his uneasiness, but he had communicated to none, save his favourite niece, either his agitation and distress, or that which gave rise to it. She, in the simplicity of her heart, had endeavoured by various means to estrange her uncle's mind from the thoughts and reflections which occasioned his sadness; and as he was evidently sinking under their influence, into a state of bodily debility, she advised him to relinquish his official duties, and undertake a journey to the capital, or where he might otherwise wish. All her projects, however, although listened to with sentiments of affection and gratitude, he deemed futile, and as promising no available result; until it occurred to her mind, to recommend his obtaining a copy of the book of which her uncle had informed her, the Protestant gentleman had spoken. he had already been induced to seek for a copy in every library in the town, and had done so without having been able to find one. In this perplexity she proposed sending to Caen, or Rouen, but he observed, "the book is not only proscribed, but by al

But

lowing the object of my research to be known, I should inevitably expose myself to suspicion, and probably to censure and degradation; which would bring me quick to my grave, and leave you once more exposed an unprotected orphan, to the trials and dan

gers of the world." "With your permission, then," said she, "I will go myself to Bayeux, and endeavour to purchase a copy of the book, and if I cannot succeed there, I will proceed to Caen, where I shall surely do so." Her proposition was accepted, and the result of her journey is already known to the reader.

Rome.

It is unnecessary to remark, that the pious Abbé quitted the service of the Church of He lived in retirement upon his moderate competency, happy to exchange the gilded host and the embroidered vest-ents, for his newly acquired treasure,

H. S. B.

STANZAS.

BY THE REV. ROBERT TURNBULL.

SWEET is summer's vivid ray,
Dancing on the limpid stream;
Sweet is music's magic lay,

In some wild and happy dream.

Sweet on infant's lip the smile,
As it rests in balmy sleep,

O'er its little face the while,

The mother hangs with pleasure deep.

Sweet is twilight's solemn hour,

The thrush's deep and mellow note,

When with wild melodious power,

Far away the strains do float.

Sweet the moon-beam on the wave
Gemming all its heaving breast;
When it shows the watery grave;
Where the hero sinks to rest.

Sweet the voice of dearest friend
After absence long and drear,
Care and sorrow left behind,
Love, delight, and joy all near.

Sweet is memory's witching spell Conjuring up our youthful joys; Hope's blessed whispers! who can tell The power of their enchanting voice?

Sweeter far is mercy's ray

Beaming on a world of woe, Lighting up a glorious day

'Mid the gloom of night below.

Sweeter too the smile of heaven
Speaking pardon, pity, love,
And the hope to sinners given

Of a home in heaven above.

"THERE IS JOY IN HEAVEN OVER ONE

SINNER THAT REPENTETH."

In this world of seclusion from God, the most gifted of intellects, apprehend imperfectly, and but, with the deepest study and the most painful research, those of the works of the Creator, with which, in their present cloud-girt position, they are surrounded. Heaven, however, is bounded by no horizonobscured by no vapours ;-every proposition is demonstrated,-every object of creation-every secret of providence is there comprehended without the labour of investigation. The eternity of that place is not required to