude and affection as to wish to leave you. I cannot account for feeling thus. Sometimes, I own, I eagerly long for gaiety and amusement; but I oftener feel we were formed and sent into the world for a nobler motive than merely living in pleasure.”

“ Assuredly, my child, God made us to love him in this and be for ever happy in another world ; yet he does not forbid innocent gaiety, if we are thankful to Him and love one another.”

"If God made us to love Him, I am sure He must be displeased with me, for I only feel fear when I contemplate His spotless holiness and impartial justice. I could, indeed, feel 'love, if I might believe what Annette told me the Bible teaches ; but Father Joachim assures me what she said was false, and I sinned in believing her.”

“ What did she tell you that could make you love God and yet which it would be sinful to believe ?” inquired Sir Hubert, half fearing he was wrong, and suppressing deeply harrowing feelings, of which his daughter knew nothing, which occurred at the mention of the name of Annette.

« She told me,” replied Clara, with a trembling voice, “there was no dreadful Purgatory ; that God's own Son, Jesus Christ, had suffered all that was due for our sins, and those who loved Him immediately after death were happy with Him in Paradise. Annette told me also Jesus needed no intercessions of the Virgin to incline Him to hear and answer prayer.”

“ Clara,” said Sir Hubert, “I warn you, with the love and authority of a parent, you are treading on dangerous ground. Annette was faithless to her Church, and has suffered for her sin. Break not my heart by doing the same. I must leave you now. Think of what I have said, and confide in Father Joachim."

Before she had time to reply her father left the room. To calm her mind and regain her composure, Clara prepared for walking.

It was not strange, perhaps, that she should direct her steps to that spot so dear from early associations where the cottage of Annette stood : true it was altered nowfallen into ruins, the little garden once so neatly kept, overrun with weeds and prickly thistles ; it was situated at some distance from the castle, and Clara felt weary and dispirited when she reached it. She thought of her mother and the days of her childhood ; but most of all her thoughts turned to Annette. She had been told, indeed, it was sinful to think of one with affection who had planted the seeds of falsehood in her infant mind; yet she could not cease to love her, and as she grew in years she felt an increased desire to know more of the religion which Annette believed, and for which she had been banished from her home. At some yards from the cottage stood a large Spanish oak, beneath the shade of which still remained the seat whereon she had so often sat in childish days. As she approached it now she saw with surprise it was already occupied by a young girl of ten and a youth, apparently eight or nine years older. They were clothed in the dress worn by Swiss peasants, and so earnestly engaged in conversation as to be unconscious of the approach of Clara.

“ Wicked man ! cruel Priest !” said the younger —“how I hate him !”

“ Hate him, sister !” said her companion, in a reproving tone of voice. “Have you forgotten Him who said, “Love your enemies,' and whose last prayer for his murderers was, "Father, forgive them ?'

The child hung down her head, and gently repeated, “ Lord Jesus, pardon a sinful child, and teach her to love even those who' hate


Clara's feelings at this moment prevented her from reflecting ; and, advancing from behind the tree, she abruptly inquired, “ And who are they who hate you ?”.

Alarmed at this sudden intrusion, the child sprang from her seat, and in evident terror seized her brother's hand, entreating him to hasten his departure.

“ Do not fear me,” said Clara. “I am not one of those who hate you." “ Oh! then, you are not a Catholic ; and I need not be afraid."

Clara was about to reply, when her eye falling on the child's companion, she exclaimed, “ It is Pierre-he; and yet it cannot be Pierre. Tell me, are you the son of Annette ?”

Pierre (for it was he) stood transfixed for a moment, incapable of reply. “Have years of sorrow, then,” said he, “wrought so little change that the son of a heretic is still remembered by the heiress of Montmorency ?”

“Yes, Pierre, Annette was kind to me, and never will she be forgotten. Nay, I daily pray that she may be restored to the one true Church.

“May your prayers return to your own bosom! She for whom they are breathed needs them not. She has long been gathered to the Church above-a faithful martyr to her Saviour's cause."

“ What! is Annette dead? And where is your father ?”

