copies of Mr. R. M'Ghee's masterly 'Letter to the Protestants of Great Britain;' and reprinted from the 'Standard,' some very important facts connected with the discoveries concerning Dens's Theology,' which were then widely circulated in the neighbourhood. For the information of the lower classes, 1 procured and distributed 'Blanco White's Poor Man's Preservative against Popery,' in considerable numbers, and to show the practical working of the system, I gave away and lent such books as 'The Martyrdom of Mr. Glover and Mrs. Lewis,' and 'Miss Reed's Narrative of Six Months in a Convent.' A dozen copies of the latter work were soon dispersed, and appeared to bring conviction to every mind. Happily for me, the memorable 4th of October was approaching, and its herald, Mr. Hartwell Horne's 'Memorial,' appeared and gave me an excellent opportunity for a fresh attack, if such a word may be used, where the defence of all that is dear to us is the sole object. Some of the choicest sermons called forth by the Protestant Jubilee were soon added to my stock of ammunition, and I hope to go on spending and being spent” in this holy The seizing of opportunities appears to me one grand secret of life, and it is astonishing how many present themselves to those who watch for them. Living, as I do, a very retired life in the country, I could hardly have supposed it possible, that so many occasions for obtaining and communicating information upon one particular topic should have offered--and yet this is only a beginning: fresh plans with the same object in view are opening before me, and if my life and health are preserved, I pray God that they may be devoted to the glorious cause of Protestantism.

warfare.

66

In the midst of many family anxieties, and with some distraction of mind, I write this letter, giving the simple statement which you requested. To any of my dear country-women who may be induced to act upon my suggestion, I give for their motto, these two words, 'Discretion and Perseverance.' I might add two more, which were addressed by my honoured friend Mrs. Hannah More to a young lady who called to take leave of her previously to her marriage, Responsibility and Eternity!'

To yourself, dear madam, let me add my cordial thanks for the decided part you take in this controversy. May your hands be strengthened from above, and may you be eminently successful in pleading the cause of our God and Saviour against the combined powers of liberalism and Popery!

Yours, &c.

Nov. 18.

HADASSAH.

THE TIBER.

For what is your life-it is even as a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.-James iv. 14.

I saw, when bright the gallant sun
Beamed in the deep blue sky,
Along the Tiber's sweeping flood,
A little band pass by.

No pilgrim with his scallop-shell,
Nor anchorite so lean,

Nor stately priests in scarlet hose,
Were there that day, I ween.

The flush of youth was on their brow,
Its carols on their tongue,

And sounds of jocund merriment
Upon the breeze were flung.

And one I marked of all the rest,

In life and spirits gay,

With cheek all bloom, and eye all bright,
Sped on her joyous way.

She skimmed along the brimming shore, And urged her gallant steed,

And gaily cheered her young compeers To rival her in speed.

They passed, swift as the rushing wind-
I rose as from a dream;

The song and laugh soon died away,
In murmurs of the stream.

The air around seemed full of joy,
The sun more brightly shone,
And bade old Tiber's yellow flood
Gleam as he rippled on.

I cast aside the weight of care,
And checked a starting tear,
The thought rose busy in my soul-
There is no sorrow here!

When, lo, a tramp of horse! I turn—
I mark the self-same band,

In other mood than forth they rode,'
Slow pace the shining sand.

Upon the brow a deepened gloom-
The tear within the eye-

O where is she, the lady bright,
Who sped so gallantly?

Where is she, and her prancing steed?
Why thus return alone?

Woe's me! she was, and she is not-
With the flood of waters gone!

All reckless as she urged her steed,
It stumbled on the bank ;

Plunged with its rider in the stream,
And with its rider sank.

Thrice she arose from out the flood,
Thrice raised a suppliant hand-
And thrice the bitter shriek of woe,
Was heard along the strand.

But vain her cries—her struggles vain—
Nor youth, nor beauty's bloom
Availed-stern Death no pity knew,
He bore her to the tomb.

With sheets of wave he folds her round,

In his remorseless clasp, Bubbling his sullen joy to feel The captive in his grasp.

Then lays her in the river's bed

Her vivid eye now dim

All hushed her voice-all pale her cheekAll motionless each limb.'