sistency! we expect our children to grow up like the young plants, without using our advantages of hourly intercourse to bring them under the warm beams of the Sun of righteousness! It is not a formal way of preaching to them that will do this effectually it is the cultivation, in our own minds, of that communion with Christ which will make him ever present to us: it is the speaking of our own mouths, not from the dictates of the head, but out of the abundance of the heart. The lamentations of believing parents over their children may often be traced to this source. They desire their progress in grace, they pray for it, but they do not promote it as they might do. Where no distaste for spiritual subjects exists, false shame, natural reserve, or the fear of giving offence to others, is allowed to prevail over a claim, than which earth cannot present a stronger-a responsibility of such awful extent that its boundary is only to be sought in the hallelujahs of heaven, or the groans of hell. May the lovely narrative of Abner and David Brown, awaken many careless families, and strengthen many who are labouring even as their bereaved, yet happy parents laboured! The first twenty-nine pages of Mr. Brown's "notices" contain most valuable matter on the character and use of parental authority; enforcing the declaration of Scripture, that "A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.”

THE SONGS OF LA COLONNA. By M. A. T. Strong. Bristol: Longman and Co.; Seeley and Burnside, London.

THE author says, 'My chief desire is, that the goodness of God towards a weak and sinful creature should be magnified; and that this book should be a memorial of both past and present mercies.' This laudable desire we trust will be fulfilled; the writer has certainly not lost sight of her avowed object, for the Spirit of devotion breathes throughout the greater number of her songs in a very pleasing manner. There is, of course, much inequality to be expected, in a volume of more than five hundred pages; but the feelings expressed are always amiable, feminine, and christian.

THE TIME OF THE END. A Charge delivered to the Clergy of the Archdeaconry of Ely, at a Visitation held in the Parish Church of St. Michael's, Cambridge, on Tuesday, May 19, 1835, by the Rev. J. H. Browne, M. A. Archdeacon of Ely. Published at the request of the Clergy. Hatchards.

A MANIFEST token for good, so far as this archdeaconry is concerned. The clergy who requested the publication of this Charge, give evidence of a willingness to be roused from that repose which has already endured so long as almost to betray the Church of England into the hands of the Philistines, and to do battle in the Lord's cause. We allude

especially, as does the Archdeacon, to the encroachments of the papal Antichrist; whose success in compelling our dear brethren of the Irish church, as he appropriately expresses it, to "prophesy in sackcloth," is but now beginning to affect, as it ought long since to have done, the ministers of our own. The Charge itself occupies but forty pages, the Appendix seventy. The first gives a concise and we think very scriptural view of those signs that indicate our arrival at the "time of the end." The latter enters more widely into the field of this just and holy controversy against the ancient enemy of God's truth, exposing its mischievous working in our day, especially since the fatal concession of the legislature in 1829, and not omitting that specious and ruinous plan, by which the progress of scriptural education in Ireland has been arrested, so far as man could prevail to arrest the work of God, and a notable device of Satan substituted for it.

We do not presume to suppose that the more lordly sex can be influenced by our humble remarks and recommendations: but we will suggest to our Christian ladies that, when they desire the opportunity of offering a little gift to their spiritual pastors and clerical friends, this Charge of the faithful and zealous Archdeacon of Ely, would form a very appropriate, and might prove a very valuable present.

POLITICS.

THE calm that succeeds a state of high mental excitement is not, to me, like sunshine after a storm: it rather resembles the subdued agitation of the mighty main, which, when every cloud has disappeared from the sky, leaving only the quiet shades of twilight to creep with leisurely pace over the scene, continues to heave its dark billows with troubled perturbation, as if regretting that they might no longer foam, and dash, and roar against the canopy of heaven. Of course, I do not here speak of excitement wholly pleasurable; but of that which includes painful anxiety: such as accompanied the progress of events, through a session of almost unparalleled interest and importance. When I had looked over my uncle's shoulder at the closing speech of his Majesty, I sat down, and with a listless air began, Well, sir, what shall we do now?'

'What we did before, girl; watch and pray.'

'It seems so long, uncle, till Parliament shall meet again!'

'Fie upon you, for an incorrigible petticoat politician! You will put half the ladies of the Magazine to the blush for you.'

'I can't help it, dear uncle: nay, I would not, if I could. When all goes smoothly, and the good ship is gliding over tranquil waters, before a favour

ing breeze, one can hardly expect the female passengers to concern themselves much about the working of the vessel: but when stormy winds arise, when the sky darkens above, and the depths heave below, and the breakers are heard, with 'sullen roar' struggling amid rocks to leeward, it becomes no matter of surprise, if even the ladies look out with inquisitive anxiety, and ask whether the man at the wheel is capable of steering through a dangerous track; whether the crew are readyhanded, true-hearted and firm, and if the captain has his charts unrolled, his mind collected, his 'Here I was fain to leave off. I confess that my uncle's quietude had annoyed me, and that I took up this strain of nautical similitudes, in the hope of rousing the old sailor: but people sometimes raise spirits whom they find it hard to lay again; and before I could nearly finish my tropes, up had jumped my uncle, and was pacing the quarterdeck with a velocity that threatened a wreck which I had not calculated on; namely, that of some geraniums recently housed in my little study, and projecting somewhat too much into his line of operations.

·

Softly, softly, dear uncle! do stop a minute, or you will run down all my collection. Can't you stop, sir!Dear, dear, that ever an old manof-war should condescend to behave so like a Margate steam-boat on the Thames! Take in some canvas, dear uncle, do. There! I thought so: you've knocked down the Princess Victoria, my pretty little red-blossomed geranium. You tiresome old gentleman! I wish you were in the House of Lords: you might exhibit your zeal then, without