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across his brain at that sight, and made him forget that he was a wounded cripple? There is the dyke where he and his brothers snared the great pike which stole the ducklings—how many years ago? while pretty little Patience stood by trembling, and shrieked at each snap of the brute's wide jaws; and there-down that long dark lode, ruffling with crimson in the sunset breeze, he and his brother skated home in triumph with Patience when his uncle died. What a day that was! when, in the clear, bright winter noon, they laid the gate upon the ice, and tied the beef-bones under the four corners, and packed little Patience on it. How pretty she looked, though her eyes were red with weeping, as she peeped out from among the heap of blankets and horsehides, and how merrily their long fen-runners whistled along the ice-lane, between the high banks of sighing reed, as they towed home their new treasure in triumph, at a pace like the racehorse's, to the dear old home among the poplar trees. And now he was going home to meet her, after a mighty victory, a deliverance from heaven, second only in his eyes to that Red-sea one. Was there no poetry in his heart at that thought? Did not the glowing sunset, and the reed beds which it transfigured before him into sheets of golden flame, seem tokens that the glory of God was going before him in his path? Did not the sweet clamor of the wild-fowl, gathering for one rich pæan ere they sank into rest, seem to him as God's bells chiming him home in triumph, with peals sweeter and bolder than those of Lincoln or Peterborough steeple-house? Did not the very lapwing, as she tumbled, softly wailing, before his path, as she did years ago, seem to welcome the wanderer home in the name of heaven?

“Fair Patience, too, though she was a Puritan, yet did not her cheek flush, her eye grow dim like any other girl's, as she saw far off the red-coat, like a sliding spark of fire, coming slowly along the strait fen-bank, and fled up stairs into her chamber to pray, half that it might be, half that it might not be, he? Was there no happy storm of human tears and human laughter when he entered the court-yard gate? Did not the old dog lick his Puritan hand as lovingly as if it had been a Cavalier's ? Did not lads and lasses run out shouting? Did not the old yeoman father hug him, weep over him, hold him at arm's length and hug him again, as heartily as any other John Bull, even though the next moment he called all to kneel down and thank Him who had sent his boy home again, after bestowing on him the grace to bind kings in chains and nobles with links of iron, and contend to death for the faith delivered to the saints? And did not Zeal-for-Truth look about as wistfully for Patience as any other man would have done, longing to see her, yet not daring even to ask for her? And when she came down at last, was she the less lovely in his eyes, because she came, not flaunting with bare bosom, in tawdry finery and paint, but shrouded close in coif and pinner, hiding from all the world beauty which was there still, but was meant for one alone, and that only if God willed, in God's good time? And was there no faltering of their voices, no light in their eyes, no trembling pressure of their hands, which said more, and was more, ay, and more beautiful in the sight of Him who made them, than all Herrick's Dianemes, Waller's Sacharissas, flames, darts, posies, love-knots, anagrams, and the rest of the insincere cant of the court? What if Zeal-for-Truth had never strung two rhymes together in his life? Did not his heart go for inspiration to a loftier Helicon, when it whispered to itself, ‘My love, my dove, my undefiled is but one,' than if he had filled pages with sonnets, about Venuses and Cupids, love-sick shepherds and cruel nymphs ?

“And was there no poetry, true idyllic poetry, as of Longfellow's Evangeline itself, in that trip round the old farm next morning; when Zeal-for-Truth, after looking over every heifer, and peeping into every stye, would needs canter down by his father's side to the horse-fen, with his arm in a sling while the partridges whirred up before them, and the lurchers flashed like gray snakes after the hare, and the colts came whinnying round with staring eyes and streaming manes, and the two chatted on in the same sober business-like English tone, alternately of *The Lord's great dealings,' by General Cromwell the pride of all honest fen-men, and the price of troop-horses at the next Horncastle fair ?

Poetry in those old Puritans? Why not? They were men of like passions with ourselves. They loved, they married, they brought up children; they feared, they sinned, they sorrowed, they fought--they conquered. There was poetry enough in them, to be sure, though they acted it like men, instead of singing it like birds.”—pp. 113–118.


The New Priest IN CONCEPTION Bay.* _The great popularity, which this book has attained, is owing principally to the talent which the author has displayed for description and the delineation of character. The plot is comparatively simple, though not without its interest ; being the story of the reconversion of a clergyman of the church of England, who had adopted the Romish faith and bad given up his wife in order that he might become a priest in that communion. The scene of the story is in the island of Newfoundland, and the description of the novel features of that almost unknown island adds much to the general interest. But for the development of character and for dramatic power, the author is not often equaled.

We give an extract from a very amusing chapter which contains a conversation between Father O'Toole and Mr. Elnathan Bangs, an enlightened citizen of the state of Massachusetts. Mr. Bangs has an inquiring mind, and having some leisure time upon his hands, and being surrounded by Roman Catholics, thinks he will " look into the subject,” and if he "feels like it," says he will "jine.” Father O'Toole has undertaken to indoctrinate him into the mysteries of the faith, and now · undertakes to explain the Sacraments. Vol. I, p. 297.

