could tell of the exploits of ancient worthies, who “through faith subdued kingdoms," &c.; of "the great and precious promises,” which, laid up in the ark of the covenant, are like Aaron's rod, ever budding with the fruits of grace; or of the unfailing presence of the great Captain of your salvation ; but one or two thoughts must suffice. Think of THE IMPENETRABLE ARMOUR your Captain has provided. “Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” Those, then, will be sure to fall in the evil day, who venture to the battle without this armour; as they must, also, who would turn and forsake their Lord in the evil day. For there is no armour for the back ;-you must breast your foes, and though the arrows may rattle like hail on your cuirass, and the battle-axe may fall heavy on the helmet, head and heart are yet safe ; while with the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, you shall do glorious execution on the enemy, and ultimately, through grace, come off more than a conqueror, through Him who hath loved you and given himself for you. Another consideration may, also, well cheer your hearts. You ARE FIGHTING UNDER THE BANNER OF THE “KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS;" and will not he lead you forth from conquest to conquest, till the enemies you see to-day you shall see no more for ever? Oh, reflect, then, on past deliverances, precious promises, final glory. Soon you will exchange the sword of warfare for the palm of victory, the battered helmet for the crown of glory, the sigh of the warrior for the song of the victor, and, above all, the distant view of your King and Saviour for the beatific vision of his unveiled glory. History tells of one Agbarus, a great man, who, hearing so much of Christ's fame, sent a famous painter to take his picture ; but that the artist when he came was not able to do it, because of that radiance and divine splendour which shone on Christ's face. Whether this be true or no we must leave, but certainly there is such a glory in the face of our exalted Lord that no mortal eye can gaze upon it. The lustre of millions of suns and stars is but the glimmering of a taper, compared with the glory of the sun of righteousness ; so that when our life-long battle is ended, and our foes all slain, our grave-prison broken open, and death swallowed up in victory, and our "eyes shall see the King in his beauty," we shall exclaim with the Queen of Sheba, “ The one half was not told us." Then, in a word, we say, “Form! Christian men, form!" Volunteer into the service of the best of Monarchs. Be united and loving one to another, and fight manfully under the banner of the Prince of Peace. Soon you will see his face “without a glass between." True, it is sweet, inexpressibly sweet, to stand on the delectable mountains of ordinances, and catch a glimpse of his glory, to see but one smile of his countenance; but what will it be to stand before his thrope, and “ see him as he is "? If the precious ointment of the lower sanctuary is so rich a perfume while the King sits at his table here, then what joy it must be to sit down with him to the marriage supper, in the large upper room above ! Surely we must exclaim : “To this our labouring souls aspire, is. With ardent pangs of strong desire !" Hasten it, O Lord, in thine own time. “Come, Lord Jesus, come I quickly!" * Bury St. Edmunds.' · A BAPTISMAL HYMN. Thus baptized in Jesus' name, As new creatures may we live, He shall raise our dust again. Tales and Sketches. into society-induced him to fraterISABEL, THE GIPSY. nise with his fellow-men, nor longer "God moves in a mysterious way, withhold his sympathies and charities His wonders to perform.” from the various benevolent instituAT Seville, in the early part of the ' tions for which Seville has long been present century, lived Don Juan Cas famous. Herself a devout Catholic, tano, the last of a noble family, for she was instrumental in stimulating many generations celebrated through her husband's somewhat decayed deout Castile, alike for its chivalrous votion to the faith of his house, and devotion to the Catholic faith, its reviving his belief in the saving brave defence of the liberties of Spain, efficacy of prayers and good works ; and its alınost princely hospitalities, a belief which severe and earnest extended, without stint or partiality, thought, through long years, had in a alike to friend or foe, Christian or measure unsettled. Not that he had heretic. At the early age of fifteen, ever contemplated a change of reliJuan was orphaned by the death of gion, but that he was sometimes his mother-his father, the generous unsatisfied with the dogmas of the Los Carlos, having been assassinated church, and longed for a simple faith, by an unknown hand when, as yet, if indeed such there were, which his little son had seen but six sum could afford that repose he had long mers. Under the immediate care of sought in vain. He was not ignorant & stern and watchful guardian, Juan of the great principles evolved, or saw but little society, and was, from rather revived, by the Reformation; the time of his mother's death till and it may be that some faint, almost ripe manhood, thrown much upon his latent, conviction of