“He is dead likewise,” said Pierre, with a firm voice, though a deep flush passed his brow. “He perished in the dungeons of the Inquisition-a traitor to that Church "drunken with the blood of the saints.””

“Nay, speak not thus of our holy Church, if your parents have wandered from its fold. Come back ere too late, and perish not like them."

“Dear lady, they have not perished- they have gained their crown; and if a pang pass my heart, or a tear dim my eye, in speaking of them, that tear is changed to exulting joy when I think of another world. Oh ! that you knew the faith that cheered their dying moments! Oh! that you knew the Saviour who died for you as well as for them !”

“Believe me, Pierre, I long both to know and to love that Saviour. But tell me now of Annette. My father knows not of her death."

“ Lady, that tale is long and sad. Nor would I cause a shade of pain to cloud your brow by exciting sympathy for those who need it not. My heart no longer bleeds for them; as I said before, they have gained the martyr's crown ; but it bleeds for you—it bleeds for your noble parents it bleeds for those who, born in fatal error, think, when they kill His saints, they do their God a service.”

“ You wrong us, Pierre. I think not thus : nor does my father think so—he is far too kind, far too noble. If you have deserted our Church be not unjust to those who are faithful.”

Unjust, lady! Had you been roused at midnight by the stealthy steps and smothered lights of those ministers of that holy faith, who came to tear a fond father from the faithful bosom of a tender wife—who, deaf to her pleading prayers, hurried him to the horrid dungeon ; had you seen that fond mother bow (with stifled anguish,

yet meek submission) to the just hand of Heaven, which permits for a time the triumph of the wicked—then pine in sorrow, and sink into the grave, with none but our God to pity ; had you been branded with the name of heretic, expelled from home, wandered on the mountains, exposed to hunger, to cold, to wretchedness, you would then believe the words I speak are not the words of a false accuser.”

“My father, knew he of this ?” inquired Clara, while tears refused to relieve the suffocating agony of that moment.

“ He is less to be blamed than pitied,” replied Pierre, in a milder tone ; "his heart bled, I believe, whilst he yielded a blind obedience to a cruel faith. Let us talk no more of that. Alas! I have not the spirit of my Master. He blest those who murdered him."

A silence of some moments followed ; for Clara felt too much agitated to maintain conversation. . “Is this your sister ?” said she at length. “Can I aid or assist you ?"

“ No, madam—no. The only service you can render is not to mention having seen us. This is my only sister. Was it presumption to name her after one who once shared with me my mother's fondest love ?

“ And must you not hate the name of Clara ?”

“Ah! no; that name is never pronounced without respect--as in early childhood it was never without love. Not long before my sainted mother breathed her last, her dying prayers ascended for you. Madam, dare you comply with her parting request ?”

“ Name it only name it? How can I repair her wrongs ? Annette-dear, faithful, kind Annette !”

“ Think not her son would speak to you of them but from one hope, dearer to his heart than life itself—the hope of leading you to see that God, whose sweetest name is Love, owns not a Church thus persecuting."

“Brother, brother,” said the child, “ some one is coming. It may be the priest."

“Fear not ! he would scarcely recognise me; but I must hasten. This, madam, was Annette's, this is her son's only and last, request : read this blessed book ; pray God to teach you what is truth, and act up to what your conscience dictates. Farewell ! May the Good Shepherd lead you to the sweetest pastures of His tender love! And if this be the last time I see you on earth, may we meet in the abodes of the blest !"

He bent one knee on the ground, and ventured to press the hand which took the book to his lips for an instant, then leading his little sister, disappeared among the trees of the forest.

Clara's first care was to conceal the book, which was very small ; she then fell on the seat, and burst into a flood of tears, which gave some relief to her full heart. She soon remembered the child had been alarmed by the approach of one who, though still at a distance, was gradually approaching. As he came nearer she saw, to her relief, it was only her indulgent father, and drying her tears, endeavoured to regain her self-possession.

“ So far from home, my Clara, the sun declining, and tears, scarce dry, chased away by those smiles, like the showers of an April daywhat has caused this ?”

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