I “Well, then, there are seven Sacraments. Ye've been taught two, I suppose.' "«'Dont undertake to determine that point, how many we had. Seven 's a good

* The New Priest in Conception Bay. 2 Vols. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1858. Price $1.75. For sale by T. H. Pease. VOL. XVII.


number for you to have, and I guess ye can prove it 's well 's anything else. Sh'd like to have the proof.'

"Those Protestants want the proof from Holy Scripture, mostly. We'll go to the Holy Scripture, now. First, How many days was it the Almighty God created the heavens and the earth?'

"Seven. That does come pleggy near fact,' said Mr. Bangs.

"Ah, and isn't it exactly, then, it is? What's the difference betwixt seven and seven? Well, then, you see it in the days o' the week itself. Seven 's a sacred number. Seven Orders there are, and seven Sacraments, the same way; is that clear?'

"Yes, sir, that's 's clear 's glass in 'n 'clipse o' the sun, 's the man said.'

"Then, Order, Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Penance, Extreme Unction, Matrimony's seven. Baptism gives righteousness, and faith and the like; and Confirmation strengthens all, again; and then the Holy Eucharist '

"That's what ye have for the Lord's Supper, I s'pose. Mass, I guess ye call it,' said Mr. Bangs.

"Indeed, y'are very right. It's the Unbloody Sacrifice, also. Ye've heard some o' those things the Protestants speak against the truth, about transubstantiation; but when ye think, once, isn't God Almighty? I think the like of you,a man that's in the right way,-wouldn't find any difficulty at all, in that. He says, 'This is my body-hoc est corpus meum,' literally; and it must be, literally, his body.'

"I want to know the whole o' that,' said the American. 'I heard two fullahs arguing t'other day, Catholic and Protestant. Catholic said p'ty much 's you've said, just now, Latin ('f'tis Latin) 'n' all; 'n' then the other man said, 'Look ahere; when the Lord 'fus said that, He had his body on Him; now the bread, 't He said 't of, wa'n't a piece o' that body; 'n' if't wa'nt, then 't wa'nt His literal body,-('f that's what ye call it.)-That's what the man said.'

“And do you think, was he the first man ever said that? no, nor won't be the last ayther, so long as the Devil's in the world. That's what I'm saying; ye can answer that this way: 'God's word is true, and Himself's almighty, and so, where's the trouble of Him making it what He says? Doesn't He make all things? and how does He make them? Isn't it by His word?' This was said with real solemnity and dignity.

"That's what I want,' said Mr. Bangs. I want a real good answer, 'n case I meet him again. He'll say 't's 'genst the senses

"And are the senses to be trusted in a miracle, I'd like to know?' inquired the Priest, with great animation and spirit.

"Wh' I take it, the senses 'r' the only things 't is a mirycle to,—that is, 't's what the man 'd say,' said Mr. Bangs; 'he'd say 't's meant for the senses, l'k' the wine at the marriage, there'

"I'm thinking its more than once you're speaking with that man; but isn't it the greater faith to believe against every sense and all senses?' asked the Priest.

"Wall, that's a home-thrust, 's ye may say. Don' b'lieve the fullah'd answer that, 'f he sh'd try t'll 's head come off.'

"And 'twas with the Scripture I did it, too, that they're always crying out for,' said the Priest, complacently. .

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"See the badness o' private judgment, now, tow'rds having the judgment o' the Church!' said Father O'Toole.

"Wall, that kind o' private judgment ain't wuth much, I guess. Common sense ain't private judgment; 'fact, 't's the common judgment o' the Whole. 'Guess private judgment 's 'bout 's good 's any, 'f 't sticks to common sense. Church wouldn't be much, 'thout that, I guess,-'s I was sayin','bout that text, there, 'My Body; 'taint the look, no' the smell, no' the taste, no' the feel, no' the heft; but 't's IT.'

"Sa woman n' our town,-('taint the man, this time,)—name 's Peggy Mansur 't any rate 't's what th' uset to call her,―good-natured, poor, shiftless soul,-never did 'ny harm; uset 't take 'n everlastin' sight o' snuff,-Mac-guess 'twas Scotch snuff, come to think;-wall, she b'lieved p'ty much 's this Bible says, here,' (taking his Douay out of his hat,) ''bout Peter, 'n Matthew, sixteenth, eighteenth, 'n a note, 't the bottom, 't says 'same 's if He'd said, 'n English, Thou art a rock;' on'y she went on 'n b'lieved 't Peter was a rock, cause the Lord said so, 'n He's almighty. A fullah said to her, 'Look a-here; do you mean to say that they could 'a' set to work on him 'n' hammered 'n' hacked 'n' what not, and made part 'f a meetin'-house out of him?' "Why, no, I guess I don't, s's she. 'I don't mean 't he looked so, 'r' acted so; but I mean 't he wus so.' 'Wall,' s's the man'

"I thought I hard ye saying it wasn't the man it was, this time,' interposed the Priest, as the familiar sound occurred in Mr. Bang's story.