their truth was, own resources for amusement. Seclu even at this period of life, lodged in sion, study, and the influence of a his heart. But if such was the case, severe, but upon the whole salutary, Isabella's steady devotion to her relidiscipline, developed a character quite gion, and influence with her husband, the reverse of the easy recklessness greatly restored him to his old habit which his early boyhood had pro of implicit confidence in the infalli. mised, and his mother's unwise in | bility of the church and the fathers, dulgence had fostered. He became and, w and, indiscriminately, all the sense and tirement, seldom extending his walks us, serious, and fond of re- | nonsense, truth and falsehood, they ever wrote. beyond the Alameda, with now and But the wedded happiness of Juan then a visit to San Isadore and the Castano was destined to be of short church de la Caridad, to gaze upon continuance. In the fifth year after Transito, the master-piece Kpelas, and the magnificent creations of his marriage, Isabella died suddenly of fever, leaving one child, Isabel, rillo and Valdes. From his then two years old. From this heavy majority until his marriage, at the stroke Castano never recovered. Soof noble birth, he' devoted his i to. Isabella, a beautiful ciety became intolerable, and hence forth he withdrew from the world, wme, to the study of philosophy, e study of philosophy, l and betook himself to solitary walks, it propounded questions it Į accompanied only by his little daugh ve, and suggested doubts ter. Two years passed thus. For the used to satisfy, afforded | sake of his child, the unhappy father a diversion and occupation, and forced smiles and pleasant words to a to dispel the ennui of an in his lips, and sometimes assumed even life. But at length bis walks a gaiety, little consonant with the no longer solitary. Wherever deep sorrow and unrest of his soul. ent, went Isabella, the influence Isabel was a child of rare promise ose vivacity and beauty com her father's pride as well as solace. orphosed our grave | Castano seldom permitted her to leave Gradually she led him | his sight; but one summer eve, when thoughtful, serious, and to which, if it propounded a could not solve, and suggested a which served to active life be went, went of whose vivacity pletely metamorphosed philosopher. Gradually she the light was fading off the distant 1 of the city, with such instructions as mountains, at the urgent solicitations appeared most suitable and judicious, of Eleanor, the faithful old nurse, himself remaining behind to make seconded by her own pleading, “Si vigorous search in the great city and usted gusta, padre,” he allowed her its environs, and to interest his a walk on the Alameda, where as yet friends in his behalf. she had never been. A few hours Time would fail us to detail the later the nurse returned alone, fran efforts and disappointments of the tically wringing her hands, and crying | heart her hands, and crying heart-broken father. Nothing af. out, “She is gone! she is gone! they forded him a definite clue to the fate have stolen her! we shall see our of his child: but the sudden and Isabel no more !" mysterious departure of a Gitano “Who is gone?" wildly demanded troupe, who, for many months preCastano, as the dreadful possibility vious to Isabel's disappearance, had dawned upon him. The poor nurse, prowled about Seville, but after that exhausted with terror and fatigue, self-same night were seen no more, could only reply with tears and led him to believe that she had been groads. stolen by some woman of that in. “Where is Isabel? Where is my famous band. child ?" fiercely asked the distracted Ten years he sought her in vain, father. “Answer me quickly, or by from the Pyrenees to the Great Sea, the Holy Virgin I will spill the last -nay, from London to Moscow and drop of thy blood.” Stamboul, – among the Zingari of Thus fearfully adjured, at intervals Russia, the Bohemians of Central she related the circumstances of her Europe,-in the miserable hovels of separation from the child. Her story the Hungarian gipsies, or the equally was short and confused. They reached wretched huts of tho Zingari of the Alameda, which was crowded Samarcand and the East. Half his with a gay procession. Isabel at fortune had been spent in the fruittracted general notice and admiration. less search, wben, in despair, he Many bent down to look into her returned to Seville, to end a miserable flashing eyes, or praise her grace and existence, beneath the roof which no. beauty; and, at length, one appa longer sheltered a single object of rently more noble than the rest, a love. Here, at evening, a wasted woman of strong beauty, not unlike form, bent with premature age, might the babe herself, snatched her in her be seen, gliding, spectre-like, beneath arms and half smothered her with the ancient trees, or seated at the tears and kisses. Poor old Eleanor foot of some decayed fountain, aforecould not refuse her the pleasure of time consecrated by the presence of holding one of Isabel's little hands as the beautiful Isabella or her lost they slowly followed the procession ; child. still, however, retaining her own Alone, one summer night, sat Juan grasp of the