"The interrupted story-teller smiled and knit his brows slightly closer, and looking still to the left of the object to whom he addressed himself, explained:"Oh! This 's away out 'n Mass'chusetts, 'n the States, this was. Wall, they spoke up, 'n, says to her, s'd they, Why, look a-here, aunty, Wus't his skin, 't was rock?' so s's she, 'I guess not.' 'Wall, wus't his flesh?' 'Guess not,' s's she. Wus't his blood?' 'Ruther guess not,' s's she. 'Wus't his cords?' 'Guess not.' 'Wall, wus't his stomach?' 'Guess not.' 'Wus't his brains?' 'Guess not.' Finally she guessed 't wa'nt 's eyes, nor's ears, nor 's nose, 'n I dono what all; and finally they come to ask 'f 'twas his bones, 'n' she didn't know but 't might be 's bones. But s's they, Aunty, bones ain't a man, and 't looks l'k' pleggy small p'taters, to come down 't that. You said the hull man's rock, when, ye b'gan 'th him. 'Wall,' s's she 'I say so, now.' 'Then you don't say 't's his bones more 'n' the rest-part 'f him? 'No, I dont,' s's she. 'Wall,' s's they, 'Look-a-here, it twa'nt 'ny part 'f him, 't wus rock, 'n you say th' man's rock, what wus the' o' rock 'bout the man?' 'Why, 't's THE MAN HIMSELF,' s's she.

"Wall, I tell ye, Father O'Toole, the' wa'n't one o' the whole boodle 'f 'em c'd answer that; 'n she shovelled th' snuff 'nto her nose, l'k' a dam breaking away, 'n kep' a laughin', t'll she got tired.'

"Mr. Bangs's illustrations were all of the most left-handed sort, that did not at all explain or enforce the things they were brought to illustrate; but rather the contrary. The Priest saw this, and answered with a view to it.

"Y'are not accustomed, it's likely, to discussions of the sort,-I mane if your mind is just drawing the way ye said it was. I'm thinking it wanders, a little, just now; maybe it's better we leave off now, for it's my opinion ye've got just about as much as ye can cleverly bear. One thing I'd like to know: Are ye desiring to be converted, as I understood ye were?'

"My wishes haven't changed one mite, sir,' said the American."

The Age of Chivalry.* -How completely the Age of Chivalry has passed away, is evident from the profound and wide-spread ignorance in the community with regard to all those legends which make up the Mythical History of England, and which were the delight of our ancestors a thousand years ago. Many a scholar who appreciates the slightest allusion to the Mythology of the classics, is totally at fault when an illustration is drawn from the Mythology of England. The author of the book, whose title we give, has done a good work by placing within the reach of the public, in a convenient form, the old legends of the ages in which our race had its birth, and which are referred to so frequently by the elder English writers. He has given bere the story of “King Arthur and his Knights;" of " Merlin ;" of “Sir Gawain;" of "Sir Tristram's Battle with Sir Launcelot;" the story of the "Round Table;" and, above all, of the "Sangreal, or Holy Graal.” He has added also a selection from the Mabinogeon, or the old Welsh popular tales. These, till within a comparatively late period, bave slept for centuries in the Bodleian library at Oxford, and elsewhere. Southey and Scott endeavored to incite the Welsh literati to reproduce these tales, but without much success. Quite lately, Lady Charlotte Guest, an English lady, the wife of a Welsh gentleman, “who has acquired the language of the principality, and become enthusiastically fond of its literary treasures, has given them to the English reader, in a dress which the printer's and the engraver's arts have done their best to adorn. In four royal octavo volumes, containing the Welsh originals, the translation, and ample illustration, from French, German, and other contemporary and affiliated literature, the Mabinogeon are spread before us." This work has been the source from which the author bas drawn his materials. The book is illustrated by prints in oil colors.

The Mustee. -A thrilling story, illustrative of society at the South, the workings of Southern institutions, and especially of the condition and prospects of the children of Quadroons.


BARNARD'S EDUCATIONAL BIOGRAPHY.-Hon. Henry Barnard has republished, in a handsome volume of five hundred and twenty-four

* The Age of Chivalry. Part I. King Arthur and his Knights. The Mabinogeon; or Welsh Popular Tales. By Thomas BULLFINCH, Boston : Crosby, Nichols & Co. 1859. 12mo. pp. 414. Price $1.25. For sale by T. H. Pease.

+ The Mustee : or Love and Liberty. By B. F. PRESBURY. Boston: Shepard, Clark & Brown. 1859. 12mo. pp. 487. Price $1.25. For sale by T. H. Pease.

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