other. But suddenly Castano, brooding, us usual, over his it was the work of a moment—they own wretchedness, and the horrible were separated in the crowd ; she uncertainty which surrounded the turned to snatch the child to her fate of his darling, when the sound bosom, but neither child nor lady could of footsteps aroused him from his be seen. She ran this way and that, reveries, and presently a Gitano vainly calling her darling's name woman, of stately form and proporimploring the assistance of each one tions, stood before him. she met-screaming, tearing her hair, “Don Juan Castano, I believe," and beating her breast, like some poor demented creature escaped from con Fortunately Castano was unarmed, finement. No one heeded her cries, or the strange woman had paid dearly until entering her master's court, the for her presumptuous visit, so fierce maddening words, “She is gone!" was his hatred toward the Gitano fell upon the ears of Juan Castano. race. No time was to be lost. Castano “Get thee hence, gipsy dog,” ex. summoned his household, and made claimed Castano, passionately; "thy speedy preparation to despatch a pair hateful presence pollutes the very air of mounted horsemen from each gate | I breathe, Out with thee.” said the gipsycostano was unarmed, "As thou wilt, dotard,” retorted that never felt fear, trembled when the woman, “as thou wilt. I had a we sat down; there was that in her kindly feeling toward thee, fool that eyes, -well, I can't explain it, but I I was,—but I go. This shall be thy dared not speak. last opportunity. Farewell, senor.” "Madre,' said she, “everything is Quick as thought she turned and so strange,-the whole world, the sun, would have retreated, but Castano moon, and stars. This you must tell, caught her arm. His tone and manner whence are they all ? were fearfully changed. “'And how should I tell you so "By the Blessed Virgin, I adjure, much? No one knows, and what if nay, I implore thee, if thou knowest they did, and what if they told you, aught of my child, tell me. If thou you could not be happier. Leave art human, speak ! such thoughts, child, they only trouble “For that purpose I came," said you.' the Gitano, "but, I swear, not for ""But, Madre, they won't leave love or pity of thee. Oply for the me. Day and night they follow me sake of the child,- the angel, I should | like spectres. I must know ; I shall rather say, fair Santa Juanita, I am die if I cannot. The pale man indeed here to-night." told me many things, but what if "And she still lives my child is they are not true ? yet alive ?" " Curses on the pale man, Juani“Yes.” ta. I would thou hadst never seen "Then God be praised, if there be | him ; but what said he? a God, and”-the words died from the “'He said that God, a Spirit, a pallid lips of the speaker, and he great, wise, and good Being, created sank, insensible, upon the ground.” | us all, and the sky and stars; but if The Gitano brought water from the it shouldn't be true, Madre? fountain, bathed his temples; and at | “Or if it should, what matters ? length restored him. "Nay, if it be true, that this God "And now,” said she, “listen: I made us, we belong to him; and if stole your child. Ten years ago, I he gives us everything we have,-I saw her on the Alameda ; that dayam terribly puzzled,--but I think we the grave had closed over my own | ought to love him, or do something babe; your child was the image of 1 for him; and the pale man said somemine,-my lost Juanita. I could not thing about that which troubles me resist the temptation, and it was not too. difficult to conceal her. There are | “That pale man again,-but what many hiding places hereabout best is it? known to Gitano feet. In one of *** Why I can't just remember, but these, not ten miles distant from something about everybody's being Seville, she was safe, till you had very wicked, and that I know is true, crossed the Pyrenees. Well, she was | and about our not loving God, and happy enough, till the shadow fell that he was very angry with his un. upon her at Tariffe. She was twelve grateful children. I am sure I can't years old when we met the foreigner. wonder if he is ; but it is dreadful to He talked strangely, and read from a | think of, because being so great, he large, old book ; I had not patience to can punish us terribly. listen, but Juanita's bright eyes! you «Nonsense, Juanita. I believe should have seen the wonder in them! you are gone mad.' Well, I humoured the child; three “'Nay, Madre, I believe I am just times she heard him read and talk, coming to my senses, and that you and then we left Tariffe, and then I and I, and almost every one beside, Juanita's cheeks began to fade. It have been mad or blind all our lives.' was not love, it was soinething stronger “ Such things are nothing to us, than love, that burned the life out of child. We can't help if we are bad and don't love God.' "Madre,' said she one night, 'let "'Ah, there's the trouble. I don't us go to the palm grove yonder, I | see how we can help it. It's natural must speak with thee.' to lie, steal, get angry, and do all “I could not refuse the child ; we sorts of wicked things, but you must went; I know not wherefore, but I see that if God is holy, he can't be her. |